Chapter III: Part 3

“‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low:
“Yes, but ’twill soon be over.”
And, as she spoke, the sudden shower
Came, beating down the clover.

“I told you so!” cried angry Jo:
“It always is a-raining!”
Then hid her face in dire despair,
Lamenting and complaining.

But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,--
I tell it to her honor,--
Looked up and waited till the sun
Came streaming in upon her.

The broken clouds sailed off in crowds,
Across a sea of glory.
Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in--
Which ends my simple story.

Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,
The hopeful are the gladdest;
And doubt and dread, children, believe
Of all things are the saddest.

In morning’s light, let youth be bright;
Take in the sunshine tender;
Then, at the close, shall life’s decline
Be full of sunset splendor.

And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,
To shun all weak complaining;
And not, like Jo, cry out too soon--
“It always is a-raining!”

--MARY MAPES DODGE.

* * * * *

A kindly act is a kernel sown,
That will grow to a goodly tree,
Shedding its fruit when time has flown,
Down the gulf of eternity.

THE MAID OF ORLEANS

In the midst of those terrible times, during which for one hundred years England and France were at war, there was born in the little village of Domrémy a peasant girl, named Jeanne d’Arc. When she was old enough she used to tend her father’s sheep, and as she sat on the hillside, watching them day by day, she often looked out over the ruined houses and blackened fields and wondered if the English would ever come again to frighten her people and burn their peaceful homes. Her father, too, feared the same, and so taught his little daughter to ride a horse and to use simple weapons.

Later she heard that the dreaded English were back in France, not in her own village, but besieging the brave town of Orleans. News came that the Dauphin, who was now governing France, dared not go to Rheims to be crowned, because the English troops held the place. One day as Jeanne sat musing over all these rumors, wishing that she were a man so that she might go and fight for her country, she saw a vision and heard voices bidding her leave her home and deliver the Dauphin from his enemies, so that he might be crowned king. So loudly and so plainly did she hear these voices that she felt she must go to the French court at once. She was so poor that she thought at first that she must go afoot, but some kind neighbors gave her a horse. Then she put on men’s clothing, instead of her coarse red dress, cut off her long black hair, and rode bravely off alone.

The journey was long and perilous, for the country was still full of robbers and free lances, but when it was over she found that her troubles had only begun. The nobles met her strange story with laughter and scorn, and refused to let her see the king. But finally her sweetness and gentle manner prevailed, and she was led into the presence of her sovereign. The story runs that the king, to test her, had put on the simple robe of a courtier, and stood among the rest of the nobles when Jeanne entered. But Jeanne went to him, without hesitation, saluted, and said:--

“In God’s name, it is you, sire, and none other.”

There she stood, a simple shepherd lass, who could neither read nor write, before a roomful of men of noble birth; but she was not afraid, for she brought with her the faith that she was to save France. Gradually, her soft voice, ringing with enthusiasm and loyalty, aroused the king and his lords, and he granted Jeanne her request--she was to go and relieve Orleans.

He gave her a big horse and pure white armor, and she herself sent for a sword having five crosses on the blade, that she had seen in a dream lying behind an altar in a certain church.

But at Orleans the people who were defending the city mistrusted her. They tried to hide their plans from her, and made a secret attack in the night on the enemy. But the shouts of war woke her from her sleep. She hastily called for her horse and galloped into the midst of the fight. The soldiers cheered her wildly, and now even the unwilling captains were forced to listen to her. In the days that followed, Jeanne, though twice wounded, was always at the front, urging on the French and terrifying the English, who took her for a witch. She entered Orleans on Friday, and a week from the following Sunday the English had turned their backs forever on the city.

Jeanne did not linger to enjoy her triumph. Amid the tears of joy and the cheering of the people, she rode out of the city the next day to perform the rest of her task,--to crown the Dauphin king of France. From far and near people came to see her, and a large army sprang up around her and the king, eager to march towards Rheims. Still the court delayed, for the nobles were jealous of Jeanne’s glory, but she was firm in her faith and the people were with her.

The French first attacked the English who were holding Troyes. After a six days’ siege the king was discouraged, for the food was growing very scarce, but Jeanne begged him to hold out two days longer. When he agreed, she mounted her horse and led the attack against the town. The English, in terror, opened their gates before the assault began. Thus the last difficulty was surmounted and the army marched safely to Rheims. Here the king was crowned in the big cathedral, the brave young peasant girl standing by his side.

Jeanne was now ready to go back to her father and mother, and the tending of her sheep, but the voices still called her to drive the English from the land. She stayed with the king and army, trying to hasten an attack on the English. But the indolent king, listening to idle tales from his jealous nobles, forgot all Jeanne had done for him and France, and began to believe that she was a witch. At last Jeanne was captured by the enemy. The English believed her to be a witch and tried her for sorcery. The French king made no effort to ransom her, and she was condemned to be burned at the stake. The sentence was carried out, and thus the poor peasant girl gave up her life for the ungrateful country she had saved from ruin.

--MAUDE BARROW DUTTON.

_From “Little Stories of France,” by permission of the American Book Company._

BIRDS

Birds--birds, ye are beautiful things,
With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;
Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,
Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;
Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;
Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,
And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.

Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;
Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;
Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;
Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around
When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;
Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,
And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.

--ELIZA COOK.

THE OWL

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round;
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

IKTOMI AND THE COYOTE

Afar off upon a large level land, a summer sun was shining bright. Here and there over the rolling green were tall bunches of coarse gray weeds. Iktomi in his fringed buckskins walked alone across the prairie with a black bare head glossy in the sunlight. He walked through the grass without following any well-worn footpath.

From one large bunch of coarse weeds to another he wound his way about the great plain. He lifted his foot lightly and placed it gently forward like a wildcat prowling noiselessly through the thick grass. He stopped a few steps away from a very large bunch of wild sage. From shoulder to shoulder he tilted his head. Still farther he bent from side to side. Far forward he stooped, stretching his long thin neck like a duck, to see what lay under a fur coat beyond the bunch of coarse grass.

A sleek gray-faced prairie wolf! his pointed black nose tucked in between his four feet drawn snugly together; his handsome bushy tail wound over his nose and feet; a coyote fast asleep in the shadow of a bunch of grass!--this is what Iktomi spied. Carefully he raised one foot and cautiously reached out with his toes. Gently, gently he lifted the foot behind and placed it before the other. Thus he came nearer and nearer to the round fur ball lying motionless under the sage grass.

Now Iktomi stood beside it, looking at the closed eyelids that did not quiver the least bit. Pressing his lips into straight lines and nodding his head slowly, he bent over the wolf. He held his ear close to the coyote’s nose, but not a breath of air stirred from it.

“Dead!” said he at last. “Dead, but not long since he ran over these plains! See! there in his paw is caught a fresh feather. He is nice fat meat!” Taking hold of the paw with the bird feather fast on it, he exclaimed, “Why, he is still warm! I’ll carry him to my dwelling and have a roast for my evening meal. Ah-ha!” he laughed, as he seized the coyote by its two fore paws and its two hind feet and swung him overhead across his shoulders. The wolf was large and the teepee was far across the prairie. Iktomi trudged along with his burden, smacking his hungry lips together. He blinked his eyes hard to keep out the salty perspiration streaming down his face.

All the while the coyote on his back lay gazing into the sky with wide-open eyes. His long white teeth fairly gleamed as he smiled and smiled.

“To ride on one’s own feet is tiresome, but to be carried like a warrior from a brave fight is great fun!” said the coyote in his heart. He had never been borne on any one’s back before and the new experience delighted him. He lay there lazily on Iktomi’s shoulders, now and then blinking blue winks. Did you never see a bird blink a blue wink? This is how it first became a saying among the plains people. When a bird stands aloof watching your strange ways, a thin bluish white tissue slips quickly over his eyes and as quickly off again; so quick that you think it was only a mysterious blue wink. Sometimes when children grow drowsy they blink blue winks, while others who are too proud to look with friendly eyes upon people blink in this cold bird-manner.

The coyote was affected by both sleepiness and pride. His winks were almost as blue as the sky. In the midst of his new pleasure the swaying motion ceased. Iktomi had reached his dwelling-place. The coyote felt drowsy no longer, for in the next instant he was slipping out of Iktomi’s hands. He was falling, falling through space, and then he struck the ground with such a bump he did not wish to breathe for a while. He wondered what Iktomi would do, so he lay still where he fell. Humming a dance-song, Iktomi hopped and darted about at an imaginary dance and feast. He gathered dry willow sticks and broke them in two against his knee. He built a large fire out-of-doors.

The flames leaped up high in red and yellow streaks. Now Iktomi returned to the coyote, who had been looking on through his eyelashes.

Taking him again by his paws and hind feet, he swung him to and fro. Then as the wolf swung towards the red flames, Iktomi let him go. Once again the coyote fell through space. Hot air smote his nostrils. He saw red dancing fire, and now he struck a bed of crackling embers. With a quick turn he leaped out of the flames. From his heels were scattered a shower of red coals upon Iktomi’s bare arms and shoulders. Dumfounded, Iktomi thought he saw a spirit walk out of his fire. His jaws fell apart. He thrust a palm to his face, hard over his mouth! He could scarce keep from shrieking.

Rolling over and over on the grass and rubbing the sides of his head against the ground, the coyote soon put out the fire on his fur. Iktomi’s eyes were almost ready to jump out of his head as he stood cooling a burn on his brown arm with his breath.

Sitting on his haunches, on the opposite side of the fire from where Iktomi stood, the coyote began to laugh at him. “Another day, my friend, do not take too much for granted. Make sure the enemy is stone dead before you make a fire!”

Then off he ran so swiftly that his long bushy tail hung out in a straight line with his back.

--ZITKALA-S̈A.

_From “Old Indian Legends,” by permission of Ginn and Company._

GOLDEN-ROD

Spring is the morning of the year,
And summer is the noontide bright;
The autumn is the evening clear
That comes before the winter’s night,

And in the evening, everywhere
Along the roadside, up and down,
I see the golden torches flare
Like lighted street lamps in the town.

I think the butterfly and bee,
From distant meadows coming back,
Are quite contented when they see
These lamps along the homeward track.

But those who stay too late get lost;
For when the darkness falls about,
Down every lighted street the Frost
Will go and put the torches out!

--FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

_By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._

NOVEMBER

November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;
The morning’s snow is gone by night;
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep
When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of “good-night”;
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”

November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;
Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”

--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

SIR EDWIN LANDSEER

In the great South Kensington Museum in England there are many beautiful pictures, painted by famous artists. In one corner there is a little lead-pencil sketch of a donkey’s head, and visitors to the gallery used to ask the guide how it came there. The old man would point to the name below the sketch and say, “Why, that is Sir Edwin Landseer’s, and done when he was only five years old.” This is true, for the little drawing is marked, “E. Landseer, five years old.”

The little boy who did such wonderful work lived in a happy home in the great city of London. Not far from his home was a beautiful field called Hampstead Heath, and it was on this delightful playground that Edwin and his older brothers spent some of the happiest hours of their lives. While the others were burying each other in the grass, riding the old horse, or romping with the dogs, little curly-headed Edwin would be sitting under a tree, trying to make pictures. Sometimes his sister would sit by his side and watch the pencil as his baby fingers guided it. Very soon she would see a horse’s head on the paper and would recognize their own old Dobbin. “How good it is!” she would exclaim, “What a famous little artist you are!”

Edwin learned some wonderful lessons on Hampstead Heath. When he would beg to be taught to draw, his father would say: “Study things as God has made them, my boy. Your own eyes must be your first teachers.”

Of course the little boy was sent to school. He loved to read, but did not like to study. Sometimes his teacher would see him with his eyes shut and his hand moving on the desk. He was thinking of a picture. Drawing was not taught in the schools in those days and boys were punished if they were caught drawing pictures during school hours; so Edwin often ran away from his teachers, and they would find him in a quiet corner, with his slate, drawing the picture of some animal.

Wherever animals were to be seen in London, there Edwin was to be found. He generally carried his sketch book with him, and pictured the animals eating, walking about, asleep, or at play. Sometimes he would go to the London Zoölogical Gardens, and after he had watched the wild beasts for hours he would come away with many sketches. There was also a great market in London where wild animals were to be seen, and the boy, who was generally followed by two or more dogs, became very familiar to the people who came to the market.

When he was old enough Edwin was sent to the Artists’ Academy in London. He was a great favorite in the school, and one famous artist always called him the “Dog-boy.” He was very happy here and for the next few years devoted his time to the study of animals and how to paint them.

After a time Landseer had so many pictures, and wished to keep so many dogs, sheep, and deer, that it seemed necessary that he should have a home of his own where he could receive his friends. A pretty little cottage in St. John’s Wood near London was found to be just the place he desired. There was an old-fashioned garden filled with large trees and beautiful flowers. The new home was named “Maida Vale,” in honor of Sir Walter Scott’s favorite dog.

An old barn was fitted up for a studio, which was soon made beautiful with pictures of all kinds of animals. There were graceful greyhounds, kind-faced sheep dogs, faithful terriers, soft rabbits, cunning kittens, spirited race horses, and fleet-footed deer. The pictures looked so real that a witty friend of the artist used to call out before he entered the studio, “Landseer, keep your dogs off me; I want to come in.” On another occasion this same friend said, “O, give me a pin to take the thorn out of that dog’s foot! See what pain he is suffering!”

Everybody wished to visit this delightful studio, and meet the great painter who was so kind and witty, who loved flowers and children so well, and who had so many interesting friends around him. His visitors were astonished at his great power in training dogs, and gaining their love. When asked the secret, he would smile and say, “I just peep into their hearts.” One day he was entertaining some friends at Maida Vale when the door was pushed open and four great dogs bounded in. One lady was frightened, and as a fierce-looking dog ran past her and put his nose in Landseer’s hand, she said, “How fond of you that dog is!” “Yes,” said the artist, quietly, “but I never saw this dog before in my life.”

Landseer was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he often visited at his home. How he loved the wild scenery and the tender-hearted fearless people of that North Country! How he loved to climb the mountains and watch the shy, beautiful deer as they bounded over the crags! No artist ever painted deer like Landseer.

One day when he was at work in his studio, Landseer was told that Queen Victoria was riding up the garden path. He went to meet her, and she told him she wished him to see her mounted on her horse, so that he might paint her picture. She invited him to be her guest, and he painted a great many pictures of her children and their pets. In 1850, the Queen decided to confer on him the honor of knighthood; so the artist, who was now known all over the world, became Sir Edwin Landseer.

After this he received many great honors. He spent the last years of a happy, busy life in the pretty Maida Vale cottage. As he grew old he talked about his “worn-out, old pencil,” and complained that drawing tired him. It was a trial for him to give up his work, and his eyes were often sad as he looked at his beautiful pictures.

Landseer died in 1873, and was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in London. Copies of his pictures are in every land and in almost every home. He will always be remembered as a lover of animals as well as a great artist.

--SELECTED.

THE TWO CHURCH BUILDERS

A famous king would build a church,
A temple vast and grand;
And, that the praise might be his own,
He gave a strict command
That none should add the smallest gift
To aid the work he planned.

And when the mighty dome was done,
Within the noble frame,
Upon a tablet broad and fair,
In letters all aflame
With burnished gold, the people read
The royal builder’s name.

Now when the king, elate with pride,
That night had sought his bed,
He dreamed he saw an angel come
(A halo round his head),
Erase the royal name, and write
Another in its stead.

What could it mean? Three times that night
That wondrous vision came;
Three times he saw that angel hand
Erase the royal name,
And write a woman’s in its stead,
In letters all aflame.

Whose could it be? He gave command
To all about his throne
To seek the owner of the name
That on the tablet shone;
And so it was the courtiers found
A widow poor and lone.

The king, enraged at what he heard,
Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”
And to the woman, trembling sore,
He said, “’Tis very clear
That you have broken my command;
Now, let the truth appear!”

“Your Majesty,” the widow said,
“I can’t deny the truth;
I love the Lord--my Lord and yours--
And so, in simple sooth,
I broke Your Majesty’s command
(I crave your royal ruth),

“And since I had no money, sire,
Why, I could only pray
That God would bless Your Majesty;
And when along the way
The horses drew the stones, I gave
To one a wisp of hay.”

“Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed:
“Self-glory was my aim;
The woman gave for love of God,
And not for worldly fame.
’Tis my command the tablet bear
The pious widow’s name.”

--JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

* * * * *

Teach me to feel another’s woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

HOW SIEGFRIED MADE THE SWORD

In Saxon land there once lived a young prince named Siegfried. His father, who was renowned for his wisdom and good deeds, was king of a rich and happy country that reached to the great North Sea. His mother, the gentle queen, was beloved by all, both high and low, for her goodness of heart and her kindly charity to all who were in distress. Both the king and the queen left nothing undone to fit the young prince for a happy and useful life. They chose for him the best and wisest teachers; every day they saw that something was added to his store of knowledge and his stock of happiness. As he grew in stature it was their concern that he should grow in skill and strength also. No other youth of his age could run more swiftly or ride more easily; no other youth could shoot the arrow with surer aim or throw the spear with greater force.

But the wise old king knew that a good man’s life consisted of more than learning lessons and playing games. “All work is noble,” said he to Siegfried; “he who yearns to win fame must not shun toil. Even princes should learn how to earn their bread by the labor of their hands.” So the king sent his son to live with a smith called Mimer, that he might learn the smith’s trade and hear his words of wisdom.

This Mimer had built his smithy among the hills by the edge of a great forest. On the side of one of the hills overlooking the forest there was a fountain in which skill and wisdom lay hidden. By drinking daily at this fountain as the sun was rising, Mimer had become the most skilful of smiths and the wisest of men.

Siegfried had now to lay aside his courtly garments and put on a coarse blouse and leathern apron; for the dainties of a king’s table he had to exchange the humble fare of a smith’s apprentice. But he did not complain. His days were mirthful and happy; the sound of his hammer echoed musically among the hills, and the sparks from his forge flew like showers of stars from morn till night. He took such delight in his work that he soon became the cleverest workman in the smithy except Mimer himself. He could twist the links of the heaviest chains and fashion the most delicate ornaments of steel.

One morning the apprentices saw that their master wore a troubled look. He told them that Amilias, the chief smith in another land, had made a coat of armor which he boasted that neither sword could pierce, nor spear could scratch, and he had sent a challenge to the chief smiths of all other lands to equal his workmanship, or acknowledge him as their master. He had been toiling all the day and night to forge a sword that would pierce the armor, but he had failed. He asked, “Is there any one here skilful enough to forge such a sword?”

All the apprentices shook their heads. But Siegfried spoke up: “Give me leave; I shall try to forge the sword that shall cut the armor of Amilias.” All the others laughed at him in scorn, but Mimer said to them, “Let us see what he can do; if he fail, I shall make him repent his pride.”

Siegfried went to his task. For seven days the sparks flew from his anvil. On the eighth day the sword was tempered and he brought it to Mimer. “This seems, indeed,” said Mimer, “a fair edge. Let us try its keenness.” Then he threw a thread upon the water, and as it lay there he struck it with the sword. The blade passed through the thread without disturbing the ends or the surface of the water. “Well done, lad!” exclaimed the smith; “never have I seen a keener edge.”

But Siegfried said to himself, “I can make a better sword than that, and there yet is time.” So for three days more he welded it in a white hot fire and tempered it in buttermilk and oatmeal. Then in sight of Mimer and the apprentices he threw a ball of wool upon the water, and whirling the blade in air brought it down upon the ball and parted it clean in two without moving a thread out of place.

Still there was time, and back to his corner of the smithy went Siegfried again. His hammer rang with a cheerier sound than ever. For seven weeks he worked at the forge, and at last, pale but smiling, he stood before Mimer with the finished gleaming sword. Mimer looked at the edge which gleamed like a ray of light, but he said nothing, and seemed lost in thought. Then Siegfried, taking the weapon in his own hand, swung the blade high over his head, and brought it down upon the anvil. The huge iron block was divided in two. Then to the brook they went, and throwing a fleece of wool upon the water the sword stroke separated it as easily as the ball had been cut before. “With that sword,” cried Mimer, “I shall not fear to meet Amilias.”

Heralds were sent abroad through the two kingdoms to proclaim the day when the test would be made. Other kings heard of the contest and came with their retinues of warriors to witness the trial. There were four kings with their queens and many fair ladies and courtly knights in armor. Multitudes gathered to the height of land that separated the kingdoms.

When everything was ready, Amilias clad in the coat of armor went to the top of the hill and sat upon a great rock, where he was in full sight of all the people. He smiled to see Mimer toiling up the steep hill with that slight sword by his side; the countrymen of Amilias gave a shout of triumph, so sure were they of their champion’s success. But Mimer’s countrymen waited in breathless silence. They had faith in Mimer, but they greatly feared. Only Siegfried’s father seemed confident. He whispered to his queen, “Wisdom and skill are stronger than steel.”

When Mimer reached the top of the hill, he paused a moment to take breath and to cast a glance on the crowds below.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” answered Amilias, with a composed smile, so little did he fear; “strike your strongest!”

Mimer swung the gleaming blade,--for a moment the lightning seemed to play around his head, and then descending, it made a sweep through the air from right to left. The spectators thought to hear the clash of steel, but no sound came to their ears save a hiss like that which a hot poker would make in a bucket of water.

“Stand!” cried Mimer.

Amilias began to obey when, lo! he fell in halves, for the sword had cut through the war coat and the body incased within. One half rolled down the steep hill and fell into the river, fathoms deep, where for many a day, when the water was clear, it could be seen lying among the gravel and rocks.

The king was right: wisdom and skill had proved themselves stronger than steel.

--SELECTED.

* * * * *

He who has a thousand friends,
Has not a friend to spare;
But he who has one enemy,
Will meet him everywhere.

GRASS AND ROSES

I looked where the roses were blooming,
They stood among grasses and weeds:
I said, “Where such beauties are growing,
Why suffer these paltry weeds?”

Weeping, the poor things faltered:
“We have neither beauty nor bloom,
We are grass in the roses’ garden,
But the Master gives us room.

“Slaves of a generous master,
Born from a world above,
We came to this place in His wisdom,
We stay to this hour from His love.

“We have fed His humblest creatures,
We have served Him truly and long;
He gave no grace to our features,
We have neither color nor song.

“Yet He who has made the flowers
Placed _us_ on the selfsame sod;
_He_ knows our reason for being,--
We are grass in the garden of God.”

--JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

THE WOUNDED CURLEW

By yonder sandy cove where, every day,
The tide flows in and out,
A lonely bird in sober brown and gray
Limps patiently about;

And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,
And many a fringing weed,
He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,
Crying, with none to heed.

But sometimes from the distance he can hear
His comrades’ swift reply;
Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,
Sounding from sea and sky.

And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet,
Is shaken with his pain,
For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,
Never to soar again.

Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,
Once glad and blithe and free,
And in prison limits frets and strives
His ancient self to be.

The little sandpipers about him play,
The shining waves they skim,
Or round his feet they seek their food and stay
As if to comfort him.

My pity cannot help him, though his plaint
Brings tears of wistfulness;
Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,
None may his wrong redress.

Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better way
A moment’s joy to gain
Than to make sorrow that must mar the day
With such despairing pain?

Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone!
Oh, listen to my words,
And hear with me the wounded curlew moan--
Have mercy on the birds!

--CELIA THAXTER.

THE GOLD AND SILVER SHIELD

In the olden times a British prince set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, at a point where four roads met. In her right hand she held a spear, and her left rested upon a shield. The outside of this shield was of gold, and the inside of silver, and on each side was an inscription.

It happened one day that two knights--one in black armor, the other in white--arrived at the same time, but from opposite directions, at the statue. As neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to examine the beautiful workmanship and read the inscription.

“This golden shield,” said the Black Knight, after examining it for some time,--”this golden shield--”

“Golden shield!” cried the White Knight, who was as closely observing the other side; “why, if I have my eyes, it is silver.”

“Eyes you have, but they see not,” replied the Black Knight; “for if ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one.”

“Oh, yes, it is so likely that any one would expose a golden shield on the public road!” said the White Knight, with a sarcastic smile. “For my part I wonder that even a silver one is not too strong a temptation for some people who pass this way.”

The Black Knight could not bear the sarcastic smile with which this was spoken, and the dispute grew so warm that it ended in a challenge.

The knights turned their horses, and rode back to have sufficient space; then fixing their lances in their rests, they charged at each other with the greatest fury. The shock was so violent, and the blows on each side were so heavy, that they both fell to the ground, bleeding and stunned.

In this condition a good Druid who was travelling that way found them. He was a skilful physician, and had with him a balsam of wonderful healing power. This he applied to their wounds, and when the knights had recovered their senses, he began to inquire into the cause of their quarrel.

“Why, this man,” cried the Black Knight, “will have it that yonder shield is silver!”

“And he will have it that it is gold!” cried the White Knight.

“Ah,” said the Druid, with a sigh, “you are both in the right, and both in the wrong. If either of you had taken time to look at both sides of the shield, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoided.

“However, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils that have befallen you. In the future, never enter into any dispute till you have fairly considered both sides of the question.”--SELECTED.

THE WHITE-THROAT SPARROW

From the leafy maple ridges,
From the thickets of the cedar,
From the alders by the river,
From the bending willow branches,
From the hollows and the hillsides,
Through the lone Canadian forest,
Comes the melancholy music,
Oft repeated,--never changing,--
“All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”

Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,
Sowing seed with hope of harvest,
In the orchard white with blossom,
In the early field of clover,
Comes the little brown-clad singer
Flitting in and out of bushes,
Hiding well behind the fences,
Piping forth his song of sadness,--
“Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”

--SIR JAMES D. EDGAR.

THE SANDPIPER

Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,--
One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud black and swift across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white lighthouses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,--
One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.
He starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong;
He scans me with a fearless eye.
Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky:
For are we not God’s children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

--CELIA THAXTER.

* * * * *

A kind face is a beautiful face.

CRŒSUS

Some thousands of years ago there lived in Asia a king whose name was Crœsus. The country over which he ruled was not very large, but its people were prosperous and famed for their wealth. Crœsus himself was said to be the richest man in the world; and so well known is his name that, to this day, it is not uncommon to say of a very wealthy person that he is “as rich as Crœsus.”

King Crœsus had everything that could make him happy--lands and houses and slaves, fine clothing to wear, and beautiful things to look at. He could not think of anything that he needed to make him more comfortable or contented. “I am the happiest man in the world,” he said.

It happened one summer that a great man from across the sea was travelling in Asia. The name of this man was Solon, and he was the lawmaker of Athens in Greece. He was noted for his wisdom; and, centuries after his death, the highest praise that could be given to a learned man was to say, “He is as wise as Solon.”

Solon had heard of Crœsus, and so one day he visited him in his beautiful palace. Crœsus was now happier and prouder than ever before, for the wisest man in the world was his guest. He led Solon through his palace and showed him the grand rooms, the fine carpets, the soft couches, the rich furniture, the pictures, the books. Then he invited him out to see his gardens and his orchards and his stables; and he showed him thousands of rare and beautiful things that he had collected from all parts of the world.

In the evening as the wisest of men and the richest of men were dining together, the king said to his guest, “Tell me now, O Solon, who do you think is the happiest of all men?” He expected that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

The wise man was silent for a minute, and then he said, “I have in mind a poor man who once lived in Athens and whose name was Tellus. He, I doubt not, is the happiest of all men.”

This was not the answer that Crœsus wished; but he hid his disappointment and asked, “Why do you think so?”

“Because,” answered his guest, “Tellus was an honest man who labored hard for many years to bring up his children and to give them a good education; and when they were grown and able to do for themselves, he joined the Athenian army and gave his life bravely in the defence of his country. Can you think of any one who is more deserving of happiness?”

“Perhaps not,” answered Crœsus, half choking with disappointment. “But who do you think ranks next to Tellus in happiness?” He was quite sure now that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

“I have in mind,” said Solon, “two young men whom I knew in Greece. Their father died when they were mere children, and they were very poor. But they worked manfully to keep the house together and to support their mother, who was in feeble health. Year after year they toiled, nor thought of anything but their mother’s comfort. When at length she died, they gave all their love to Athens, their native city, and nobly served her as long as they lived.”

Then Crœsus was angry. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you make me of no account and think that my wealth and power are nothing? Why is it that you place these poor working people above the richest king in the world?”

“O king,” said Solon, “no man can say whether you are happy or not until you die. For no man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.”

Many years after this there arose in Asia a powerful king whose name was Cyrus. At the head of a great army he marched from one country to another, overthrowing many a kingdom and attaching it to his great empire of Babylon. King Crœsus with all his wealth was not able to stand against this mighty warrior. He resisted as long as he could. Then his city was taken, his beautiful palace was burned, his orchards and gardens were destroyed, his treasures were carried away, and he himself was made prisoner.

“The stubbornness of this man Crœsus,” said King Cyrus, “has caused us much trouble and the loss of many good soldiers. Take him and make an example of him for other petty kings who may dare to stand in our way.”

Thereupon the soldiers seized Crœsus and dragged him to the market-place, handling him roughly all the time. Then they built up a great pile of dry sticks and timber taken from the ruins of his once beautiful palace. When this was finished, they tied the unhappy king in the midst of it, and one ran for a torch to set it on fire.

“Now we shall have a merry blaze,” said the savage fellows. “What good can all his wealth do him now?”

As poor Crœsus, bruised and bleeding, lay upon the pyre without a friend to soothe his misery, he thought of the words which Solon had spoken to him years before: “No man can say whether you are happy or not until you die,” and he moaned, “O Solon! O Solon! Solon!”

It so happened that Cyrus was riding by at that very moment and heard his moans. “What does he say?” he asked of the soldiers.

“He says, ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’” answered one.

Then the king rode nearer and asked Crœsus, “Why do you call on the name of Solon?”

Crœsus was silent at first; but after Cyrus had repeated his question kindly, he told all about Solon’s visit at his palace and what he had said.

The story affected Cyrus deeply. He thought of the words, “No man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.” And he wondered if some time he, too, would lose all his power and be helpless in the hands of his enemies.

“After all,” said he, “ought not men to be merciful and kind to those who are in distress? I shall do to Crœsus as I would have others do to me.” And he caused Crœsus to be given his freedom; and ever afterwards treated him as one of his most honored friends.

--JAMES BALDWIN.

_From “Thirty More Famous Stories,” by permission of the American Book Company._

THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--You may trace his
footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s
withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant
green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down
to earth.

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--from the frozen
Labrador--
From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear
wanders o’er,
Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless
forms below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues
grow!

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the rushing Northern
blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went
past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla
glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--and the quiet lake
shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s
heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the
leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us meet him as we
may,
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;
And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing
goes by!

--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

A SONG OF THE SLEIGH

Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snow
When moonbeams sparkle round;
When hoofs keep time to music’s chime,
As merrily on we bound.

On a winter’s night, when hearts are light,
And health is on the wind,
We loose the rein and sweep the plain,
And leave our cares behind.

With a laugh and song we glide along
Across the fleeting snow!
With friends beside, how swift we ride
On the beautiful track below!

Oh, the raging sea has joys for me,
When gale and tempests roar;
But give me the speed of a foaming steed,
And I’ll ask for the waves no more.

--JAMES T. FIELDS.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER

Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.

“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half an hour.”

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’s _such_ a goose, Martha!”

“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her.

“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”

“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”

“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.

“Hide, Martha, hide!”

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs supported by an iron frame!

“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.

“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”

Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the kettle.

“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.

“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire. Then Master Peter and the two young Cratchits went to bring the goose, with which they soon returned in high glee.

Such excitement followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy, ready beforehand in a little saucepan, hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table.

The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves. Then climbing into their chairs, they held their fingers over their lips, lest they should call for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. When she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, and size were wonderful to think of. With apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was enough dinner for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight, looking at one small bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten all of it yet. But every one had had enough, even the youngest Cratchits. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have climbed over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose! The two young Cratchits almost went black in the face when they thought of what might have happened.

Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the kettle. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a baker’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, and decked with Christmas holly. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said it was the best pudding he had ever seen. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.