Chapter II: Part 2

There she had much to make her happy. While the first summer lasted she almost forgot to grumble, but when the winter came fierce and boisterous as it always is in those lands, she grew very miserable. She shivered with cold and, instead of bracing herself to bear it, she wrapped herself in her furs and sat from morning till night cowering over a huge fire. Although she brightened up as each summer came around, with the return of each winter it was again the same sad story.

However, one day late in the autumn she actually forgot her terror of the cold so far as to remain out walking in the grounds of the palace, though the snow clouds were gathering thick and heavy overhead.

She was alone. For sometimes in her saddest moods she could bear no one, not even the most faithful of her ladies, near her.

"If only I had a child of my own I would never complain of anything again."

As the Queen uttered her wish, she raised her eyes upwards and was startled to see some snowflakes already falling; she turned to hasten indoors, exclaiming as she went, "To think that winter is upon us already; I shall no longer have even the small pleasure of a stroll in the garden. But if I had a child to play with and care for, even the dreary winter would not seem so long. Everything would be bright and sunshiny to me."

"Are you sure of that?" said a voice beside her, and, glancing up, the Queen saw a lovely figure. It was that of a beautiful woman with golden hair wreathed with flowers. But her face was somewhat pale and she drew round her a mantle of russet brown as if to protect her from the cold.

"I am the Spirit of the Summer," she said. "I knew you well in your childhood in the South and here, too, I have watched you, though you did not know it. Your wish shall be fulfilled. I will bring you the child you are longing for. But remember, the gift will lead to no lasting happiness unless you overcome your heart of discontent. For I can do only my part. My brother, the powerful Spirit of Winter is stern and severe. He has heard your murmurings already, and if, when your wish is granted you still continue them, I tremble for the fate of your child."

"Thank you, oh, thank you, sweet Spirit," said the Queen. "I will indeed take heed for the future and never murmur again."

"I trust so," said the fairy, "for listen what will happen if you forget your resolution. The slightest touch of snow would, in that case, put the child into my stern brother's power and you would find yourself terribly punished. Beware, therefore. I must hasten away."

As she said this the gracious figure seemed to disappear in a rosy haze and almost at the same moment a cold blast driving the snowflakes before it, came with a rush from behind where the young Queen stood, almost lifting her from her feet.

"That must surely be the Spirit of the Winter himself," she thought as she hurried indoors.

The Summer Spirit was true to her promise. On the loveliest morning of all that year was born a baby Princess, the prettiest baby that ever was seen.

"A true child of the summer," said the happy Queen.

"And strong to brave and enjoy the winter, too, I trust," added the King. "She must be a true Princess of the North, as her mother is fast becoming, I hope," he went on with a smile.

But his words did not please the Queen, though they were so kindly meant.

With the possession of the child, though she was so overjoyed to have her, the young Queen's wayward and dissatisfied spirit began to return. She seemed to think the Princess was to be only hers, that the nation and even the King, must give way, in everything that concerned the child, to its mother's will. She was even displeased one day when she overheard some of her ladies admiring the beautiful color of the child's hair and saying that it showed her a true daughter of the North.

"No such thing," said the Queen. "It shows her a child of the sunshine and the summer. My sweet Rose!" for so, to please the Queen, the baby had been named.

On the whole, however, while the summer lasted, the Queen was too happy with the child to give way to any real murmurings and once or twice, when she might perhaps have done so, there was wafted to her by the breeze the sound of a gentle, "Beware!" and she knew the Summer Fairy was near.

So for the first winter of the child's life the Queen was on her guard and nothing went wrong, except now and then when the King reproached his wife with overcare of the child when the weather was at all severe.

"I wish to make her brave and hardy," said the King.

In some strange way, however, the princess, child though she was, seemed to understand what her father felt about her. It was noticed that before she could speak at all, she would dance in her nurse's arms and stretch out her little hands with glee at the sight of the snowflakes falling steadily. And once or twice when a draught of frosty air blew upon her she laughed with delight instead of shrinking or shivering.

But so well were the Queen's feelings understood that no one ventured to tell her of these clear signs that Rose felt herself at home in the land of snow.

The winter passed and the summer came again—the second summer of the child's life.

She had grown like the flowers and was as happy as the butterflies. Never was a sweeter or merrier child. The Queen idolized her and the King loved her quite as dearly, though in a wiser way. And that summer passed very happily.

Unfortunately, however, the warm fine days came to an end unusually early that year. Many of the birds took flight for the South sooner than was their wont, and the flowers drooped and withered as if afraid of what was coming.

The Queen noticed these signs with a sinking heart. Standing one chilly morning at the palace windows she watched the gray autumn sky and sighed deeply.

"Alas, alas!" she said. "All the beauty and brightness are going again."

She did not know that the King had entered the room and was standing behind her.

"Nay," he said cheerfully. "You have no reason to feel so sad. If you have no other flower you have our Rose, blooming as brightly in the winter as in the warmth."

He meant it well, but it would have been wiser if he had said nothing. The Queen turned toward him impatiently.

"It is so," she said angrily. "Rose is like me. She loves the summer and the sunshine. I do not believe she would live through your wretched northern winters but for my care. And the anxiety is too much for me. The life in this country is but half a life. Would that I had known it before I ever came hither."

The King was deeply hurt and disappointed and he left the room without speaking. He was generally so kind and patient that this startled her, and brought her to her senses.

"How wrong of me to grieve him so by my wild words," she thought penitently. "And——" A sudden horror came over her.

The Princess's nurse picked up some fir cones and gave them to the little girl, who threw them about with glee and called out for more. They were all so busy playing with her that they did not notice how, above the heads of the tall fir-trees, the sky was growing dark and overcast, till suddenly a strange chill blast made the Queen gather her mantle round her and gaze up in alarm.

"We must hasten home," she said: "it is growing cold."

"Yes, indeed," said one of the ladies; "it almost looks like——" But the Queen interrupted her. She could not bear even the mention of the fatal word.

"Wrap up the Princess!" she exclaimed. "Cover her over, face and all! Never mind if she cries! My darling, we shall be home directly. The cold wind would hurt you," she added.

Then they hurried back to the palace as quickly as the goats could be persuaded to go, even the Queen herself running fast to keep up with the little carriage.

They were within a short distance of the palace before any snow fell, though it was clear to be seen that it was not far off; and the Queen was beginning to breathe again more freely when suddenly Princess Rose, with a cry of baby mischief, pushed away the shawl that was over her face, shouting with glee. At that moment the first fluttering snowflakes began to fall. The little Princess opened wide her eyes as she caught sight of them, and smiled as if in greeting; and alas! before the terrified Queen had time to replace the covering the child had thrown off, one solitary flake alighted on her cheek, melting there into a tiny drop which looked like a tear, though still the little Princess smiled.

The Queen seized the child in her arms, rushed up the long flight of steps, all through the great halls and corridors like a mad creature, nor stopped even to draw breath till she had reached the Princess's apartments, and had her safe in the rooms specially prepared for her during the winter.

But was she safe? Was it not already too late? With trembling dread the Queen drew away the furs and shawls wrapped round the baby, almost expecting to find her changed in some strange way; and it was with thankfulness she saw that little Rose was still herself—sweet and smiling in her sleep. For she was fast asleep.

"The darling, the precious angel," thought the poor mother as she laid her in her little cot just as the ladies and nurses and attendants came trooping into the room.

"She is only asleep," said the Queen in a whisper. "Nothing has happened to her. She is sleeping sweetly."

The ladies stared. The Queen's behavior had been so strange that they could not understand her.

"It is a pity to be so anxious about the child," they said to one another. "It will bring no blessing," for they thought it all came from the Queen's foolish terror lest the little Princess should catch cold, and they shook their heads.

But the Queen seemed full of thankfulness. She was very gentle and subdued. Many times that afternoon she came back to see if little Rose was well, but she was still sleeping.

"The fresh keen air has made her drowsy, I suppose," said the head nurse, late in the evening when the Queen returned again.

"And she has had nothing to eat since the middle of the day," said the mother anxiously. "I almost think if she does not wake herself in an hour or so you will have to rouse her."

To this the nurse agreed. But two hours later in the Queen's next visit to the nursery, there was a strange report to give her. The nurse had tried to wake the baby, but it was all in vain. Little Rose just smiled sweetly and rolled over on her other side, without attempting in the least to open her eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb her. She seemed so very sleepy.

"I think we must let the Princess have her sleep out—children are like that sometimes," said the nurse.

And the Queen was forced to agree to it, though she had a strange sinking at the heart, and even the King when he came to look at his little daughter felt uneasy, though he tried to speak cheerfully.

"No doubt she will wake in the morning quite bright and merry," he said, "all the brighter and merrier for sleeping a good round and a half of the clock."

The morning dawned—the slow coming winter daylight of the North found its way into the Princess's nursery—a tiny gleam of ruddy sunshine even managed to creep in to kiss her dimpled cheek, but still the baby slept as soundly as if the night was only beginning. And matters grew serious.

It was no use trying to wake her. They all did their best—King, Queen, ladies, nurses; and after them the great court physicians and learned men of every kind. All were summoned and all consulted and, as the days went on, a hundred different things were tried—but all to no purpose. "She is bewitched," said the cleverest of all the doctors, and as time went on, everybody began to agree with him. Even the King himself was obliged to think something of the kind was at the bottom of it, and at last one day the Queen, unable to endure her remorse any longer, told him the whole story, entreating him to forgive her for having by her discontent and murmuring brought upon him so great a sorrow.

The King was very kind but very grave.

"I understand it now," he said. "The Summer Fairy told you true. Our northern Winter Spirit is indeed stern; we must submit. If we are patient and resigned it is possible that in the future even his cold heart may be melted by the sight of our suffering."

"It is only I who deserve it," wept the poor Queen. "The worst part of it all is to know that I have brought this sorrow upon you, my dear husband."

And so repentant she was that she almost forgot to think of herself. Never had she been so sweet and loving a wife. She did everything she possibly could to please and cheer the King, concealing from him the many bitter tears she shed as she sat for hours together beside the sleeping child.

The winter was terribly severe—never had the snow lain so thickly, never had the wind-blasts raged and howled more furiously. Often did the Queen think to herself that the spirit must be infuriated at her very presence, in his special domain.

"They might pity me now—now that I am so punished." She bore all the winter cold and terrors uncomplainingly, nay, even cheerfully, nerving herself to go out alone in the bitterest weather with a sort of hope of pleasing the Winter Fairy; possibly, if she could but see him, of making an appeal to him. But for many months he held his icy sway. Often indeed it seemed as if gentler times were never to return.

Then suddenly one night the frost went; a mild, soft breeze replaced the fierce blast; spring had come. And wonderful to relate, the very next morning the Queen was roused by loud knocking and voices at her door; trembling, she knew not why, she opened it, and the head nurse fell at her feet laughing and crying at once. The Princess had awakened.

Yes; there she was, chattering in her baby way, smiling and rosy as if nothing had been the matter. Oh, the joy of her parents and the jubilation all through the palace!

And all through the summer little Rose was wide awake in the daytime just like other children. She was as well and strong and happy as a baby could be. But—the summer will not last for ever; again returned the autumn, bringing with it the signs of the approaching winter and one morning when her nurse went to awaken the Princess, she found it was no use—Rose was sleeping again, with a smile on her face, calm and content, but alas! not to be awakened! And then it was remembered that the first snow had fallen in the night.

Gradually the child's distressed parents resigned themselves to the sad truth: their daughter was to be theirs only for half her life; for full six months out of every twelve, she was to be in a sense as far away from them as if the Winter Monarch had carried her off to his palace of ice altogether.

But no; it was not quite so bad as that would have been. And the Queen, who was fast learning to count her blessings instead of her troubles, smiled through her tears as she said to the King, what a mercy it was that they were still able to watch beside their precious child—to kiss her soft warm cheek every night.

And so it went on. In the spring the Princess woke up again, bright and well and lively, and in every way six months older than when she had fallen asleep; so that, to see her in the summer time no one could have guessed the strange spell that was over her. She became the sweetest and most charming girl in the world; only one thing ever saddened her, and that was any mention of winter, especially snow.

"What does it mean?" she would ask sometimes. "What are they talking of? Show me this wonderful thing! Where does it grow? I want to see it."

But no one could make her understand; and at these times a very strange look would come into her blue eyes.

"I must see it," she said. "Some day I shall go away and travel far, far, till I find it."

These words used to distress her mother more than she could say; and she would shower presents on her daughter, of flowers, and singing birds—all to make her think of the sunshine and the summer. And for a time they would please the girl, till again she shook her head and murmured, "I want the snow."

So the years followed each other till the Princess was sixteen. Every winter the Queen had a faint hope, which, however, grew even fainter and fainter, that the spell was perhaps to be broken. But it was not so. And strange stories got about concerning the Princess—some saying she was a witch in disguise; others, that she had no heart or understanding; others, that she turned into a bird or some animal during half her life—so that the neighboring Princes, in spite of her beauty and sweetness, were afraid to ask her in marriage, and this brought new sorrow to her parents. "What will become of her after we are dead and gone?" they said. "Who will care for and protect our darling? Who will help her to rule over our nation? No people will remain faithful to a sovereign who is only awake half of the year. There will be revolts and rebellion, and our angel Princess may perhaps be put to death, or driven away."

And they fretted so over this that the hair of both the King and Queen grew white long before its time. But Rose only loved them the more on this account for she had heard some one say that white hair was like snow; though she kept the fancy to herself, for she knew it troubled the Queen if ever she mentioned the strange, mysterious word.

She was so lovely that painters came from many countries just to see her face, and, if possible, be allowed to make a picture of her. And one of these portraits made its way to the court of a King who was a distant cousin of her father, and who had heard the strange things said of the Princess. He was very angry about it for he had two sons, and he was afraid of their falling in love with the beautiful face. So he ordered the picture to be destroyed before the elder Prince, who was away on a visit, came home.

But the servant who was to burn the picture thought it such a pity to do so, that he only hid it away in a lumber-room; and thither, as fate would have it, came the younger Prince one day in search of a pet kitten belonging to his sister, which had strayed away; for he was a Prince of a most kind and amiable nature.

The moment he saw the picture he fell in love with it. He made inquiry, and heard all there was to tell, then he arranged himself for a journey and came to bid his father farewell.

"I go," he said, "to woo the Princess Rose for my bride." And in spite of all the King could say he kept firm.

"If she is a witch," he said, "I would rather perish by her hands than live with any other."

And amidst tears and lamentations he set out.

He was received with great delight at the court of Princess Rose's parents—though he came without any pomp or display; for he lost no time in telling the King and Queen the reason of his visit. Knowing him to be a Prince of most estimable character they were overjoyed to hear of his resolve.

"I only trust," said the Queen, "that all may be well. But, as you have doubtless heard, our darling child, despite her beauty and goodness, is under a spell."

She then proceeded to tell him the whole matter of which he had already heard garbled accounts.

He was relieved to find that the enchantment was of no worse a nature, and declared that it made no difference in his intentions, but rather increased his love for the Princess.

And when he first set eyes on her (more beautiful by far than even the beautiful portrait) he felt that his whole life would not be too much to devote to her even considering her strange affliction.

"And who knows," he said to himself, "but that such love as mine may find out a way to release her from the spell?"

The Princess quickly learned to like him. She had never before had a companion so near her own age and the last days of the summer passed most happily till the time came when the Prince thought he might venture to ask her to be his wife.

They were walking in the terrace in front of the castle when he did so. It had been a lovely day, but the afternoon had grown chilly, and as the Princess listened to his words a cold breath of wind passed near them.

The Princess started; and, aware of the Queen's anxiety about her, the Prince hastily proposed that they should return to the house; but Rose looked at him with a light in her eyes which he had never before seen and a strange smile broke over her face.

"It is a new life to me," she said. "Can you not understand, you who are yourself a child of the North? Yes, Prince, I will marry you on one condition, that you will show me the snow—but on no other."

Then she turned and without another word walked slowly back to the palace.

Prince Orso, for so he was called, felt terribly distressed.

"The spell is upon her," he thought to himself. "She asks me to do what would probably kill her or separate her forever from all who love her."

And the King and Queen when they heard this story were nearly as disappointed as he.

But that very night the Prince had a strange dream. He thought he was walking in the wood near the castle, when again a chill blast but still more icy swept past him, and he heard a voice speaking to him. It sounded hoarse and stern.

"Orso," it said, "you're as foolish as the rest. Have you no trust? See what came of rebellion against me, who, after all, love my children as does my sister of the summer. Leave the Princess to the leadings of her own heart."

Then with a crash of thunder the spirit went on its way. And the Prince awoke to find that the window of his room had been dashed in by the force of a sudden gale which had arisen.

But the next morning all was again calm. It almost seemed as if milder weather was returning again; and the Queen looked brighter; but it was not so with the Princess, who was silent and almost sad. And so things continued for some days.

At last the Prince could bear it no longer. One afternoon when he found himself alone with the Princess, he turned to her suddenly.

"Princess," he said, "can you not give me another answer? You must know that I would fain promise anything you wish; but I dare not bind myself to what might perhaps do you some injury."

Rose turned toward him impatiently.

"That is just it," she said. "I am always met by excuses when I ask for the one thing I really desire. What is there about me really different from others? Why should I so often hear of what others seem to understand, and not have it explained to me? I am no longer a child; in my dreams I see things I cannot put in words; and beautiful as the world is I feel that I only half know it. I long for what they call the winter, and what they call the snow and they never come. Only the cold wind, which I have felt once or twice, brings new life to me, and fills me with strange joy."

The Prince hesitated. He understood her perfectly for he was of the same brave and hardy race. Yet the Queen's forebodings made him tremble. The Princess's words reminded him of his own dream; and again he felt as if he heard the voice of the stern Winter Spirit. And as if in answer to his uncertainty, at that moment the howl of the cold blast sounded near them among the trees and lurid clouds began to gather overhead.

The Princess's face lighted up.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "it is coming again!"

"I fear so, indeed," said Orso; and in his terror for her he caught her hand and would have hurried her back to the palace.

But at that moment a shrill little cry was heard overhead not far from where they stood, and, glancing up, they saw a bird of prey clutching a smaller one in his claws. With a terrible effort the captive managed to free himself, but he was sadly wounded; and as Rose gazed upwards in great concern she saw him fall fluttering feebly to the ground. All else was forgotten in the sight.

"Poor bird!" she cried. "Let me go, Prince. I must find him where he has fallen, or a cruel death of slow suffering will be his."

The Prince let her go; he dared not hold her back, though he could have done so.

"Leave her to the guidings of her own heart," resounded in his ears.

Almost at once she was lost to his sight among the trees which grew very closely; almost at the same moment, to his horror, something cold and soft touched his face, and snowflakes were falling thickly. If harm was to betide, it was too late to save her; but he pressed forward in unspeakable anxiety.

It was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. It was the Princess's robe; and there, indeed, she lay, motionless, her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands.

Orso threw himself on the ground beside the Princess.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "My carelessness has killed her. How can I ever dare to face the King and Queen? Oh, Winter Spirit! you have indeed deceived me."

But as he said the words the Princess opened her eyes.

"No, Prince," she said, "I am not dead; I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country; now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always." And she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her.

"Orso," she went on half shyly, "you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow," and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it.

The Prince was overjoyed but he hesitated.

"I fear," he said, "that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart."

"Poor little bird," she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand.

"It is not dead. I will do all I can for it. Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother will be too anxious about me."

And together they returned to the palace. One glance at the Princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the Queen that the spell was at last broken and her joy was past all words.

The little bird spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the Princess Rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. He pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far, northern land.

MIDSUMMER

Around this lovely valley rise
The purple hills of Paradise.

Oh, softly on yon banks of haze,
Her rosy face the Summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure sky
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores, with many a shining rift,
Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.
Through all the long midsummer day
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

SUMMER SKIES

There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand
Bearing the wreath of beauty silently to crown the earth.
And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows
Deserted by herds, through trackless paths
Carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher
From the Western ocean of rest.

RABINDRANATH TAGORE.

Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim day boils at last;
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim
Where spurting and suppressed it lay;
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then
Overflowed the world.

ROBERT BROWNING.

HOW THE SUN WAS CAUGHT AND
FREED

Once upon a time there lived a little Indian boy who was very proud of his beautiful coat. His sister had made it for him out of the skins of ten snow-birds. Carefully she had dried these skins, stretched them, and pieced them into a soft, warm garment. The lad was so fond of his coat that he wore it whenever he left the wigwam, no matter how warm the sun shone.

One morning the Indian lad took a long walk and becoming very tired he threw himself down on a grassy hillside to rest, and fell sound asleep.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Sun when he saw the boy wrapped in a bird-skin coat in summer time. "I must give this lad a hint that the snow and ice are gone and it is time to lay aside winter coverings."

With all his warm might the Sun shone on the sleeping lad. Gradually the feathers of his coat curled up and became singed and brown, and the garment shrank to a very small size.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Sun.

When the Indian lad awoke he wondered what had happened to him for he felt as if he were caught in a trap. He sprang to his feet and discovered that his beautiful coat had shrunk until it was entirely too small for him.

"It is ruined," he cried aloud. "Ruined by that monster Sun. He shall not play such tricks on me and escape without punishment." Then, shaking his fist in the Sun's face, he shouted, "I'll make you pay for ruining my beautiful bird-skin coat."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Sun.

The Indian lad ran back to the wigwam as fast as he could, carrying the garment in his hands.

"See what has happened!" he cried to his sister. "That vicious Sun shrank my beautiful coat while I was asleep on the hillside. I can never wear it again."

"Perhaps I can stretch it for you," said his sister.

"No, no! See, the feathers are singed and brown. It is ruined!"

He was so sorely vexed that he could neither eat nor sleep. For twenty days he fasted in the wigwam and wondered how he could call the mischievous Sun to account for spoiling the bird-skin coat.

One morning he sprang up and said to his sister, "I have thought out a way to punish the Sun. In his high path across the sky he thinks he is safe from a little lad like me, but I'll show him what I can do if you will help me."

"Tell me your plan," said the sister, wondering how any mortal could punish the mighty Sun.

"I'll set a snare for him and catch him!" cried her brother excitedly. "I want the strongest cord you can find."

"I've plenty of dried moose-hide; will that be strong enough?" she asked.

"No, no! That would never hold the Sun," said the boy.

His sister thought a while and then said, "I have dried sinew of deer."

But still her brother shook his head. "The Sun is a mighty quarry. I must have something stronger than the sinew of the deer."

"Then I must search in the deep woods," said his sister.

She left the wigwam and for nine days she searched through the forest. At last she returned with a twisted cord which she had made from the strongest wood fiber. As soon as her brother saw it he knew what to do. He drew the twisted fiber through his lips and immediately it became so fine and strong that he believed nothing could break it. Round and round his body the lad wound this cord; at one end of it he fashioned a noose.

Confident that he was now prepared to snare the Sun, the lad left the wigwam long before daybreak. He walked to the spot where the Sun first peeps over the rim of the earth, and there he securely fixed the noose. Then as he walked back to the lodge he unwound from his body the cord, and held fast to the end of it.

The Sun was caught in this snare! His shining head was held tight in the noose and he could not travel across his Sky-Path. A strange dull light filled the air.

In his wigwam the Indian lad was delighted. He danced about joyously and said, "The mighty Sun will learn that he cannot play a trick on me and escape without punishment."

But while the Indian lad laughed and sang because he had caught the Sun in his noose the Animals were in deep trouble for there was no daylight in the world. They walked cautiously about, filled with fear and wonder.

"What has happened to the Sun? Has he strayed from his Sky-Path?" they whispered to each other.

After a while they discovered that the Sun was caught in a great noose and they called a Council in order to decide what to do.

"Of course we must free the Sun," said all the Animals, but when one of them asked how this could be done there was silence in the Council for a long time, because all the Animals knew about the Sun's great heat and feared to go near enough to break the cord.

At last the mole said, "I'll free the Sun. I'm not afraid. My teeth are very sharp and I'm sure they can gnaw through the cord of the noose."

Accordingly she crept near to the edge of the earth where the Sun was held fast. The heat was intense but the mole was determined not to give up her undertaking. She gnawed and gnawed, until the cord was cut in two. Then up into the sky sprang the Sun with a mighty bound. Before the Mole could run away, however, the Sun's white light shone full in her eyes, and from that day she has not been able to see very well. Her eyes are extremely small and are almost hidden by fur. That is why she lives in dark places and seldom comes out into the sunlight. But the Animals are all grateful to her and they often say, "It was the brave Mole who cut the Indian boy's noose which held the Sun."

A DAY OF SUNSHINE

O gift of God! O perfect day!
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

PHAETON'S DRIVE IN THE SUN-CHARIOT

Once upon a time there lived in sunny Greece a lad named Phaeton. He was a son of Clymene, an ocean nymph, and Apollo, the god of the sun.

One morning when the lad was playing with some of his companions he said, "It is my father who drives the glorious sun-car across the sky, and brings daylight into the world. I am the son of bright Apollo."

Now this was by no means the first time that Phaeton had boasted about his high lineage, for he was indeed very proud of his father. He was much surprised, however, to hear his playmates laugh. One of them looked scornfully at him and said, "You are telling us an idle tale. We do not believe that you are a child of the mighty Sun."

Another added quickly, "Why don't you prove your boast? If you are the son of Apollo give some sign of your heavenly birth."

Indignant at these taunts Phaeton sought his mother and told her about the jeering insults he had been obliged to bear.

"They refuse to believe what I say until I offer proof," he cried. "Let me go to the palace of the sun and speak to my father. He will advise me how to prove my claim."

Clymene hesitated to grant this request because she knew the proposed journey was attended by many dangers; but finally she gave consent and carefully directed Phaeton to the abode of Apollo.

In the far east stood the shining sun palace wrought from burnished gold, bright silver, and polished ivory. The walls, marvellously designed, were thickly set in emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds; the slender jewelled pinnacles shone with dazzling light.

Phaeton was awed by the splendour which he saw but he entered the palace and approached the sun god who sat on a glittering throne. Immediately Apollo greeted his son and asked what favour he sought. Encouraged by the question Phaeton lost all trace of fear and said, "O, Light of the World, the children of men declare that I am not the son of Apollo. They sneer at me and say that my claim is nothing but an idle boast. Grant me some means of proving to them that I am indeed a child of the mighty Sun."

Apollo laid aside the beams that shone on his brow, bade Phaeton come nearer to him, and said, "Thou art indeed my son. By the mighty river Styx I promise to grant thee any boon thou shalt ask."

Eagerly Phaeton replied, "For one day let me drive the sun-chariot across the sky. No one will ever again deny my high lineage if Apollo grant me this boon."

The sun-god immediately saw what a rash promise he had made. Three times he shook his bright head and then replied, "I beg thee, Phaeton, choose another boon for none but Phoebus Apollo can drive the horses of the sun-chariot. The path through high heaven is beset with dangers. First the steeds must climb the steep ascent of the eastern sky; then they must be guided through the middle way which is a dizzy height above earth and sea; and last of all, their path lies down the dangerous slope of the west. Also frightful monsters must be passed on the road through the sky. I beg thee choose another boon. This one may bring thee punishment instead of glory."

But Phaeton was not dissuaded, and finally Apollo led the headstrong youth to the place where the fire-breathing horses and brilliant chariot stood. The axle-tree, poles, and wheel-rims were gold; the spokes, silver. The body of the car was thickly set with chrysolites and diamonds which reflected the sun's brilliance. While Phaeton gazed admiringly at all this beauty, Aurora the goddess of the Dawn threw open the purple doors of the East and pointed to the pathway strewn with roses. The Stars quickly withdrew and when the sun god saw the Moon make ready to depart he swiftly ordered the Hours to harness up the horses. Then Apollo quickly bound the Sun's rays on the impatient lad's brow and anointed his face with a cooling essence to protect his skin from the burning flames.

Phaeton leaped into the car, seized the reins, stood erect, and thanked Apollo for the great privilege of driving the chariot. In his eager haste to start the youth failed to note his father's words of warning. "Hold the reins firmly and be sparing of the whip. The steeds need no urging; the labour is to hold them in check. Do not drive too high for fear of burning the heavens; nor too low, or the earth will be set on fire. Keep in the well-worn ruts of the middle path. The time to start has come, for Night is passing out of the Western gates. Heed carefully my words in this hazardous journey."

With an impatient bound the fire-breathing steeds sprang forth. They dashed lightly over the clouds and outran the morning breezes in their eagerness to mount the eastern slope of the sky. In a little while they discovered that the car was lighter than usual, and that the sun-god was not holding the reins. Then they plunged madly forward and turned aside from the middle track. This headlong speed of the horses filled Phaeton's heart with terror, especially when he realized he had no power to guide them. He forgot the names of the horses; in despair he was obliged to let them take their own course. Nearer and nearer to the earth's broad plains dashed the chariot of the sun. The fountains and rivers were dried up by the scorching heat; the forest trees became withered and burned; the grassy hillsides, parched and brown; the harvest fields were set on fire, even the people of the land over which the sun chariot passed were blackened by the extreme heat, and to this day their descendants have dark skins.

In a loud cry of agony the people called on Jupiter, king of the gods, to save them from destruction. The all-powerful one aroused himself from a deep sleep and saw, at a glance, the cause of this terrible suffering. Angered at the thought that a youth should dare drive the horses of the sun, Jupiter hurled one of his deadliest thunderbolts at the unfortunate Phaeton, who fell from the chariot like a shooting star and sank into the depths of the river Eradinus.

Clymene deeply mourned her son's death, and Phaeton's three sisters bewailed his loss for many days. Finally the gods, in pity, changed them into poplar trees, in order that they might always be near the river into which Phaeton fell.

SONG

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

SUMMER SUN

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose,
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic, spider-clad,
He, through the keyhole maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles,
Into the laddered hayloft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

THE CLOUD

ROBERT REINECK

One hot summer morning a little cloud rose out of the sea, and floated playfully across the blue sky. The dreary brown earth, parched with a long drouth, lay far below. The little cloud looked down and saw the poor people toiling away with heavy hearts, while she, carefree and happy, floated along on the fresh morning breeze.

She said to herself, "Oh, how much I wish I could help the poor people down there. If I could but lighten their work, or refresh them with food and drink!"

As the day passed and the cloud grew larger, the wish to help the suffering people filled her heart.

On earth it grew hotter and hotter, and the people were fainting with heat, but they could not stop their work, for they were very poor. Sometimes they looked pleadingly up into the sky. It seemed as if they were saying to the cloud: "Oh, if you could but help us!"

"I will help you! I will, indeed!" said the cloud, and she began immediately to sink softly toward the earth.

As she floated down she suddenly remembered something which she had heard when she was a tiny child, rocked in the lap of Mother Ocean. Someone had told her that clouds die if they float too near the earth.

For a moment she wavered in her thought and drifted to and fro. But at last she stood still and spoke bravely and cheerfully, "Men of the earth, I will help you, come what may."

Suddenly she grew large, and strong and powerful. Never before had she dreamed herself capable of such strength. Like an angel of blessing she stood above the earth, lifted her head, and spread her wings far over the broad fields.

So great and mighty she appeared that men and beasts marvelled at the sight; the trees, grass, and flowers bowed their heads before her, but in their hearts they knew she would help them.

"Yes, I will help you," cried the cloud once more. "Take me to yourselves! I die for you!"

A mighty purpose filled the cloud's heart, and a holy light shone from her face. She sank nearer to the earth. The next moment a blessed shower of rain refreshed the hills and valleys.

The rain was the cloud's deed; the rain was the cloud's death; but through her death she was glorified.

After the shower was over, a lovely rainbow, made of the purest rays of heavenly light, arched across the sky. It was the last greeting of a love so great that it could serve.

Soon the rainbow, too, disappeared, but the memory of the blessing which the shower had brought to the earth was kept in the hearts of men for many years to come.

UNDINE

EDWARD ABBOTT PARRY

Once upon a time there was a child wave named Undine. "Undine the Beautiful," they called her, because, when she was quite a little ripple, she sparkled more brilliantly than any of her thousand brothers and sisters, and not one of them was so crystal clear or dressed in such wonderful shades of sapphire blue and emerald green. She was born at the mouth of a white limestone rock cave on the coast of Devonshire. The fourteenth of August was her birthday. Never had there been such a lovely little ripple as Undine. The old Tide let her run up and down on his back when he came into the bay where she lived. She kept close by the cave for a time, and grew big and strong, and became first a billow and then a wavelet; but when a month had passed she was a full-grown wave—only a small one, of course, but still a wave.

Her father was a well known Devonshire coast wave, a jolly compact old sea salt roller, with a great thatch of creamy foam on his head. He ran up and down the coast and out to sea in a lazy, aimless kind of way, playing with the fishing smacks and rolling over the porpoises.

He had a kindly look and was a friendly fellow as a rule, but could be as cruel and fierce as the worst of them, when he was roused. Old Lobster-Pot they called him, because he loved, when he could, to dive down and wash the lobsters out of their baskets, and then come and dance round the fishermen's boats in the morning when they pulled them up, and laugh at them when they found all their hard work had been for nothing.

Undine's mother was a tall, graceful wave with a beautiful green breast, on which she rested her white surge head proudly like a royal swan. Her name was Mora. She thought it vulgar to play with the lobster-pots, and when her children were old enough she took them across the sea to stay at the French seaside towns for the bathing season. She liked to hear the people on the pier cry out, "Oh! look at that lovely wave!" as she held back her glorious head and rushed through the girders of the pier, splashing and sparkling in the sun, and followed by her merry family tumbling headlong after her.

Little Undine saw nothing of her mother and father during the first months of her life. She never went outside the bay, but rippled up and down in front of a large cave, diving under the ruddy golden seaweed to look at the quiet sea anemones. They were wonderful fellows, she thought. Even the youngest of them could sit still for hours. You never saw sea anemones fidgeting about, and as for turning head over heels, they do not even think of it. But Undine was a restless young thing, full of life and spirits, never still for a moment; and the sea anemones loved her, for she was always gentle and kind to them. Ah! those were happy times!

The old waves like to go voyaging about and to see something of the wide world, so they are sensible enough to pack their children off to school as soon as they are born. The ripples have a class to themselves. They are taught to walk in rows, and each one learns to keep his place. You cannot teach a ripple much more than that, but that is something. There was a wave school in the bay in which Undine lived. The Zephyr taught the ripple class. They went every morning at sunrise, and had drill in a pool behind the rocks. It was a pretty sight. The sea anemones, red and white, opened out on the rocks to look on, lazy star-fishes stretched themselves upon the sands and laughed when the little ripples tried to move them higher up the beach, even those snarly little periwinkles peeped out of their black shells to see what was going on, and the old hermit crab, grumbling all the while at being roused up so early, sat at the door of his shell, and beat time to the marching with one of his claws.

"One, two, three, four," said the gentle Zephyr. "Heads up! Keep your place! Let the little ripples have plenty of room. Now, Undine, dear, throw your shadow well forward."

When the morning drill was done, the Zephyr used to say to the ripples, "Now you shall have a holiday; go and play together. Love one another. Be as good as you can. Be kind to all the world, and you will be happy." Then she kissed them all lightly, and flew away across the yellow sand and the heather-covered rocks, and they saw her no more until next morning. But they could hear her singing on the cliff one of those songs about the waves she loved so well, and when the chorus came they would join in, for she had taught it to them in the class, and it went this way: