Chapter IV: Part 4

Shuttle of the sunburnt grass,
Fifer in the dun cuirass,
Fifing shrilly in the morn,
Shrilly still at eve unworn;
Now to rear, now in the van,
Gayest of the elfin clan:
Though I watch their rustling flight,
I can never guess aright
Where their lodging-places are;
'Mid some daisy's golden star,
Or beneath a roofing leaf,
Or in fringes of a sheaf,
Tenanted as soon as bound!
Loud thy reveille doth sound,
When the earth is laid asleep,
And her dreams are passing deep,
On mid-August afternoons;
And through all the harvest moons,
Nights brimmed up with honeyed peace,
Thy gainsaying doth not cease.
When the frost comes, thou art dead;
We along the stubble tread,
On blue, frozen morns, and note
No least murmur is afloat:
Wondrous still our fields are then,
Fifer of the elfin men!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

THE GOLDEN GRASSHOPPER

CHARLES LAMB

It chanced upon a time that while the fairies were looking for cowslips in the meads, while yet the dew was hanging on the buds like beads, they found a babe left in its swathing-clothes—a little, sorrowful, deserted thing. It was a pity to see the abandoned little orphan left in that way.

How the cold dew kept wetting its childish coats; and its little hair, like gossamer, how it was bedabbled! Its pouting mouth, unknowing how to speak, lay half-opened like a rose-lipped shell; and its cheek was softer than any peach, upon which the tears, for very roundness, could not long dwell, but fell off in clearness like pearls—some on the grass, and some on his little hand; and some haply wandered to the little dimpled well under his mouth.

Pity it was, too, to see how the burning sun had scorched its helpless limbs; for it lay without shade or shelter, for foul weather or fair. So, having compassion on its sad plight, the fairies turned themselves into grasshoppers and swarmed about the babe, making such shrill cries as that pretty little chirping creature makes in its mirth, till, with their noise, they attracted the attention of a passing rustic, a tender-hearted kind who, wondering at their small but loud concert, strayed aside curiously, and found the babe where it lay in the remote grass, and, taking it up, wrapped it in his russet coat, and bore it to his cottage, where his wife kindly nurtured it till it grew up a goodly personage.

This babe prospered and, in time, became the famous Sir Thomas Gresham, one of the greatest merchants of England. He afterwards adopted the grasshopper as his crest, and you may see to this day, on a tall staff high above the roof of the Royal Exchange in London, a huge Golden Grasshopper to remind you of the wisest, richest, and greatest of all the men who built up the trade and commerce of England.

"Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames,
Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandise,——
Jewels from Ind, and pearls for costly dames,
And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies:
Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise,
The mart of merchants from the East and West;
Whose slender summit pointing to the skies,
Still bears, in token of his grateful breast,
The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest."

THOMAS HOOD.

A BLADE OF GRASS

JOHN RUSKIN

Gather a single blade of grass, and examine for a minute its narrow, sword-shaped strip of fluted green. Nothing there, as it seems of notable goodness or beauty. A very little strength and a very little tallness, and a few delicate long lines meeting in a point, not a perfect point either, but blunt and unfinished, by no means a creditable or apparently much-cared-for example of Nature's workmanship, made only to be trodden on to-day, and to-morrow to be cast into the oven, and a little pale and hollow stalk, feeble and flaccid, leading down to the dull brown fiber of roots.

And yet, think of it well, and judge whether of all the gorgeous flowers that beam in summer air, and of all strong and goodly trees, pleasant to the eyes, or good for food, stately palm and pine, strong ash and oak, scented citron, burdened vine, there be any by man so deeply loved, by God so highly graced, as that narrow point of feeble green. And well does it fulfill its mission. Consider what we owe merely to the meadow grass, to the covering of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by the companies of those soft, and countless, and peaceful spears.

The fields! Follow forth but for a little time the thoughts of all that we ought to recognize in these words. All spring and summer is in them, the walks by silent and scented paths, the rests in noonday heat, the joy of herds and flocks, the power of all shepherd life and meditation, the life of sunlight upon the world falling in emerald streaks, and falling in soft blue shadows where else it would have struck upon the dark mold or scorching dust.

Pastures beside the pacing brooks, soft banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of down, overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea, crisp lawns, all dim with early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by happy feet, and softening in their fall the sound of loving voices,—all these are summed in those simple words; and these are not all.

We may not measure to the full the depth of this heavenly gift in our own land, though still as we think of it longer, the infinite of that meadow sweetness, Shakespeare's peculiar joy would open on us more and more; yet we have it but in part. Go out in the springtime among the meadows that slope from the shores of the Swiss lakes to the root of the lower mountains. There, mingled with the taller Gentians, and the white Narcissus, the grass grows deep and free; and as you follow the winding mountain paths, beneath arching boughs, all veiled with blossoms—paths that forever droop and rise over the green banks and mounds sweeping down in scented undulation steep to the blue water, studded here and there with new-mown heaps filling all the air with fainter sweetness,—look up towards the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines; and we may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of those quiet words of the Psalmist, "He maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains."

Then Aurora, the Sun's
Rosy handmaiden, runs
With a basket of fruit blossoms poised on her head,
Green ones and pink ones and white ones, and red,
And with both hands uplifted, outscatters them wide
Through gardens and orchards on every side,
Such abundance,
Redundance,
On every side
Of blossoms for apples and damsons and cherries,
For currants and quinces, pears, plums and strawberries,
That the labourers call to each other to see
What a wonderful fruit year 'tis likely to be.

CHARLES DALMON.

PRINCESS FIRE-FLY

(JAPANESE LEGEND)

Deep in the pink petals of a lotus bloom that grew in the castle moats of Fukui, lived Hi-o, the king of the Fire-Flies. In this beautiful flower his daughter, the Princess Hotaru, passed her childhood exploring every shady nook and fragrant corner of the bell-like palace, listening to the buzz of life around, and peeping over the edge of the petals at the wonderful world which lay mysteriously beyond. The princess had few youthful companions, but, as she daily bade her father farewell, she dreamed of the time when she, too, would fly abroad, and her brilliant light would attract unusual admiration.

Gradually, a beautiful sheen o'erspread her body; night by night it became brighter, until at last her home, in the hours of darkness, was as a lamp of coral wherein shone a lamp of gold. So glorious was her light that the stars paled before it, and the bright, sickle moon withdrew behind a cloud from jealousy.

The Princess was now allowed to fly from her home, to loiter among the pleasant rice fields, and to explore the indigo meadows which lay far off on the horizon. She had no lack of friends and would-be lovers. Thousands of insects, attracted by her magic light, came and offered their homage, but the Princess cared for none of their attentions and though she spoke politely to them all, she gave encouragement to none.

One evening the Princess said to her mother, the Queen:

"I have had many admirers but no one has found a way to my heart. To-night I shall hold court and if any of them love me they will come to me here. Then I shall set them an impossible task. If they are wise they will not attempt to do it, but if they love their lives more than they love me I do not want them. I shall say to one and all: 'Only he who loves me more than life shall call me bride.'"

"As you will," said her mother. And that evening, seated upon a throne formed of the heart of a lotus, Princess Hotaru held her court.

No sooner had twilight set in than forth came the golden beetle and laid his fortunes at her feet.

"Go and bring me fire and I will be your bride," said Hotaru.

Bowing his head the green-gold creature spread his wings and left the court with a stately whirr.

Next came cockchafer, who wooed her in passionate words. But to him she gave the same answer. "Bring me fire and you may have me for your wife."

Dragon-fly, proud in his gorgeous colours, offered his heart and his hand, quite sure that he would be accepted at once. The humble hawk-moth persistently addressed the lovely Princess. As the evening wore on countless other insects gained an audience, but the answer to them all was ever the same, "The treasure of fire shall be my bridegroom's gift."

One by one they took wing, enraptured by the hope of success and unconscious that they were all bent on the same errand.

But none ever came back to wed the Princess. The hawk-moth entered a temple and circled round and round the tall wax lights, coming nearer and nearer each time. "Now to win the Princess!" he murmured. Alas! the foolish creature darted forward to snatch a flash of flame, but the flame singed his wings and he fell helpless to the ground.

The beetle whizzed off to a neighbouring house and watched intently for a moment or two a log fire crackling on a hearth. He then boldly caught at a tongue of flame, hoping to carry it to the Princess. But he, too, was buried by the fire.

The dragon-fly, notwithstanding his sunlit splendours, could not fulfill the bidding of the Lady of the Lotus Bloom. He also fell a prey to her imperious command. Others there were who tried to steal from the diamond its heart of fire, or winged their way to the great mountain, or sped to the depths of the valley in their search for the great gift.

But all their efforts to bring the treasure of fire were in vain. The sun in roseate splendour shone on the bodies of the insect lovers who had given up their lives in their devotion to the Princess.

Now tidings came to Hi-maro, the Prince of the Fire-Flies, on the north side of the castle moat, that Princess Hotaru was exceedingly beautiful, whereupon he fled swiftly to her home among the lotus flowers, to ask of her father his daughter in marriage. The father agreed to the Prince's request with the condition that the Prince should come in person bringing the Princess the gift of fire.

Even as a flood of light the Prince at the head of his host of fire-flies came and filled the lotus palace with a blaze of glory.

But Hotaru herself was so beautiful that her charms were not dimmed.

One look passed between the youth and the maiden and the visit ended in the Prince's wooing and winning the Princess. He took her to his palace on the north side of the castle moat and there they lived happily for many years.

Many, many years have passed since Hi-maro won the Princess and still it is the fancy of all Fire-Fly Princesses to send their suitors in search of fire as a love-offering. It is for this reason that we see many thousand insects hovering around the evening lights in the vain hope of securing a flash of fire that shall win them their prize. (Adapted.)

JULY

When the scarlet cardinal tells
Her dreams to the dragon-fly
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees
And murmurs a lullaby,
It is July.

SUSAN HARTLEY SWETT.

CUFF AND THE WOODCHUCK

JOHN BURROUGHS

I knew a farmer in New York who had a very large bob-tailed churn dog by the name of Cuff. The farmer kept a large dairy and made a great deal of butter, and it was the business of Cuff to spend nearly half of each summer day treading the endless round of the churning machine. During the remainder of the day he had plenty of time to sleep and rest, and sit on his hips and survey the landscape.

One day, sitting thus, he discovered a woodchuck about forty rods from the house, on a steep hillside, feeding about near his hole, which was beneath a large rock. The old dog, forgetting his stiffness, and remembering the fun he had had with woodchucks in his earlier days, started off at his highest speed, vainly hoping to catch this one before he could get to his hole. But the woodchuck, seeing the dog come labouring up the hill, sprang to the mouth of his den, and, when his pursuer was only a few yards off, whistled tauntingly and went in. This occurred several times, the old dog marching up the hill, and then marching down again, having had his labour for his pains.

I suspect that he revolved the subject in his mind while revolving the great wheel of the churning machine, and that some turn or other brought him a happy thought, for next time he showed himself a strategist. Instead of giving chase to the woodchuck, when first discovered, he crouched down to the ground, and, resting his head on his paws, watched him. The woodchuck kept working away from his hole, lured by the tender clover, but, not unmindful of his safety, lifted himself up on his haunches every few moments and surveyed the approaches.

Presently, after the woodchuck had let himself down from one of these attitudes of observation and resumed his feeding, Cuff started swiftly but stealthily up the hill, precisely in the attitude of a cat when she is stalking a bird. When the woodchuck rose up again, Cuff was perfectly motionless and half hid by the grass. When he again resumed his clover, Cuff sped up the hill as before, this time crossing a fence, but in a low place, and so nimbly that he was not discovered. Again the woodchuck was on the lookout; again Cuff was motionless and hugging the ground.

As the dog neared his victim, he was partially hidden by a swell in the earth, but still the woodchuck from his lookout reported "All right," when Cuff, having not twice as far to run as the chuck, threw all stealthiness aside and rushed directly for the hole. At that moment the woodchuck discovered his danger and, seeing that it was a race for life, leaped as I never saw marmot leap before. But he was two seconds too late, his retreat was cut off, and the powerful jaws of the old dog closed upon him.

The next season Cuff tried the same tactics again with like success, but when the third woodchuck had taken up his abode at the fatal hole, the old churner's wits and strength had begun to fail him, and he was baffled in each attempt to capture the animal.

WHY THE LADY-BUG IS SAID TO BE
BELOVED OF GOD

Translated from the French by M. L. COOK

A long time ago, in France, the great lords had full power over the people. They had power to make them work and fight, and they judged them and punished them when they did wrong.

Now there was a lord in these times, who had a dearly beloved younger brother; and this brother was found dead one morning, lying near a hedge, from behind which the murderer must have sprung to strike him down.

The lord ordered the murderer to be taken, if possible, and vowed that if he was found he should suffer a punishment for his crime.

The very evening after his brother's death, when the lord was praying in his room, there entered his steward, Crondas, who said to him:

"My lord, I have discovered your brother's murderer, and have had him brought here that he may appear before you."

"Let him be brought to me," said the lord, "and if you see in me any signs of mercy, remind me of the crime he has committed, that I may punish him as he deserves."

Crondas made a sign to the servants; and they brought in a peasant with a white, shocked face, who fell on his knees before his master, exclaiming:

"Have mercy upon me, my lord! I swear to you I have committed no crime!"

When the lord demanded of Crondas the proofs of the man's guilt, Crondas showed him a purse, saying:

"My lord, if you are inclined to believe what this man says, I only beg you to ask the scoundrel how he happened to have in his house this purse, which belonged to your dead brother."

"I recognize it," said the lord, with deep feeling.

"And this, my lord, do you also recognize it?" said Crondas, showing him a gold ring.

"Yes," said the lord again; "it is the ring my brother always wore on the ring finger of his left hand."

"My lord," went on Crondas, "I found these things myself, in a hiding-place in this man's house. Now, does he dare say, on his knees, that he is innocent of the dreadful crime with which he is charged?"

Not being able to explain the presence of the things in his house, the poor peasant was judged to be guilty, and condemned to be killed on the very spot where his victim's body had been found. While he lay in prison, waiting for his execution, all the peasants round about visited the lord and begged him not to punish the man. They all said of him—what we say when we wish to credit anyone with unusual kindness and gentleness:

"We have known him long, my lord, and we know he would not even crush an insect in his path."

But Crondas, who never left the lord, said to each one:

"Bah! that is no reason why he should not kill a man; and if he is not punished, many others will be encouraged to be murderers. Let him suffer for his misdeeds."

And to every effort the peasants made to put off the day of punishment, Crondas replied:

"Ah, my lord, these people know how merciful you are. They think that, the first anguish of your grief once past, you will pardon the murderer."

At this the lord never failed to cry:

"No, no, never! He shall be punished."

So the lord, urged by Crondas, ordered the men to prepare to execute the peasant, adding that he wished to be present, that he might see perish the wretch who had killed his brother.

Crondas was very active in the preparations, bringing faggots to help build the fire, and arranging with his own hands a sort of throne made of branches for his lord. Then he went to tell him all was ready, and the lord came, followed by a crowd of people, who wept and lamented over the peasant's unjust death.

Crondas then said to the servants:

"Tie him, and set fire to the pile."

Meantime the lord was watching the proceedings with deep attention and saying nothing; but his eyes went from the peasant to Crondas and from Crondas back to the peasant, then to the servants who stood by the faggots ready to light the fire.

And as the servants were slow in obeying, Crondas cried to them:

"Come, come, hurry up! Our lord is waiting."

He was in haste to see the death of the peasant; but the poor man said to those who were about to tie him:

"Oh, let me make a last prayer, I beg of you!"

And, though Crondas begged the lord not to grant this request, the lord extended his hand to command the servants to grant to the peasant that which he had asked; and, as he did so, he saw Crondas make a sign of impatience.

The peasant, dropping his sad, haggard eyes, was about to kneel on a stone not far from where his lord was sitting; but, seeing on the stone a little lady-bug just at the place where his knee was at rest, he put it to one side gently, with his hand, so as not to crush it. Then, kneeling down, he began to pray.

As the lord watched him, he noticed that the little creature, whose life he had just spared, suddenly opened its bright wings and, taking flight, lighted on Crondas's left hand. Crondas, for no reason except that he was perhaps annoyed at having to wait so long for the execution, put a finger of his right hand on the insect, and almost crushed it. When he lifted it, a pair of broken red wings faintly quivered.

At this moment the peasant, having finished his prayer, rose from the stone. The lord, descending from his throne, cried suddenly:

"Let that man go! Do not kill him; he is not my brother's murderer. That is impossible!"

While speaking thus, the lord kept his eyes fixed on the face of Crondas, which suddenly grew white with fear. However, Crondas approached his master, saying:

"But the proofs, my lord? The proofs are there. If you do not find them sufficient to convict this man, whom can you accuse of the murder?"

Then the lord, taking Crondas's hand, cried loudly:

"Whom can I accuse? Perhaps you, Crondas, for there is blood upon your hand. At the very moment when you pretended to be full of horror for the crime of murder, you killed for mere pleasure this poor little creature, which had lighted unsuspectingly upon your hand, but which the peasant, unjustly condemned, had spared, when his own death stared him in the face."

Then, seizing Crondas, and looking sternly and fixedly at the cowering fellow, the lord thundered:

"Now, confess your sin!"

Crondas grew more ghastly than before and, trying to control his voice, faltered out:

"I confess. Have mercy, my lord! I killed your brother because he threatened to tell you of my dishonesty toward you. I took his purse and ring, and hid them in this man's house, to make you think it was he who had sinned. I am the guilty one. Do with me as you will. Punish me in his place."

The lord did as Crondas had said, and the murderer suffered for his sin instead of the peasant, who was made steward in Crondas's place. No one pleaded for the guilty man's life, for he had been hard and cruel, and no man was his friend.

Now all the people of the country felt the good God himself had sent the little red lady-bug that it might teach the lord to administer justice. Since then everyone who sees such an insect takes care not to hurt it, and says:

"That is the insect beloved of God. Perhaps it is on its way now to help someone. I would not harm it, for my hand would be stained with blood."

And the story has been handed down from peasant to peasant, and is known throughout the whole of France.

And that is why the lady-bug is called in France "La petite bete au bon Dieu," which means "the little insect beloved of God"; and that is why everyone has reverence for it and loves it, and would not take its life.

SUMMER SPINNERS

An angular spider weaves
Great webs between the trees,
Webs that are witches' sieves.
And honey- and bumble-bees
Go droning among the leaves
Like the fairies' oboës.

MADISON CAWEIN.

THE STORY OF ARACHNE

(GREEK MYTH)

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful Grecian maiden named Arachne, who could card and spin, weave and embroider with marvelous skill. She became so proud of her art that she boasted no one in the whole land could equal her.

So great was her fame that many traveled from afar to see the beautiful garments which she made. Whenever she sat at her loom a group of people stood near so that they might see her work in the making. Indeed, it is said, that even the nymphs left their haunts among streams and groves to behold the grace and ease with which this maiden worked.

One day a group of people stood watching Arachne at her loom. Their admiration knew no bounds. They looked at each other in astonishment.

"See how deftly she rolls the wool into soft fleecy balls," said one.

"And with what delicate grace she cards it," said another. "It is as light and fine as the mists of the morning. She is wonderful, indeed."

"Surely the maiden has more than human skill," added the first speaker. "I believe Minerva, the goddess of spinning and weaving, taught her how to throw that swift shuttle."

When Arachne heard these last words she stopped her work, tossed her head, and said haughtily, "I did not learn my art from Minerva, but I'm quite sure I can equal the goddess in skill."

"Hush!" cried one of the bystanders. "Those are rash words, indeed. No mortal can compare with the gods."

But Arachne's pride knew no bounds. She tossed her head again and said, "I'm willing at any time to match my skill with Minerva's. If she can prove herself to be my superior I'll bear any punishment she may name."

The people were very much frightened to hear the maiden boast in this manner. They slipped away to their homes in fear and dread.

A few days after this conversation happened Arachne was seated at her loom. As usual many who were interested stood watching her. Suddenly there appeared before her an aged woman leaning on a staff, who said, "Lo, I've come to give you advice which I have learned through the years. Beware of pride and boastfulness. True knowledge teaches humility. Seek for fame among mortals if you like, but never try to match your skill with Minerva's. Your proud boasting has offended the goddess. Ask humbly for her forgiveness and I believe she will pardon your rash words."

Arachne laughed scornfully and said, "Old woman, begone! I care not for your advice. If Minerva's skill is greater than mine let the goddess prove it by fair trial. Why does she not come herself to see me?"

Then a marvelous thing happened. In a twinkling the bent figure of the old woman changed to the shining form of the goddess Minerva. The nymphs who stood near bowed reverently and the people drew back in breathless awe.

"A contest in weaving shall begin at once," declared the goddess.

Arachne's face flushed and then grew pale but she was not daunted. In her foolish pride she felt sure of victory.

Minerva now commanded that two looms be set up. In a few moments this was done; then each took her place and made ready by tying the web to the beam.

Now began the famous contest. With rare grace and ease the goddess and the maiden threw their swift shuttles. Silently the skilled weavers worked until each web was finished. Then Arachne glanced at her rival's marvelous web. The maiden never had dreamed of a vision so beautiful. Her heart sank, for, in a moment, she knew how foolish she had been to match her skill with Minerva's. Poor Arachne could not bear the great blow to her pride. In her grief she hung her head. But quickly Minerva sprinkled the maiden's body with magic juices and said, "Boastful Arachne, thou art now changed into a spider. Thou and thy descendants shall spin through the ages to come."

And there hanging to a slender thread was the first spider.

HOW THE SPIDER MAKES ITS WEB[2]

C. WILLIAM BEEBE

Nature has provided spiders with an organ filled always with liquid which, on being exposed to the air, hardens, and can be drawn out into the slender threads we know as cobwebs. The silk-worm encases its body with a mile or more of gleaming silk, but there its usefulness is ended as far as the silkworm is concerned. But spiders have found a hundred uses for their cordage, some of which are startlingly similar to human inventions.

Those spiders which burrow in the earth hang their tunnels with silken tapestries impervious to wet, which, at the same time, act as lining to the tube. Then the entrance may be a trap-door of soil and silk, hinged with strong silken threads; or in the turret spiders, which are found in our fields, there is reared a tiny tower of leaves or twigs bound together with silk. Who of us has not teased the inmate by pushing a bent straw into his stronghold and awaiting his furious onslaught upon the innocent stalk!

Footnote 2:

From Beebe's _The Log of the Sun_, by permission of Henry Holt
Company.

A list of all the uses of cobwebs would take more space than we can spare; but of these the most familiar is the snare set for unwary flies,—the wonderfully ingenious webs which sparkle with dew among the grasses or stretch from bush to bush. The framework is of strong webbing and upon this is closely woven the sticky spiral which is so elastic, so ethereal, and yet strong enough to entangle a good-sized insect. How knowing seems the little worker, as when, the web and his dew of concealment being completed, he spins a strong cable from the center of the web to the entrance of his watch-tower. Then, when a trembling of his aerial spans warn him of a capture, how eagerly he seizes his master cable and jerks away in it, thus vibrating the whole structure and making more certain the confusion of his victim.

What is more interesting than to see a great yellow garden-spider, hanging head downwards in the center of his web, when we approach too closely, instead of deserting his snare, set it vibrating back and forth so rapidly that he becomes a mere blur; a more certain method of escaping the onslaught of a bird than if he ran to the shelter of a leaf.

Those spiders which leap upon their prey instead of setting snares for it have still a use for their thready life, throwing out a cable as they leap, to break their fall if they miss their foothold. What a strange use of the cobweb is that of the little flying spiders! Up they run to the top of a post, elevate their abdomens and run out several threads which lengthen and lengthen until the breeze catches them and away go the wingless aeronauts for yards or for miles as fortune and wind and weather may dictate! We wonder if they can cut loose or pull in their balloon cables at will.

Many species of spiders spin a case for holding their eggs, and some carry this about with them until the young are hatched.

A most fascinating tale would unfold could we discover all the uses of cobweb when the spiders themselves are through with it. Certain it is that our ruby-throated humming bird robs many webs to fasten together the plant down, wood pulp, and lichens which compose her dainty nest.

Search the pond and you will find another member of the spider family swimming about at ease beneath the surface, thoroughly aquatic in habits, but breathing a bubble of air which he carries about with him. When his supply is low he swims to a submarine castle of silk, so air-tight that he can keep it filled with a large bubble of air, upon which he draws from time to time.

And so we might go on enumerating almost endless uses for the web which is Nature's gifts to these little waifs, who ages ago left the sea and have won a place for themselves in the sunshine among the butterflies and flowers.

THE FAIRY SPINNER

(SOUTHERN TALE)

Many years ago there lived at a swamp's edge a tiny fairy who occupied her time in spinning, and made the most beautiful and delicate fabrics imaginable.

Her wheel whirled so fast that it was nothing but a blur such as a fly's wings make when he is tangled in a flower, and her spindle was the sting of a bumble-bee—her uncle—who had left it to her, for any good use in amends for a life so grouchy that none of the other creatures would have anything to do with him.

Still, one inhabitant of the swamp was worse than the bee, and the fairy was mightily disturbed when she discovered that he had taken up his abode in the very next bush. He was an enormous spider, big as a bird and hideously gorgeous with red, blue, and yellow. He took some pride in himself as a spinner, but when he saw the shining tissue that the fairy was weaving he realized that his own art was cheap and poor in comparison and he was jealous and determined to destroy her. She caught up her wheel and spindle and ran with the spider in pursuit. She asked the mouse for shelter, but he was afraid, and shut the door. She begged the toad to protect her, but he only ran out his tongue. Finally a fire-fly came along, with his lantern lit. He saw the fairy; he saw the spider, and, calling to the fairy to follow, he flew with her across the field, lighting the way, for it was now night. They soon reached a bush which bore a handsome pink blossom.

"Jump into the flower," commanded the fire-fly. Still clutching her wheel, the fairy put her last strength into a spring and alighted in the heart of the blossom. The spider was close upon her, but as he put his ugly claw on the lower petal to draw himself up after her, she gave him such a stab in the leg with her spindle that he lost his hold and fell to the ground. In another second the flower closed over the fairy, gathering its petals so tightly that the spider could not get in. He wove his web about it, believing that he would catch her when she ventured out in the morning. But when morning came she did not appear. The spider kept watch, but finally the petals dropped to the earth and when he saw no fairy he knew it was all up, so he bit his own body and died. But the fairy was not dead. She remained snuggled in the little ball that the plant put out behind the blossom and in a few days the ball opened and all the beautiful fabric she had been spinning while in hiding poured out in a tassel of snowy white. And men wove the threads to make garments for themselves, and they bless the fairy of the cotton plant and are glad when she escapes the weevil as well as the spider.

MOTHER SPIDER

FRANCES GILLESPY WICKES

It was a beautiful day in midsummer. The meadow was alive with busy little people astir in the bright sunlight. A long line of ants came crawling down the path carrying provisions to their home under the elm tree; and an old toad came hopping down through the grass, blinking in the warm sun. Just a little higher up the bees were droning drowsily as they flew from flower to flower; and above them all, seeming almost in the blue sky, a robin was calling to his mate.

Pretty soon Mrs. Spider came down the path. She seemed to be in a great hurry. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but kept straight ahead, holding tightly to a little white bag which she carried in her mouth. She was just rushing past Mr. Toad when a big black beetle came humping by, stumbled against Mrs. Spider, and knocked the bag out of her mouth.

In an instant Mrs. Spider pounced down upon him, and, though he was so much bigger than she, he tumbled over on his back. While he was trying to kick himself right side up once more, Mrs. Spider made a quick little dash, took up her bag, and scuttled off through the grass.

"Well, I never," said Grasshopper Green, who was playing see-saw on a blade of grass.

"No, nor I," grumbled Mr. Beetle, as he wriggled back to his feet. "I didn't want her bag. She needn't have made such a fuss."

"She must have had something very fine in that bag," said Grasshopper Green, "for she was so frightened when she dropped it. I wonder what it was"—and he balanced himself on his grass blade until a stray breeze blew him off, and then he straightway forgot about Mrs. Spider altogether.

Two weeks after this Grasshopper Green started out for a little exercise after breakfast. Just as he reached the edge of the brook he saw Mrs. Spider coming toward him. She was moving quite slowly, and no longer carried the little white bag. As she came nearer, he could see that she had something on her back.

"Good morning, neighbor," called Grasshopper Green. "May I help you carry your things?" "Thank you," she said, "but they wouldn't stay with you, even if they could stay on when you give such great jumps."

"They!" cried Grasshopper Green. And then, as he came nearer, he saw that the things on Mrs. Spider's back were wee little baby spiders.

"Aren't they pretty children?" she asked proudly. "I was so afraid that something would happen to my eggs that I never let go of the bag once, except when that stupid Mr. Beetle knocked it out of my mouth."

"Oh, ho," said Grasshopper Green, "so that was what frightened you so! Your bag was full of eggs! And, now, you are going to carry all these children on your back? Doesn't it tire you dreadfully?"

"I don't mind that a bit," said Mrs. Spider, "if only the children are well and safe. In a little while, you know, they will be able to run about by themselves, and then we shall be so happy here in the meadow grass. Oh, it's well worth the trouble, neighbor Grasshopper."

"Yes," said Grasshopper Green, "I have a dozen wee boys of my own at home; and that reminds me that it is time to go home to breakfast! Good-bye, neighbor. I hope the children will soon be running about with you. You certainly are taking good care of them. Good-bye."

Then home he went; and the proud, happy mother Spider kept on her way to hunt for a breakfast for the babies she loved so well.

IN BROOKS AND PONDS

THE BROOK

I chatter over stony ways
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among the skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

LEGEND OF THE WATER-LILY

One night, long, long ago when the Moon of Flowers shone softly on the prairie a group of Indian youths sitting in a circle on the grass were talking about the stars. One of the braves, a young chieftain, gazed intently toward the south. On a wooded hill back of his wigwam twinkled a star which was the brightest he had ever seen.

"Surely the star has a message for the Red Men. Who can read it?" the watchers asked each other.

Each night during the beautiful Moon of Flowers the star grew more and more radiant until its glorious light filled the southern sky, but not one of the Indian youths had been able to explain the meaning of the light.

One night after the Moon of Flowers had given her place in Sky Land to the Hot Moon the chief dreamed that a beautiful maiden stood by his side and said, "Young brave, how beautiful your world is when the Summer Queen reigns. Great stretches of prairie glisten with dandelions and red lilies; butterflies flit about in the sunlight; gentle breezes touch the forest leaves and they sing soft answers to the rapture of the birds; little children shout for joy in merry laughter. I long to live among you. Ask your wise men how I may become a part of this beauty, and how I may add to the children's happiness."

Then the young chief awakened. He sprang to his feet, called his braves together in the council-lodge and told them his dream.

"It's the message of the radiant star," they said. "Let us smoke the pipe of peace as a sign of our welcome."

Accordingly a band of young braves led by the chieftain climbed the wooded hill and smoked a pipe of peace filled with sweet-scented herbs. Then they stretched forth their hands towards the star and bade welcome to her. At the close of their ceremonies the light grew more luminous than ever before and the braves knew their welcome was understood. They walked back to the village and the star followed them all the way, and shone over their wigwams until daybreak.

At night the chief dreamed that the beautiful maiden stood again by his side. "I'm coming to dwell among your people," she said. "I'm wondering what form I shall take in order to add to the children's joy."

"They love to hear the birds sing," said the chief.

But the maiden shook her head. "I shall not live in the tree-tops," she answered.

"Choose your own way to live, Star-Maiden," said the chief.

"I shall live among you as a flower," she said. "Surely the children's hearts are gladdened by the blossoms of the earth."

"They are, indeed," declared the chief. "The mountain-rose is wondrously beautiful."

"Oh, but it is too far away from the children," sighed the maiden.

"The prairie dandelion makes our little ones clap their hands in glee," suggested the chief.

The maiden thought awhile; then she said, "The buffalo's hoof often crushes the prairie dandelion."

The chief was sorely puzzled. Finally he said, "You would be safe from harm if you should choose the rocky cliffs for your blooming place."

But the maiden said, "The children seldom climb the cliffs. I must live where the children can see me."

Suddenly her face brightened and she said, "I know! I know! I'll live in the clear streamlet and bloom on its surface. I shall feel soft breezes blow and hear the birds sing. In the branches which bend over me the warblers will build their nests. The children will play on the banks, and they will touch me with their little hands as they glide safely along in their canoes. Look for me in the streamlet."

Then the young brave awakened. He sprang up and walked to a clear stream which flowed near the Indian village. On the waters floated beautiful white blossoms with delicate waxen leaves. Hundreds of lovely water-lilies were waiting there to surprise the Indian children and bring added joy into their lives.

THE TALE OF TWO TAILS
MARY H. WILSON

"Taddypole and Pollywog
Lived together in a bog;
Here you see the very pool
Where they went to summer school.

"By and by—'tis true, though strange,
O'er them came a wondrous change;
Here you see them on a log,
Each a most decided Frog."

MOTHER'S PORTFOLIO.

The little pond behind the machine-shop was full of tadpoles—wee fellows—all head and tail. Jolliest of these were Taddypole and Pollywog, two little cousins, who spent their time in countless swimming matches or games of hide-and-seek among the stones which bordered the pond.

Barefooted boys and girls peeped over the edge of the water to watch the tadpoles darting hither and thither; then, with merry shouts, returned to their own play.

Taddy's and Pollie's round eyes watched them curiously. Sometimes when the landbabies waded in the shallow water these tiny water-babies played fearlessly around their feet, nibbling their toes or playing leapfrog over them.

So they passed merry days and when the twilight came, Taddy and Pollie were ready to listen to the band concert. This, unfortunately, was given on land, so the little tadpoles could not be present, but from the water they could catch glimpses of Father Frog booming away on his big bass drum, and hear the sweet chirping chorus of the tiny frog violinists in the marsh near by.

"Oh, Pollie," cried Tadpole, "if we could only go to the concert! Why, I'd be willing to give up hide-and-seek for a week just to get a little nearer to the music."

"I know," said Pollywog gloomily. "I want to go myself, the very worst kind of way. There's no use wishing, though, for we have no clothes that would be suitable. Only green silk dress suits with polka dots are worn this year. Besides, we can't stand it out of the water. It's too warm or something, I don't know just what, but I always feel half smothered if I try."

"Besides," reflected Taddy, "we haven't been invited. Only musicians are asked, and we can't sing, you know."

Splash! Ker-Chunk! Father Frog hopped into the water, then out again on a broad stone, where he began thundering a bass solo:

"Come along, come along,
Come along!"

"Oh, how I wish we could!" cried the little tadpoles, feeling that this was a personal invitation. They swam as close as possible to the stone, and gazed admiringly at the great singer.

"Could what?" grumbled Father Frog.

"Wish we could go to the concert."

"Ker-chug!" answered Father Frog.

It sounded very much like a hoarse chuckle. "Why don't you go?"

"No invitation."

"No dress suit."

"Can't breathe out of the water."

The tadpoles' voices were very mournful as they gave their reasons.

"I invite you," said Father Frog, "to the July concert three weeks from to-day. Your dress suits will be ready, and as far as breathing is concerned it's all practice. Would you believe it?" he said in a hoarse whisper, "I couldn't stay out of the water very well myself at one time, but I practised breathing every day, until now it is the easiest thing in the world. But speaking of practice making perfect reminds me I must rehearse my song for the concert.

"Come along, come along,
Come along!"

"Let's go down in the sand," whispered Pollie. "I can always think better down there; and, really, this is all so surprising I must think it over. Oh, Taddy, do you think we could truly go to the concert?"

Taddy swished his tail and dived down without answering, feeling this to be too much of a problem for a tadpole to decide.

"It's very strange," said Taddy a few days later; "it certainly seems as if we were getting legs—what use have tadpoles for them? We only need our strong tails for swimming."

"Taddy," cried Pollie, "there's something still stranger. Our tails are shrinking. If they don't stop they will disappear, and then what could we do?"

"Grr-nm, grr-nm!" sounded Father Frog's hoarse voice. "Getting ready for the concert, I see! Well, when you lose those ridiculous tails you will look much better."

"Lose them!" exclaimed the tadpoles; "and what do you think we could do without them?" But Father Frog had disappeared, leaving only the echo of his "Come along."

"I feel as if something strange were about to happen," said Pollie. "I'm tired of tag and hide-and-seek; let's think of some new game."

"We might practice breathing, as Father Frog advised," suggested Taddy; "let's go to the top of the water and see who can keep his head out the longer."

This new game interested the tadpoles very much, and in a week's time they began really to enjoy the air.

"I can stay out a long while now," announced Taddy triumphantly, "and since my front legs appeared I can jump quite high."

"Our tails are quite gone," said Pollie, "and I don't know but that it is an improvement. I think I like legs better than tails, and hopping is much more fun than swimming. Some day I mean to hop up on that wet stone where Father Frog sits so often. Wouldn't he be surprised to see me there?"

"What fun!" exclaimed Taddy. "Try it now. There, you did it! Oh, Pollie, how fine you look! Do you like it up there? I'm coming, too, Pollie. Hurrah!"

"Ho, ho!" chuckled Father Frog from the land. "Are you ready for the concert, little frogs?"

Taddy and Pollie looked at each other in astonishment.

"Are we frogs?" they cried.

"Why, yes."

"Oh, Taddy, and you have your green suit!"

"So have you, Pollie."

"Why, I shouldn't be surprised at anything now, not even if we could sing. Let's try," and both little frogs lifted up their voices and sang.

"Che-weep, che-weep, che-weep."

They looked so droll, and sang with such a funny chirp, that Father Frog fell off the bank splash into the water with laughter.

Taddy and Pollie didn't mind this in the least, for they were sure that Che-weep was the most beautiful song in the world.

And this is the way Taddypole and Pollywog lost their tails, and gained their voices in time for the July concert.

ORIGIN OF BULLFROGS

Once upon a time in a mountain valley there was a group of Indian lodges where the people dwelt very happily. It was an excellent place for a village. In the thick forests which covered the mountain slopes there was abundance of game, and through the valley flowed a sparkling clear brook fed by a full torrent and many slender rills which leaped down the wild mountain sides. So pure and delicious was the water from this stream that the Indians felt sure it was a gift to them from the Great Spirit.

Each day it was the custom for the Indian maidens to take their kettles to the brook and fill them with water. They were much surprised one summer morning to note that the stream was not so deep as usual.

"Is it because we have had little rain lately?" they asked each other.

They reported what they had noticed to the villagers who said, "Our brook will not fail us. The weather has been very dry of late; but soon we shall have plenty of rain which will swell the waters of our precious stream."

But, strange to say, the rain did not deepen the brook and when the Indians saw that the water was becoming shallower each day they were very much alarmed. One morning they found that the brook and the waters which fed it had entirely disappeared. With sad hearts they gazed at the bed of shining pebbles which marked the course of their beloved stream.

"Is the Great Spirit angry with us?" they whispered. "What have we done to make him take away our life-giving water?"

The chief called the men to the council lodge in order to determine the best thing to do.

Now it happened that the people of the happy village had often heard rumors of another group of Indians who lived higher up on the mountain. After much deliberation a wise man rose in the council lodge and said, "Let us send one of our fleet-footed braves on a journey to discover this village which we have heard about but whose people we know not. Perhaps they can tell him what has stopped the flow of waters. Let the runner follow the bed of the mountain stream which leaped most willingly to our precious brook."

Accordingly a swift runner was chosen to search for the other Indian village. He was advised to follow a trail which led to the source of the brook. It was a hazardous journey up the slippery path of the mountain slope which was covered with dense thickets of tangled underbrush and forest trees.

For three days the young brave pursued his task of climbing the mountain. At last he came to a small stretch of level plain and there he saw a group of wigwams. Back of the village the runner could see a clear stream of water whose course further down the mountain had been stopped by a large dam which checked the water and turned it into a great pond. Several Indians came out of their wigwams and gazed coldly at the stranger. Not a word of welcome did they give.

"Why have you done this mischief?" asked the runner, pointing to the dam. "Know you not that this stopping of the mountain brook has cut off the supply of water to us who live in the valley below?"