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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pearl Story Book, by Various.
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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pearl Story Book, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Pearl Story Book
Stories and Legends of Winter, Christmas, and New Year's Day
Author: Various
Release Date: December 6, 2010 [EBook #34571]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEARL STORY BOOK ***
Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
</pre>
<h1 class="padtop">THE<br />
PEARL STORY BOOK<br />
<span class="tinyfont"><i>Stories and Legends of
Winter, Christmas, and New Year’s Day</i></span></h1>
<p class="center padtop"><span class="vsmlfont">COMPILED BY</span><br />
<br />
<span class="lrgfont">ADA M. SKINNER</span><br />
<span class="vsmlfont">AND</span><br />
<span class="lrgfont">ELEANOR L. SKINNER</span></p>
<p class="center smlfont"><i>Editors of “The Emerald Story Book,” “The Topaz Story Book,”<br />
“The Turquoise Story Book,” “Children’s Plays,” Etc.</i></p>
<div class="figcenter padtop imgw1">
<img src="images/psb01.jpg" width="125" height="174"
alt="Publisher's logo" />
</div>
<p class="center padtop"><span class="smlfont">NEW YORK</span><br />
DUFFIELD & COMPANY<br />
<span class="smlfont">1919</span></p>
<p class="center vsmlfont padtop padbase">Copyright 1910 by<br />
DUFFIELD & COMPANY</p>
<div class="figcenter imgw2">
<img src="images/psb02.jpg" width="390" height="590"
alt="Three shepherds look up at the sky, amazed" />
<p class="caption">Drawn by Maxfield Parrish</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="acknowledgments" id="acknowledgments"></a>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h2>
<p>The editors’ thanks are due to the following
authors and publishers for the use of valuable
material in this book:</p>
<p>To T. C. and E. C. Jack of Edinburgh for
permission to use “Holly” and the legend of
the “Yew” from “Shown to the Children
Series”; to Frederick A. Stokes Company for
“The Voice of the Pine Trees,” from “Myths
and Legends of Japan”; to the Wessels Company
for “The First Winter” by W. W. Canfield;
to Julia Dodge for permission to use two
poems by Mary Mapes Dodge; to the Christian
Herald for a poem by Margaret E.
Sangster, Jr.; to Lothrop, Lee and Shepherd
for “The Pine and the Flax” by Albrekt Segerstedt;
to the Outlook Company for a story
by Mine Morishima; to the Independent for
the poem “Who Loves the Trees Best?”; to
Laura E. Richards for her story “Christmas
Gifts”; to George Putnam and Sons for “Silver
Bells” by Hamish Hendry, and “The
Happy Prince” by Oscar Wilde; to the
Churchman for a story by John P. Peters; to
Dodd, Mead and Company for the story
“Holly” from the “Story Hour”; and “Prince
Winter” from “The Four Seasons” by Carl
Ewald; to George Jacobs for “A Legend of
St. Nicholas” from “In God’s Garden” by
Amy Steedman; to A. Flanagan Company for
“The New Year’s Bell” from “Christ-Child
Tales” by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot; to Jay T.
Stocking and the Pilgrims Press for “The
Snowball That Didn’t Melt” from “The Golden
Goblet”; to the New York State Museum
for permission to use two stories contained in
Bulletin 125, by Mrs. H. M. Converse; to
Small, Maynard and Company for “A Song
of the Snow,” from “Complete Works of
Madison Cawein.”</p>
<p>The selections from James Russell Lowell,
Edna Dean Proctor, Celia Thaxter, Nathaniel
Hawthorne, Edith M. Thomas, Margaret
Deland, John Townsend Trowbridge, and
Frank Dempster Sherman are used by permission
of, and by special arrangement with,
Houghton, Mifflin Company, authorized
publishers of their works.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="contents" id="contents"></a>CONTENTS</h2>
<div class="centered">
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of contents">
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#introduction">INTRODUCTION</a></td>
<td class="tdrt"> </td>
<td class="tdr"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#book1">WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"> </td>
<td class="tdrt"> </td>
<td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Winter (selection)</td>
<td class="tdrt">James Russell Lowell</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap01">2</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Ice King (Indian legend)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Eleanor L. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap02">3</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Song of the Snow (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Madison Cawein</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap03">9</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">King Frost and King Winter (adapted)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Margaret T. Canby</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap04">11</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Snowstorm (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Ralph Waldo Emerson</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap05">18</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The First Winter (Iroquois legend)</td>
<td class="tdrt">W. W. Canfield</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap06">20</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Snow Song (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Frank Dempster Sherman</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap07">24</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Snow Maiden (Russian legend. Translated from the French)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Eleanor L. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap08">25</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Frost King (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Mary Mapes Dodge</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap09">30</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">King Winter’s Harvest</td>
<td class="tdrt">Selected</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap10">32</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Old King Winter (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Anna E. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap11">36</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Sheltering Wings</td>
<td class="tdrt">Harriet Louise Jerome</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap12">37</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Snowflakes (selection)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap13">41</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Snow-Image</td>
<td class="tdrt">Nathaniel Hawthorne</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk1chap14">42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#book2">WINTER WOODS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The First Snow-Fall</td>
<td class="tdrt">James Russell Lowell</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap01">62</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Voice of the Pine Trees (Japanese legend)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Frank Hadland Davis</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap02">63</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Pine Tree Maiden (Indian legend)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Ada M. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap03">68</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Holly</td>
<td class="tdrt">Janet Harvey Kelman</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap04">73</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Fable of the Three Elms (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap05">79</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Pine and the Willow</td>
<td class="tdrt">Mine Morishima</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap06">82</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Why the Wild Rabbits Are White in Winter (Algonquin legend retold)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Eleanor L. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap07">86</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Yew</td>
<td class="tdrt">Janet Harvey Kelman</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap08">93</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">How the Pine Tree Did Some Good</td>
<td class="tdrt">Samuel W. Duffield</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap09">95</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Wonderful Weaver (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">George Cooper</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap10">105</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Pine and the Flax</td>
<td class="tdrt">Albrekt Segerstedt</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap11">107</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Fir Tree (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Edith M. Thomas</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap12">110</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Why Bruin Has a Stumpy Tail (Norwegian legend)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Eleanor L. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap13">111</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Pines and Firs</td>
<td class="tdrt">Mrs. Dyson</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap14">116</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Who Loves the Trees Best? (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Selected</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk2chap15">131</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#book3">CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Christmas Song</td>
<td class="tdrt">Phillips Brooks</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap01">134</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Shepherd Maiden’s Gift (Eastern legend)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Eleanor L. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap02">135</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Christmas Gifts</td>
<td class="tdrt">Laura E. Richards</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap03">141</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Silver Bells (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Hamish Hendry</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap04">146</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Animals’ Christmas Tree</td>
<td class="tdrt">John P. Peters</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap05">147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Christmas Carol</td>
<td class="tdrt">Christina Rossetti</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap06">162</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Holly</td>
<td class="tdrt">Ada M. Marzials</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap07">164</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Willow Man (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Juliana Horatia Ewing</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap08">175</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Ivy Green (selection)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Charles Dickens</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap09">178</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Legend of St. Nicholas</td>
<td class="tdrt">Amy Steedman</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap10">179</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Christmas Bells (selection)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap11">197</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Night With Santa Claus</td>
<td class="tdrt">Anna R. Annan</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap12">198</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Child’s Thought About Santa Claus (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Sydney Dayre</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap13">208</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Charity in a Cottage</td>
<td class="tdrt">Jean Ingelow</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap14">210</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Waits (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Margaret Deland</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap15">223</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Where Love Is There God Is Also (adapted)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Leo Tolstoi</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap16">225</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen</td>
<td class="tdrt">Dinah Mulock Craik</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk3chap17">234</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#book4">THE GLAD NEW YEAR</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Glad New Year (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Mary Mapes Dodge</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap01">236</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Bad Little Goblin’s New Year</td>
<td class="tdrt">Mary Stewart</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap02">237</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Selection</td>
<td class="tdrt">Robert Herrick</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap03">248</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Queen of the Year (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Edna Dean Proctor</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap04">249</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The New Year’s Bell</td>
<td class="tdrt">Andrea Hofer Proudfoot</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap05">250</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The New Year</td>
<td class="tdrt">Selected</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap06">256</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Child and the Year (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Celia Thaxter</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap07">257</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Masque of the Days</td>
<td class="tdrt">Charles Lamb</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap08">258</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Ring Out, Wild Bells (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Alfred Tennyson</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk4chap09">262</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#book5">MIDWINTER</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Bells (selection)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Edgar Allen Poe</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk5chap01">264</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A January Thaw</td>
<td class="tdrt">Dallas Lore Sharp</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk5chap02">265</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Snow Man</td>
<td class="tdrt">Hans Christian Andersen</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk5chap03">276</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Happy Prince</td>
<td class="tdrt">Oscar Wilde</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk5chap04">284</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Legend of King Wenceslaus (adapted)</td>
<td class="tdrt">John Mason Neale</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk5chap05">303</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Midwinter (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">John Townsend Trowbridge</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk5chap06">310</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#book6">WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Old Winter (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Thomas Noel</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap01">314</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Snowball That Didn’t Melt</td>
<td class="tdrt">Jay T. Stocking</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap02">315</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Gau-wi-di-ne and Go-hay (Iroquois legend retold)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Eleanor L. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap03">330</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Naming the Winds (Indian legend retold)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Ada M. Skinner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap04">339</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">North Wind’s Frolic (translated)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Montgomery Maze</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap05">343</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Months: A Pageant (adapted)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Christina Rossetti</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap06">346</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Prince Winter</td>
<td class="tdrt">Carl Ewald</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap07">366</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">How Spring and Winter Met (poem)</td>
<td class="tdrt">Edith M. Thomas</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#bk6chap08">376</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="introduction" id="introduction"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2>
<p>“Once upon a time,” in the winter season
suggests happy, young faces grouped about a
blazing fire. A heavy snowstorm promises
plenty of sport for tomorrow, but at present
the cosiness indoors is very attractive, especially
now that the evening story hour is at
hand. And while the story-teller is slowly
choosing his subjects he hears the children’s
impatient whispers of “The Snow Man,”
“Prince Winter,” “The Legend of Holly,”
“The Animals’ Christmas Tree.”</p>
<p>Silence! The story-teller turns his eyes
from the glowing fire to the faces of his eager
audience. He is ready to begin.</p>
<p>Each season of the year opens a treasury of
suggestion for stories. In the beauty and wonder
of nature are excellent themes for tales
which quicken children’s interest in the promise
of joyous springtime, in the rich pageantry
of ripening summer, in the blessings of generous
autumn, and in the merry cheer of grim
old winter.</p>
<p>The Pearl Story Book is the fourth volume
in a series of nature books each of which emphasizes
the interest and beauty characteristic
of a particular season. The central theme of
this volume is winter, “snow-wrapped and
holly-decked.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"><!-- no visible page number --></a></span></p>
<h2 class="padtop"><a name="book1" id="book1"></a>WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>2]</a></span></p>
<h3 class="padtop"><a name="bk1chap01" id="bk1chap01"></a>WINTER</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From the snow five thousand summers old;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On open wold and hill-top bleak<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It had gathered all the cold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer’s cheek.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It carried a shiver everywhere<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The little brook heard it and built a roof<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Neath which he could house him winter-proof;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All night by the white stars’ frosty gleams<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He groined his arches and matched his beams;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Slender and clear were his crystal spars<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the lashes of light that trim the stars:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He sculptured every summer delight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In his halls and chambers out of sight.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">James Russell Lowell.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>3]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap02" id="bk1chap02"></a>THE ICE KING</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Indian Legend)</p>
<p>Once upon a time there was an Indian village
built on the bank of a wide river. During the
spring, summer, and autumn the people were
very happy. There was plenty of fuel and
game in the deep woods; the river afforded excellent
fish. But the Indians dreaded the
months when the Ice King reigned.</p>
<p>One winter the weather was terribly cold
and the people suffered severely. The Ice
King called forth the keen wind from the
northern sky, and piled the snowdrifts so high
in the forests that it was most difficult to supply
the wigwams with game. He covered the
river with ice so thick that the Indians feared
it would never melt.</p>
<p>“When will the Ice King leave us?” they
asked each other. “We shall all perish if he
continues his cruel reign.”</p>
<p>At last signs of spring encouraged the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>4]</a></span>
stricken people. The great snowdrifts in the
forests disappeared and the ice on the river
broke into large pieces. All of these floated
downstream except one huge cake which
lodged on the bank very near the village. And
when the Indians saw that the spring sunshine
did not melt this great mass of ice they were
puzzled and anxious.</p>
<p>“It is the roof of the Ice King’s lodge,” they
said. “We shall never enjoy warm weather
while he dwells near us. Have we no brave
who is willing to do battle with this winter tyrant?”</p>
<p>At last, a courageous young hunter armed
himself with a huge club and went forth to see
if he could shatter the glittering frozen mass
and rid the village of the giant who dwelt
beneath it. With all his strength he struck the
ice roof blow upon blow, crying out, “Begone,
O cruel Ice King! Your time is past! Begone!”</p>
<p>Finally, there was a deafening noise like the
crashing of forest trees when the lightning
strikes, and the huge ice cake split into several
pieces.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>5]</a></span>
“Begone!” cried the young brave, as he
struggled with each great lump of ice until he
pushed it from the bank and tumbled it into
the river below.</p>
<p>And when the mighty task was finished the
white figure of the Ice King stood before the
Indian brave.</p>
<p>“You have ruined my lodge,” said the
giant.</p>
<p>“The winter season is past,” answered the
brave. “Begone!”</p>
<p>“After several moons I shall return to stay,”
threatened the Ice King. Then he stalked
away toward the North.</p>
<p>The people were very happy when they
knew that the young brave had conquered the
giant; but their joy was somewhat dampened
when they heard about the threatened return
of the Ice King.</p>
<p>“I shall prepare for his return and do battle
with him again,” declared the Indian conqueror.</p>
<p>This promise comforted the people somewhat,
but still they thought of the coming winter
with dread.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>6]</a></span>
During the autumn the hunter built near
the river a strong wigwam and stored therein
abundant fuel and dried game. He filled
many bags made of skin, with oil, which he
procured from the animals he killed. Also,
he was well supplied with fur rugs, blankets,
and warm clothes.</p>
<p>At last the winter season came. The cold
north wind blew unceasingly, the snow piled
high around the wigwams; ice several feet
thick covered the river.</p>
<p>“The Ice King has come,” said the Indians.
“If he keeps his threat to stay among us we
shall surely perish.”</p>
<p>One bitter cold day the young Indian who
had prepared well for the severe weather sat
in his wigwam near a blazing fire. Suddenly,
a strong gust of wind tore aside the bear skin
which protected the doorway and into the
lodge stalked the Ice King. His freezing
breath filled the place and dampened the fire.
He took a seat opposite the Indian brave who
said, “Welcome, Ice King.”</p>
<p>“I’ve come to stay,” answered the giant.</p>
<p>The Indian shivered with cold at the sudden
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>7]</a></span>
change of temperature in his wigwam, but
he rose and brought more logs to the fire.
Also, he opened one of his bags of oil and
poured the contents on the great pieces of
wood. The flames soon caught the oil-soaked
logs and a roaring fire crackled and blazed in
the wigwam. More and more fuel the young
brave piled on his fire until finally the frosty
cold air was changed to summer heat.</p>
<p>The Ice King shifted his seat away from the
glowing fire. Farther and farther away he
pushed until he sat with his back against the
wall of the wigwam. As he moved he seemed
to grow smaller and weaker. The icy feathers
of his headgear drooped about his forehead
and great drops of sweat covered his face.
But still the Indian brave piled fuel on the
blazing fire.</p>
<p>“Spare me, O hunter,” cried the Ice King.</p>
<p>But to the words of the giant the young Indian
was deaf. He opened another bag of
oil and poured it on the logs.</p>
<p>“Have mercy, I beg you!” pleaded the Ice
King. He rose and staggered toward the door.</p>
<p>“You have conquered me,” he said in a weak
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>8]</a></span>
voice. “I will depart. Twice you have won a
victory over me. I give up my hope of reigning
continually among your people. My season
shall last during three moons, only.”</p>
<p>He staggered out of the wigwam and stalked
wearily away. Since that day the giant Ice
King has not tried to reign throughout the
year.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>9]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap03" id="bk1chap03"></a>A SONG OF THE SNOW</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the air is still and the clouds are gone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the snow lies deep on hill and lawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the old clock ticks, “’Tis time! ’Tis time!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the household rises with many a yawn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Sing, Ho!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the last star closes its icy eye<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And deep in the road the snow-drifts lie,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the old clock ticks, “’Tis late! ’Tis late!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the flame on the hearth leaps red—leaps high<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Sing, Ho!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>10]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the snow makes ghostly the wayside thorn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hills of pearl are the shocks of corn,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the old clock ticks, “Tick-tock; tick-tock;”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the goodman bustles about the barn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Sing, Ho!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When ermine capped are the stocks of hay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the wood-smoke pillars the air with gray,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the old clock ticks, “To work! To work!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the goodwife sings as she churns away<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Sing, Ho!<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Madison Cawein.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>11]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap04" id="bk1chap04"></a>KING FROST AND KING WINTER</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Margaret T. Canby</p>
<p>King Winter lives in a very strong palace
near the cold North Pole; it is built of great
blocks of thick ice, and all around it stand
high, pointed icebergs, and cross, white bears
keep guard at the gate. He has many little
fairy servants to do his bidding and they are
like their master, cross and spiteful, and seldom
do any kind actions, so that few are found
who love them. King Winter is rich and powerful,
but he keeps all his wealth so tightly
locked up that it does no one any good; and
what is worse, he often tries to get the treasures
of other persons, to add to the store in
his money chests.</p>
<p>One day when this selfish old king was walking
through the woods he saw the leaves
thickly covered with gold and precious stones,
which had been spread upon them by King
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>12]</a></span>
Frost, to make the trees more beautiful and
give pleasure to all who saw them. But looking
at them did not satisfy King Winter; he
wanted to have the gold for his own, and he
made up his mind to get it, somehow. Back
he went to his palace to call his servants home
to do this new work. As soon as he reached
the gate, he blew a loud, shrill note on his horn
and in a few minutes his odd little fairies came
flying in at the windows and doors and stood
before him quietly waiting their commands.
The king ordered some to go out into the forest,
at nightfall, armed with canes and clubs,
and beat off all the gold and ruby leaves; and
he told others to take strong bags, and gather
up all the treasure, and bring it to him.</p>
<p>“If that silly King Frost does not think any
more of gold and precious stones than to waste
them on trees I shall teach him better,” said
the old king.</p>
<p>The fairies promised to obey him, and as
soon as night came, off they rushed to the forest,
and a terrible noise they made, flying from
one beautiful tree to another, banging and
beating the leaves off. Branches were cracking
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>13]</a></span>
and falling on all sides, and leaves were
flying about, while the sound of shouting and
laughing and screaming told all who heard it
that the spiteful winter fairies were at some
mischief. The other fairies followed, and
gathered up the poor shattered leaves, cramming
them into the great bags they had
brought, and taking them to King Winter’s
palace as fast as they were filled.</p>
<p>This work was kept up nearly all night and
when morning came, the magic forest of
many-colored leaves was changed into a dreary
place. Bare trees stretched their long brown
branches around and seemed to shiver in the
cold wind and to sigh for the beautiful dress
of shining leaves so rudely torn from them.</p>
<p>King Winter was very much pleased, as one
great sack after another was tugged in by the
fairies and when morning came he called his
servants together and said, “You have all
worked well, my fairies, and have saved much
treasure from being wasted; I will now open
these bags and show you the gold. Each of
you shall have a share.”</p>
<p>The king took up the sack nearest to him,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>14]</a></span>
their surprise, when out rushed a great heap
of brown leaves, which flew all over the floor
and half choked them with dust! When the
king saw this he growled with rage and
looked at the fairies with a dark frown
on his face. They begged him to look
at the next sack, but when he did so, it,
too, was full of brown leaves, instead of
gold and precious stones. This was too much
for King Winter’s patience. He tossed
the bags one by one out of the palace window,
and would have tossed the unlucky
fairies after them, had not some of the bravest
ones knelt down and asked for mercy, telling
him they had obeyed his orders, and, if King
Frost had taken back his treasure, they were
not to blame.</p>
<p>This turned their master’s anger against
King Frost, and very angry and fierce he was.
He gnashed his great teeth with rage and
rushed up and down in his palace, until it
shook again. At last he made up his mind to
go out that night, break down King Frost’s
beautiful palace, and take away all his
riches.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>15]</a></span>
When night came, he started out with all his
fairies. Some were armed with the clubs they
had beaten off the leaves with, and others had
lumps of ice to throw at their enemy; but the
king had been so angry all day that he had not
told them what to do; also, he had left their
sharp spears locked up. He wrapped himself
in his great white cloak of swan’s down in
order that he might look very grand, and so
they went on their way.</p>
<p>King Frost lived on the other side of the
wood, and he had heard all the noise made by
the winter fairies in spoiling the trees and had
seen the next morning the mischief they had
done. It made him very sorry to find the beautiful
leaves all knocked off and taken away,
and he determined to punish King Winter by
going to attack <em>his</em> palace that night. He
spent the day making ready and dressing himself
and his servants in shining coats of ice-armour
and giving each one several spears and
darts of ice tipped with sharp diamond points.
They looked like brave little soldiers.</p>
<p>The two groups of fairies met in the midst
of the great wood. After some words between
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>16]</a></span>
the kings, their servants fell to blows and a
great battle they had. The winter fairies
fought with their clubs and threw lumps of ice
at the frost fairies; but their clubs were weak
from being used so roughly the night before
and soon broke; and when their ice-balls were
all thrown away they could find no more. But
King Frost had armed his servants well, and
they threw their icy darts among the winter
fairies. The trees, too, seemed to fight on the
Frost King’s side. The bare twigs pulled their
hair and the branches ripped their ice clothes
wherever they could. So the winter fairies
had the worst of it and at last started off at full
speed and rushed through the woods, never
stopping till they reached the palace, and
shut themselves in—leaving their king, who
was too proud to run, all alone with King
Frost and his fairies. You may be sure they
were not very merciful to him. They began
to pull his cloak, calling out, “Give us your
cloak to keep our trees warm. You stole their
pretty leaves; you must give us your cloak.”</p>
<p>Now this was a magic cloak and had been
given to King Winter by the Queen of the
fairies, so when he felt them pulling at it, he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>17]</a></span>
wrapped it tightly about him, and began to
run. After him flew the frost fairies, pulling
and plucking at his great white cloak, snatching
out a bit here and a bit there and laughing
and shouting while King Winter howled and
roared and rushed along, not knowing where
he went. On they flew up and down the wood
in and out among the trees,—their way marked
by the scattered bits of white down from King
Winter’s cloak. When day began King Winter
found himself near his own palace. He
dashed his tattered cloak to the ground and
rushed through the gate, shaking his fist at
King Frost.</p>
<p>He and his fairies took the cloak. As they
went home through the woods they hung beautiful
wreaths of white down on all the trees
and also trimmed the branches with their
broken spears and darts, which shone like silver
in the sunlight, and made the woods look
as bright almost, as before it had been robbed
of its golden and ruby leaves. Even the
ground was covered with shining darts and
white feathers. Every one thought it very
beautiful, and no one could tell how it happened.
(<i>Adapted.</i>)</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>18]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap05" id="bk1chap05"></a>THE SNOWSTORM</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hides hills and woods, and river, and the heaven,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In a tumultuous privacy of storm.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, see the north wind’s masonry.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out of an unseen quarry evermore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Curves his white bastions with projected roof<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>19]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For number or proportion. Mockingly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mauger the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A tapering turret overtops the work.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when his hours are numbered, and the world<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Built in an age, the mad wind’s night work,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The frolic architecture of the snow.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Ralph Waldo Emerson.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>20]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap06" id="bk1chap06"></a>THE FIRST WINTER</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Iroquois Legend)</p>
<p>There was a time when the days were always
of the same length, and it was always summer.
The red men lived continually in the smile of
the Great Spirit and were happy. But there
arose a chief who was so powerful that he at
last declared himself mightier than the Great
Spirit, and taught his brothers to go forth to
the plain and mock him. They would call
upon the Great Spirit to come and fight with
them or would challenge him to take away the
crop of growing corn or drive the game from
the woods. They would say he was an unkind
father to keep himself and their dead brothers
in the Happy Hunting Grounds, where the
red men could hunt forever without weariness.</p>
<p>They laughed at their old men who had
feared for so many moons to reproach the
Great Spirit for his unfair treatment of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>21]</a></span>
Indians who were compelled to hunt and fish
for game for their wives and children, while
their own women had to plant the corn and
harvest it.</p>
<p>“In the Happy Hunting Grounds,” they
said, “the Great Spirit feeds our brothers and
their wives and does not let any foes or dangers
come upon them, but here he lets us go hungry
many times. If he is as great as you have
said, why does he not take care of his children
here?”</p>
<p>Then the Great Spirit told them he would
turn his smiling face away from them, so that
they should have no more light and warmth
and they must build fires in the forest if they
would see.</p>
<p>But the red men laughed and taunted him,
telling him that he had followed one trail so
long that he could not get out of it, but would
have to come every day and give them light
and heat as usual. Then they would dance
and make faces at him and taunt him with his
helplessness.</p>
<p>In a few days the quick eyes of some of the
red men saw in the morning the face of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>22]</a></span>
Great Spirit appear where it was not wont to
appear, but they were silent, fearing the jibes
of their brothers. Finally, duller eyes noticed
the change, and alarm and consternation
spread among the people. Each day brought
less and less of the Great Spirit’s smile and his
countenance was often hidden by dark clouds,
while terrible storms beat upon the frightened
faces turned in appeal toward the heavens.
The strong braves and warriors became as
women; the old men covered their heads with
skins and starved in the forests; while the
women in their lodges crooned the low,
mournful wail of the death song. Frosts and
snows came upon an unsheltered and stricken
race, and many of them perished.</p>
<p>Then the Great Spirit, who had almost removed
his face from the sight of men, had pity
and told them he would come back. Day after
day the few that remained alive watched with
joy the return of the sun. They sang in praise
of the approaching summer and once more
hailed with thankfulness the first blades of
growing corn as it burst from the ground.
The Great Spirit told his children that every
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>23]</a></span>
year, as a punishment for the insults they had
given their Father, they should feel for a season
the might of the power they had mocked;
and they murmured not, but bowed their heads
in meekness.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>24]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap07" id="bk1chap07"></a>SNOW SONG</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Over valley, over hill,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Driving all the white flock forth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From the far folds of the north.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Blow, wind, blow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Weird melodies you play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Following your flocks that go<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Across the world today.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hither, thither, up and down,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Every highway of the town,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Huddling close the white flocks all<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gather at the shepherd’s call.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Blow, wind, blow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon your pipes of joy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All your sheep the flakes of snow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And you their shepherd boy.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Frank Dempster Sherman.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>25]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap08" id="bk1chap08"></a>THE SNOW MAIDEN</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Russian Legend)</p>
<p>Once upon a time there lived a peasant
named Ivan and his wife, Marie. They were
very sad because they had no children. One
cold winter day the peasant and his wife sat
near a window in their cottage and watched
the village children playing in the snow. The
little ones were busily at work making a beautiful
snow maiden.</p>
<p>Ivan turned to his wife and said, “What a
good time the children are having. See, they
are making a beautiful snow maiden. Come,
let us go into the garden and amuse ourselves
in the same way. We will make a pretty little
snow image.”</p>
<p>They went into the garden which lay back
of their cottage.</p>
<p>“My husband,” said Marie, “we have no
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>26]</a></span>
children, what do you say to our making for
ourselves a child of snow?”</p>
<p>“A very good idea!” said the husband. And
he at once began to mold the form of a little
body, with tiny feet and hands. His wife
made a small head and set it upon the shoulders
of the snow image.</p>
<p>A man who passed by the garden stopped
for a moment and looked at the peasants who
were so strangely occupied. After a moment’s
silence he said to them, “May God help you.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” said Ivan.</p>
<p>“God’s blessing, indeed, is always good,”
nodded Marie.</p>
<p>“What are you making?” asked the stranger.</p>
<p>Ivan looked up and said, “We are making a
little snow maiden.” Then he went on with
his work, forming the nose, chin, and eyes.</p>
<p>In a few moments the snow child was finished,
and Ivan looked at her in great admiration.
Suddenly, he noticed that the mouth and
eyes opened, the cheeks and lips took on a rosy
hue, and in a few moments the astonished
peasant saw standing before him a living
child.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>27]</a></span>
“Who are you?” he asked, filled with wonder
at seeing a little girl instead of a snow
image.</p>
<p>“I am Snow White, your little daughter,”
said the child. Then she threw her arms lovingly
around the man and his wife, who both
began to cry for joy.</p>
<p>The delighted parents took Snow White
into the cottage, and before long the news ran
through the village that a little daughter had
come to live with Ivan and Marie.</p>
<p>Of course the village children came to play
with Snow White. She was such a charming
little girl, with a very white skin, eyes as blue
as the sky, and lovely golden hair. To be sure,
her cheeks were not so rosy as those of her
companions, but she was so bright and gentle
that everyone loved her very much indeed.</p>
<p>The winter passed very quickly and Snow
White grew so fast that by the time the trees
were veiled in the green buds of spring she
was as tall as a girl of twelve or thirteen years.</p>
<p>During the winter months the snow maiden
had been very joyous and happy, but when
the mild, warm days of spring came she
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>28]</a></span>
seemed sad and low-spirited. Her mother,
Marie, noticed the change and said to her,
“My dear little girl, why are you sad? Tell
me, are you ill?”</p>
<p>“No, mother, dear, I am not ill,” said Snow
White. But she no longer seemed to enjoy
playing out of doors with the other children;
she stayed very quietly in the cottage.</p>
<p>One lovely spring day the village children
came to the cottage and called out, “Come,
Snow White! Come! We are going into the
woods to gather wild flowers. Come with us.”</p>
<p>“Yes, do go, my dear!” said mother Marie.
“Go with your little friends and gather spring
flowers. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the outing.”</p>
<p>Away went the happy children to the woods.
They gathered the lovely wild flowers and
made them into bouquets and coronets, and
when the afternoon sun began to sink in the
western sky they built a big bonfire. Gayly
they sang little songs, merrily dancing around
the bright, crackling blaze.</p>
<p>“Let each one dance alone,” called out one
of the little girls.</p>
<p>“Snow White, watch us for a little while,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>29]</a></span>
and then you, too, will know how to dance
alone.”</p>
<p>Away whirled the happy little children,
dancing freely round and round the bonfire.
In a little while Snow White joined them.</p>
<p>When the gay little people were out of
breath and the dancing grew slower and
slower, some one called out, “Where is Snow
White?”</p>
<p>“Snow White, where are you?” shouted the
other children, but nowhere could they find
their little companion.</p>
<p>They ran home and told Ivan and Marie
that Snow White had disappeared while
dancing round the bonfire. The villagers
made a thorough search for the little maiden,
but they never found her, for while she was
dancing around the bonfire she had slowly
changed into a little white vapour and had
flown away toward the sky, where she changed
into a delicate snowflake.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>30]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap09" id="bk1chap09"></a>THE FROST KING</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oho! have you seen the Frost King,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A-marching up the hill?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His hoary face is stern and pale,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His touch is icy chill.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He sends the birdlings to the South,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">He bids the brooks be still;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet not in wrath or cruelty<br /></span>
<span class="i2">He marches up the hill.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He will often rest at noontime,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To see the sunbeams play;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And flash his spears of icicles,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or let them melt away.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He’ll toss the snowflakes in the air,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor let them go nor stay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then hold his breath while swift they fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That coasting boys may play.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>31]</a></span>
<span class="i0">He’ll touch the brooks and rivers wide,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That skating crowds may shout;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He’ll make the people far and near<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Remember he’s about.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He’ll send his nimble, frosty Jack—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Without a shade of doubt—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To do all kinds of merry pranks,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And call the children out;<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He’ll sit upon the whitened fields,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And reach his icy hand<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O’er houses where the sudden cold<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Folks cannot understand.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The very moon, that ventures forth<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From clouds so soft and grand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will stare to see the stiffened look<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That settles o’er the land.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And so the Frost King o’er the hills,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And o’er the startled plain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will come and go from year to year<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till Earth grows young again—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till Time himself shall cease to be,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till gone are hill and plain:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whenever Winter comes to stay,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The hoary King shall reign.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Mary Mapes Dodge.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>32]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap10" id="bk1chap10"></a>KING WINTER’S HARVEST</h3>
<p>King Winter sat upon his iceberg throne,
and waving his scepter, a huge icicle, called
for all the Snow Fairies and Frost Fairies to
draw near, as he wished to see them.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Snow Fairies,” said King Winter,
“what have you been doing of late; have
you made anybody happy by your work?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” they all said at once, “we had
the jolliest time last night putting white
dresses on the trees, white spreads over the
grasses, white caps on all the fence posts, and
making things look so strange that when the
children came out in the morning they just
shouted and laughed, and soon threw so much
snow over each other that they were dressed in
white, too, and seemed Snow Fairies like ourselves.
They, too, wanted to make curious
canes, castles, and other things with the snow
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>33]</a></span>
as we had done. Sleds were brought out and
when the sleighbells commenced their music
it seemed that everybody was made glad by
our work.”</p>
<p>“Well done,” said King Winter, “now away
to your work again.”</p>
<p>In a twinkling the Snow Fairies were up in
a purple cloud-boat throwing a shower of
snowflake kisses down to King Winter to thank
him for giving them work to do.</p>
<p>“Now, Frost Fairies,” said King Winter,
turning to a glittering band who wore some
of his own jewels, “what have you done to
make anybody glad?”</p>
<p>“We have made pictures upon the windows
and hung your jewels upon the trees for the
people to look at, and covered the skating
ponds,” said Jack Frost, the leader.</p>
<p>“That is good,” said King Winter. “You
and the Snow Fairies seem to be making the
world glad now, but pretty soon we must leave
the work, and the good sunbeams will put our
things away; they will hide the snowballs, and
crack the skating ponds so that the ice may
float downstream. Now I would like to make
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>34]</a></span>
something that will keep long after we are
gone away. Queen Summer is gone but her
harvest of hay and grain is in the barns.
Queen Autumn is gone but her harvest of
apples and potatoes is in the cellars; now I
want to leave a harvest, too.”</p>
<p>“But the sunbeams are away most of the
time now,” said Jack Frost. “Can anything
grow without them?”</p>
<p>“My harvest will grow best without them,”
said King Winter, “and I’ll just hang up a
thick cloud curtain and ask them to play upon
the other side while my harvest grows. Mr.
North Wind will help, and if all you Frost
Fairies do your liveliest work my harvest will
soon be ready.”</p>
<p>North Wind soon came with bags of cold
air which he scattered hither and thither,
while the Frost Fairies carried it into every
track and corner, wondering all the while
what the harvest would be. But after two
days’ work they found out; for horses were
hitched to sleds and men started for the lakes
and rivers, saying, “The ice has frozen so
thick that it is a fine time to fill the ice-houses.”
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>35]</a></span>
Saws and poles were carried along, and soon
huge blocks of ice were finding places upon
the sleds ready for a ride to some ice-house
where they would be packed so securely in
sawdust that King Winter’s harvest would
keep through the very hottest weather.</p>
<p>“Then the ice-men can play that they are
we,” said a Frost Fairy, “scattering cold all
about to make people glad.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>36]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap11" id="bk1chap11"></a>OLD KING WINTER</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Old King Winter’s on his throne<br /></span>
<span class="i1">In robes of ermine white;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The crown of jewels on his head<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Now glitters bright with light.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The little flakes of snow and hail,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And tiny pearls of sleet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are with the wild winds dancing<br /></span>
<span class="i1">All round his magic feet.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His beard is white, his cheeks are red,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His heart is filled with cheer;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His season’s best some people say;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The <em>best</em> of all the year.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Anna E. Skinner.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>37]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap12" id="bk1chap12"></a>SHELTERING WINGS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Harriet Louise Jerome</p>
<p>It was intensely cold. Heavy sleds creaked
as they scraped over the jeweled sounding
board of dry, unyielding snow; the signs above
shop doors shrieked and groaned as they
swung helplessly to and fro; and the clear,
keen air seemed frozen into sharp little crystalline
needles that stabbed every living thing
that must be out in it. The streets were almost
forsaken in mid-afternoon. Business men hurried
from shelter to shelter; every dog remained
at home; not a bird was to be seen or
heard. The sparrows had been forced to hide
themselves in crevices and holes; the doves
found protected corners and huddled together
as best they could; many birds were frozen to
death.</p>
<p>A dozen or more doves were gathered close
under the cornice of the piazza of a certain
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>38]</a></span>
house, trying with little success to keep warm.
Some small sparrows, disturbed and driven
from the cozy place they had chosen, saw the
doves and came flying across the piazza.</p>
<p>“Dear doves,” chirped the sparrows, “won’t
you let us nestle near you? Your bodies look
so large and warm.”</p>
<p>“But your coats are frosted with cold. We
cannot let you come near us, for we are almost
frozen now,” murmured the doves sadly.</p>
<p>“But we are perishing.”</p>
<p>“So are we.”</p>
<p>“It looks so warm near your broad wings,
gentle doves. Oh, let us come! We are so
little, and so very, very cold!”</p>
<p>“Come,” cooed a dove at last, and a trembling
little sparrow fluttered close and nestled
under the broad white wing.</p>
<p>“Come,” cooed another dove, and another
little sparrow found comfort.</p>
<p>“Come! Come!” echoed another warm-hearted
bird, and another, until at last more
than half the doves were sheltering small,
shivering sparrows beneath their own half-frozen
wings.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>39]</a></span>
“My sisters, you are very foolish,” said the
other doves. “You mean well, but why do you
risk your own beautiful lives to give life to
worthless sparrows?”</p>
<p>“Ah! they were so small, and so very, very
cold,” murmured the doves. “Many of us
will perish this cruel night; while we have life
let us share its meager warmth with those in
bitter need.”</p>
<p>Colder and colder grew the day. The sun
went down behind the clouds suffused with
soft and radiant beauty, but more fiercely and
relentlessly swept the wind around the house
where the doves and sparrows waited for
death.</p>
<p>An hour after sunset a man came up to the
house and strode across the piazza. As the
door of the house closed heavily behind him, a
little child watching from the window saw
something jarred from the cornice fall heavily
to the piazza floor.</p>
<p>“Oh, papa,” she cried in surprise, “a poor
frozen dove has fallen on our porch!”</p>
<p>When he stepped out to pick up the fallen
dove the father saw the others under the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>40]</a></span>
cornice. They were no longer able to move or
to utter a cry, so he brought them in and
placed them in a room where they might
slowly revive. Soon more than half of the
doves could coo gratefully, and raise their stiffened
wings. Then out from beneath the wing
of each revived dove fluttered a living sparrow.</p>
<p>“Look, papa!” cried the child. “Each dove
that has come to life was holding a poor little
sparrow close to her heart.”</p>
<p>They gently raised the wings of the doves
that could not be revived. Not one had a sparrow
beneath it.</p>
<p>Colder and fiercer swept the wind without,
cutting and more piercing grew the frozen,
crystalline needles of air, but each dove that
had sheltered a frost-coated sparrow beneath
her own shivering wings lived to rejoice in the
glowing gladsome sunshine of the days to
come.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>41]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap13" id="bk1chap13"></a>SNOWFLAKES</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Out of the Bosom of the Air,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Over the woodlands brown and bare,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Over the harvest-fields forsaken,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Silent, and soft, and slow,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Descends the snow.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>42]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk1chap14" id="bk1chap14"></a>THE SNOW-IMAGE</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Nathaniel Hawthorne</p>
<p>One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when
the sun shone forth with chilly brightness,
after a long storm, two children asked leave
of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen
snow.</p>
<p>The elder child was a little girl, whom, because
she was of a tender and modest disposition,
and was thought to be very beautiful,
her parents, and other people who were familiar
with her, used to call Violet.</p>
<p>But her brother was known by the title of
Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his
broad and round little phiz, which made
everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet
flowers.</p>
<p>“Yes, Violet—yes, my little Peony,” said
their kind mother; “you may go out and play
in the new snow.”</p>
<p>Forth sallied the two children, with a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>43]</a></span>
hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into
the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence
Violet emerged like a snow bunting, while
little Peony floundered out with his round face
in full bloom.</p>
<p>Then what a merry time they had! To
look at them, frolicking in the wintry garden,
you would have thought that the dark and
pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose
but to provide a new plaything for Violet
and Peony; and that they themselves had been
created, as the snowbirds were, to take delight
only in the tempest and in the white mantle
which it spread over the earth.</p>
<p>At last, when they had frosted one another
all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after
laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was
struck with a new idea.</p>
<p>“You look exactly like a snow-image,
Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks were not so
red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make
an image out of snow—an image of a little
girl—and it shall be our sister, and shall run
about and play with us all winter long. Won’t
it be nice?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>44]</a></span>
“Oh, yes!” cried Peony, as plainly as he
could speak, for he was but a little boy. “That
will be nice! And mamma shall see it.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered Violet; “mamma shall see
the new little girl. But she must not make
her come into the warm parlour, for, you
know, our little snow-sister will not love the
warmth.”</p>
<p>And forthwith the children began this great
business of making a snow-image that should
run about; while their mother, who was knitting
at the window and overheard some of
their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity
with which they set about it. They really
seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty
whatever in creating a live little girl
out of the snow.</p>
<p>Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight—those
bright little souls at their task!
Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe
how knowingly and skillfully they managed
the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction,
and told Peony what to do, while, with
her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all
the nicer parts of the snow-figure.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>45]</a></span>
It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made
by the children, as to grow up under their
hands, while they were playing and prattling
about it. Their mother was quite surprised at
this, and the longer she looked, the more and
more surprised she grew.</p>
<p>Now, for a few moments, there was a busy
and earnest but indistinct hum of the two
children’s voices, as Violet and Peony
wrought together with one happy consent.
Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit,
while Peony acted rather as a labourer and
brought her the snow from far and near. And
yet the little urchin evidently had a proper
understanding of the matter, too.</p>
<p>“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet; for her
brother was at the other side of the garden.
“Bring me those light wreaths of snow that
have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree.
You can clamber on the snow-drift,
Peony, and reach them easily. I must have
them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister’s
head!”</p>
<p>“Here they are, Violet!” answered the
little boy. “Take care you do not break
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>46]</a></span>
them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!”</p>
<p>“Does she not look sweet?” said Violet, with
a very satisfied tone; “and now we must have
some little shining bits of ice to make the
brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet.
Mamma will see how very beautiful she is;
but papa will say, ‘Tush! nonsense! come in
out of the cold!’”</p>
<p>“Let us call mamma to look out,” said
Peony; and then he shouted, “Mamma!
mamma!! mamma!!! Look out and see what
a nice ’ittle girl we are making!”</p>
<p>“What a nice playmate she will be for us
all winter long!” said Violet. “I hope papa
will not be afraid of her giving us a cold!
Sha’n’t you love her dearly, Peony?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes!” cried Peony. “And I will hug
her and she shall sit down close by me and
drink some of my warm milk.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, Peony!” answered Violet, with
grave wisdom. “That will not do at all.
Warm milk will not be wholesome for our
little snow-sister. Little snow-people like her
eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we
must not give her anything warm to drink!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>47]</a></span>
There was a minute or two of silence; for
Peony, whose short legs were never weary,
had gone again to the other side of the garden.
All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and
joyfully, “Look here, Peony! Come quickly!
A light has been shining on her cheek out of
that rose-coloured cloud! And the colour does
not go away! Is not that beautiful?”</p>
<p>“Yes, it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony,
pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate
accuracy. “O Violet, only look at her
hair! It is all like gold!”</p>
<p>“Oh, certainly,” said Violet, as if it were
very much a matter of course. “That colour,
you know, comes from the golden clouds that
we see up there in the sky. She is almost
finished now. But her lips must be made very
red, redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony,
it will make them red if we both kiss them!”</p>
<p>Accordingly, the mother heard two smart
little smacks, as if both her children were
kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth.
But, as this did not seem to make the lips quite
red enough, Violet next proposed that the
snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>48]</a></span>
scarlet cheek. “Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss
me!” cried Peony.</p>
<p>“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet,
“and now her lips are very red. And she
blushed a little, too!”</p>
<p>“Oh, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony.</p>
<p>Just then, there came a breeze of the pure
west wind sweeping through the garden and
rattling the parlour-windows. It sounded so
wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap
on the window-pane with her thimbled finger,
to summon the two children in, when they
both cried out to her with one voice:</p>
<p>“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our
little snow-sister, and she is running about the
garden with us!”</p>
<p>“What imaginative little beings my children
are!” thought the mother, putting the last few
stitches into Peony’s frock. “And it is strange,
too, that they make me almost as much a child
as they themselves are! I can hardly help
believing now that the snow-image has really
come to life!”</p>
<p>“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look
out and see what a sweet playmate we have!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>49]</a></span>
The mother, being thus entreated, could no
longer delay to look forth from the window.
The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving,
however, a rich inheritance of his brightness
among those purple and golden clouds
which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent.</p>
<p>But there was not the slightest gleam or
dazzle, either on the window or on the snow;
so that the good lady could look all over the
garden, and see everything and everybody in
it. And what do you think she saw there?
Violet and Peony, of course, her own two
darling children.</p>
<p>Ah, but whom or what did she see besides?
Why, if you will believe me, there was a small
figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged
cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing
about the garden with the two children!</p>
<p>A stranger though she was, the child seemed
to be on as familiar terms with Violet and
Peony, and they with her, as if all the three
had been playmates during the whole of their
little lives. The mother thought to herself
that it must certainly be the daughter of one
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>50]</a></span>
of the neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and
Peony in the garden, the child had run across
the street to play with them.</p>
<p>So this kind lady went to the door, intending
to invite the little runaway into her comfortable
parlour; for, now that the sunshine
was withdrawn, the atmosphere out of doors
was already growing very cold.</p>
<p>But, after opening the house-door, she
stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating
whether she ought to ask the child to come in,
or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed,
she almost doubted whether it were a
real child, after all, or only a light wreath of
the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither
about the garden by the intensely cold west
wind.</p>
<p>There was certainly something very singular
in the aspect of the little stranger.
Among all the children of the neighbourhood
the lady could remember no such face, with
its pure white and delicate rose-colour, and the
golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and
cheeks.</p>
<p>And as for her dress, which was entirely of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>51]</a></span>
white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was
such as no reasonable woman would put upon
a little girl when sending her out to play in
the depth of winter. It made this kind and
careful mother shiver only to look at those
small feet, with nothing in the world on them
except a very thin pair of white slippers.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the
child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience
from the cold, but danced so lightly
over the snow that the tips of her toes left
hardly a print in its surface; while Violet
could but just keep pace with her, and
Peony’s short legs compelled him to lag behind.</p>
<p>All this while, the mother stood on the
threshold, wondering how a little girl could
look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how
a snow-drift could look so very like a little
girl.</p>
<p>She called Violet and whispered to her.</p>
<p>“Violet, my darling, what is this child’s
name?” asked she. “Does she live near us?”</p>
<p>“Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet,
laughing to think that her mother did not
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>52]</a></span>
comprehend so very plain an affair, “this is
our little snow-sister whom we have just been
making!”</p>
<p>“Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running
to his mother, and looking up simply into her
face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a
nice ’ittle child?”</p>
<p>“Violet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed,
“tell me the truth, without any jest.
Who is this little girl?”</p>
<p>“My darling mamma,” answered Violet,
looking seriously into her mother’s face, surprised
that she should need any further explanation,
“I have told you truly who she is.
It is our little snow-image which Peony and I
have been making. Peony will tell you so, as
well as I.”</p>
<p>“Yes, mamma,” declared Peony, with much
gravity in his crimson little phiz, “this is ’ittle
snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But,
mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!”</p>
<p>While mamma still hesitated what to think
and what to do, the street-gate was thrown
open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared,
wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>53]</a></span>
fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the
thickest of gloves upon his hands.</p>
<p>Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with
a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed
and frost-pinched face, as if he had
been busy all day long, and was glad to get
back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened
at the sight of his wife and children, although
he could not help uttering a word or two of
surprise at finding the whole family in the
open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset,
too.</p>
<p>He soon perceived the little white stranger,
sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing
snow-wreath and the flock of snowbirds
fluttering about her head.</p>
<p>“Pray, what little girl may this be?” inquired
this very sensible man. “Surely her
mother must be crazy, to let her go out in such
bitter weather as it has been today, with only
that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers!”</p>
<p>“My dear husband,” said his wife, “I know
no more about the little thing than you do.
Some neighbour’s child, I suppose. Our Violet
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>54]</a></span>
and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself
for repeating so absurd a story, “insist that
she is nothing but a snow-image which they
have been busy about in the garden, almost all
the afternoon.”</p>
<p>As she said this, the mother glanced her
eyes toward the spot where the children’s
snow-image had been made. What was her
surprise on perceiving that there was not the
slightest trace of so much labour!—no image
at all!—no piled-up heap of snow!—nothing
whatever, save the prints of little footsteps
around a vacant space!</p>
<p>“This is very strange!” said she.</p>
<p>“What is strange, dear mother?” asked
Violet. “Dear father, do not you see how it
is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and
I have made, because we wanted another playmate.
Did not we, Peony?”</p>
<p>“Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. “This is
our ’ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful?
But she gave me such a cold kiss!”</p>
<p>“Pooh, nonsense, children!” cried their good
honest father, who had a plain, sensible way
of looking at matters. “Do not tell me of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>55]</a></span>
making live figures out of snow. Come, wife;
this little stranger must not stay out in the
bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her
into the parlour; and you shall give her a
supper of warm bread and milk, and make her
as comfortable as you can.”</p>
<p>So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted
man was going toward the little damsel, with
the best intentions in the world. But Violet
and Peony, each seizing their father by the
hand, earnestly besought him not to make her
come in.</p>
<p>“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!”
cried the father, half-vexed, half-laughing.
“Run into the house, this moment! It is too
late to play any longer now. I must take care
of this little girl immediately, or she will catch
her death of cold.”</p>
<p>And so, with a most benevolent smile, this
very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child
by the hand and led her toward the
house.</p>
<p>She followed him, droopingly and reluctant,
for all the glow and sparkle were gone out
of her figure; and, whereas just before she had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>56]</a></span>
resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening,
with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon,
she now looked as dull and languid as a
thaw.</p>
<p>As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of
the door, Violet and Peony looked into his
face, their eyes full of tears which froze before
they could run down their cheeks, and
again entreated him not to bring their snow-image
into the house.</p>
<p>“Not bring her in!” exclaimed the kind-hearted
man. “Why, you are crazy, my
little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony!
She is so cold already that her hand has
almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick
gloves. Would you have her freeze to
death?”</p>
<p>His wife, as he came up the steps, had been
taking another long, earnest gaze at the little
white stranger. She hardly knew whether it
was a dream or no; but she could not help
fancying that she saw the delicate print of
Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck. It looked
just as if, while Violet was shaping out the
image, she had given it a gentle pat with her
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>57]</a></span>
hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression
quite away.</p>
<p>“After all, husband,” said the mother, “after
all, she does look strangely like a snow-image!
I do believe she is made of snow!”</p>
<p>A puff of the west wind blew against the
snow-child, and again she sparkled like a
star.</p>
<p>“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing
the reluctant guest over his hospitable
threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow.
She is half frozen, poor little thing! But a
good fire will put everything to rights.”</p>
<p>This common-sensible man placed the snow-child
on the hearth-rug, right in front of the
hissing and fuming stove.</p>
<p>“Now she will be comfortable!” cried Mr.
Lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about
him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw.
“Make yourself at home, my child.”</p>
<p>Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little
white maiden as she stood on the hearth-rug,
with the hot blast of the stove striking through
her like a pestilence. Once she threw a glance
toward the window, and caught a glimpse,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>58]</a></span>
through its red curtains, of the snow-covered
roofs and the stars glimmering frostily, and all
the delicious intensity of the cold night. The
bleak wind rattled the window-panes as if it
were summoning her to come forth. But
there stood the snow-child, drooping, before
the hot stove!</p>
<p>But the common-sensible man saw nothing
amiss.</p>
<p>“Come, wife,” said he, “let her have a pair
of thick stockings and a woolen shawl or
blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her
some warm supper as soon as the milk boils.
You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little
friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding
herself in a strange place. For my part, I
will go around among the neighbours and find
out where she belongs.”</p>
<p>The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search
of the shawl and stockings. Without heeding
the remonstrance of his two children, who
still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister
did not love the warmth, good Mr.
Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlour
door carefully behind him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>59]</a></span>
Turning up the collar of his sack over his
ears, he emerged from the house, and had
barely reached the street-gate, when he was
recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony
and the rapping of a thimbled finger against
the parlour window.</p>
<p>“Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing
her horror-stricken face through the
window panes. “There is no need of going
for the child’s parents!”</p>
<p>“We told you so, father!” screamed Violet
and Peony, as he re-entered the parlour. “You
would bring her in; and now our poor—dear—beau-ti-ful
little snow-sister is thawed!”</p>
<p>And their own sweet little faces were already
dissolved in tears; so that their father,
seeing what strange things occasionally happen
in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious
lest his children might be going to thaw too.
In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an
explanation of his wife. She could only reply
that, being summoned to the parlour by cries
of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of
the little white maiden, unless it were the remains
of a heap of snow, which, while she
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>60]</a></span>
was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the
hearth-rug.</p>
<p>“And there you see all that is left of it!”
added she, pointing to a pool of water, in front
of the stove.</p>
<p>“Yes, father,” said Violet, looking reproachfully
at him through her tears, “there
is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!”</p>
<p>“Naughty father!” cried Peony, stamping
his foot, and—I shudder to say—shaking his
little fist at the common-sensible man. “We
told you how it would be! What for did you
bring her in?”</p>
<p>And the stove, through the isinglass of
its door, seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey,
like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief
which it had done! (<i>Abridged.</i>)</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"><!-- no visible page number --></a></span></p>
<h2 class="padtop"><a name="book2" id="book2"></a>WINTER WOODS</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>62]</a></span></p>
<h3 class="padtop"><a name="bk2chap01" id="bk2chap01"></a>THE FIRST SNOW-FALL</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The snow had begun in the gloaming,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And busily all the night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had been heaping field and highway<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With a silence deep and white.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Every pine and fir and hemlock<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Wore ermine too dear for an earl,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the poorest twig on the elm tree<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Was ridged inch deep with pearl.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">James Russell Lowell.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>63]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap02" id="bk2chap02"></a>THE VOICE OF THE PINE TREES</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Japanese Legend)</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“And all the while<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The voice of the breeze<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As it blows through the firs<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That grow old together<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will yield us delight.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>In ancient days there lived a fisherman and
his wife, and little daughter Matsue. There
was nothing that Matsue loved to do more than
to sit under the great pine tree. She was particularly
fond of the pine needles that never
seemed tired of falling to the ground. With
these she fashioned a beautiful dress and sash,
saying, “I will not wear these pine clothes
until my wedding day.”</p>
<p>One day while Matsue was sitting under
the pine tree, she sang the following song:</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>64]</a></span>
<span class="i0">“No one so callous but he heaves a sigh<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When o’er his head the withered cherry flowers<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come fluttering down. Who knows?—the spring’s soft showers<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>While thus she sang Teogo stood on the
steep shore of Sumiyoshi watching the flight
of a heron. Up, up, it went into the blue sky,
and Teogo saw it fly over the village where
the fishfolk and their daughter lived.</p>
<p>Now Teogo was a youth who dearly loved
adventure and he thought it would be very delightful
to swim across the sea and discover
the land over which the heron had flown. So
one morning he dived into the sea and swam
so hard and so long that the poor fellow found
the waves spinning and dancing and saw the
great sky bend down and try to touch him.
Then he lay unconscious on the water; but the
waves were kind to him after all, for they
pressed him on and on till he was washed up
at the very place where Matsue sat under the
pine tree.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>65]</a></span>
Matsue carefully dragged Teogo underneath
its sheltering branches, and then set him
down upon a couch of pine needles, where he
soon regained consciousness and warmly
thanked Matsue for her kindness.</p>
<p>Teogo did not go back to his own country,
for, after a few happy months had gone by,
he married Matsue and on her wedding morn
she wore her dress and sash of pine needles.</p>
<p>When Matsue’s parents died her loss only
seemed to make her love for Teogo the more.
The older they grew the more they loved each
other. Every night when the moon shone, they
went hand in hand to the pine tree and with
their little rake they made a couch for the
morrow.</p>
<p>One night the great silver face of the moon
peered through the branches of the pine tree
and looked in vain for the two sitting together
on a couch of pine needles. Their little rakes
lay side by side and still the moon waited for
the slow steps of these pine tree lovers. But
that night they did not come. They had gone
home to an everlasting place on the River of
Souls.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>66]</a></span>
They had loved so well and so splendidly,
in old age as well as in youth, that their souls
were allowed to come back again and wander
round the pine tree that had listened to their
love for so many years.</p>
<p>When the moon is full they whisper and
laugh and sing and draw the pine needles together,
while the sea sings softly upon the
shore:</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“The dawn is near<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the hoar-frost falls<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On the fir tree twigs;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But its leaves dark green<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Suffer no change.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Morning and evening<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath its shade<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The leaves are swept away,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet they never fail.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">True it is<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That these fir trees<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shed not all their leaves;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their verdure remains fresh<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For ages long,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the Masaka’s trailing vine;<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>67]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Even amongst evergreen trees—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The emblem of unchangeableness—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Exalted is their fame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As a symbol to the end of time.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The fame of the fir trees that<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have grown old together.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>68]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap03" id="bk2chap03"></a>THE PINE TREE MAIDEN</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Indian Legend)</p>
<p>In an Indian village which stood near the
Big Sea Water lived a beautiful little girl
whose name was Leelinau. Her chief delight
was to wander among the pine trees of a
sacred grove which bordered the great waters.
Here she passed many hours watching the
sunlight dance on the stems of the tall trees
and listening to the soft music of the wind as
it came up from the sea and played in the
forest.</p>
<p>The child’s desire to spend so much of her
time alone in the grove made her little companions
regard her with awe, and they sometimes
whispered together about the meaning
of her strange journeys to the deep woods.</p>
<p>“Leelinau goes to the forest to play with
the Puckwudjinies. She dances with the
fairy folk and talks to them in their own
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>69]</a></span>
language,” said the Indian children when they
saw the little girl’s figure hurrying toward
the grove of pine trees.</p>
<p>Leelinau’s parents took little notice of her
strange attraction for the lonely forest. They
thought it was a childish fancy which would
vanish in a few years. But the little girl grew
into a beautiful slender maiden and still she
visited her retreat with increasing delight.</p>
<p>“When Leelinau goes to the forest the air is
filled with the sweetest perfume and the trees
nod their feathery plumes in welcome to her,”
whispered the youths and maidens of the village.
“Some say she calls the pine trees by
name and they answer her in a strange language
which she understands.”</p>
<p>One day it happened that an Indian hunter,
who was a mighty chief, passed through the
sacred grove. There, leaning against her
favourite tree, a stately pine, he saw Leelinau,
a dark-haired maiden marvellously beautiful.
In a few days the chief sought her parents
and laid before them rich gifts, saying that he
wished to make the forest maiden his bride.</p>
<p>To the surprise of all the people in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>70]</a></span>
village Leelinau took no joy in her approaching
marriage to the great chief. To be sure,
she made no complaint, for she was an obedient
daughter. But each day, when she returned
from her accustomed journey to the
forest, she was sad and thoughtful. Sometimes
she stood before her father’s tepee and
looked with wistful eyes toward her beloved
grove.</p>
<p>At last the day arrived on which the great
chief would claim her for his bride. The forest
maiden dressed herself in her beautiful
wedding robe and took her usual walk into
the forest. Her parents were not surprised
that she should wish to take a farewell look
at the grove where she had spent so many
happy hours, and which she was about to
leave, for the great chief lived many miles
away.</p>
<p>When she reached the forest she hastened
to her beautiful pine tree. Clinging to the
trunk she wept bitterly and whispered the
story of her coming marriage to a war chief
from whom her heart shrank in fear. When
she had finished there was a soft rustling in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>71]</a></span>
the branches overhead and a voice said:
“Leelinau! Leelinau! thou art my beloved!
Wilt thou stay in the forest and be my bride?”</p>
<p>And she answered, “I will never leave my
pine tree lover.”</p>
<p>The sun stood high above the sacred grove
and Leelinau had not returned to her father’s
lodge. Friends were sent to bring her to the
village but they came back with the report
that the maiden was not in the forest. The
great chief and his warriors searched far and
wide for the lost maiden. She had disappeared
so completely that the keenest-eyed
Indians could discover no trace of her. The
chief departed without his bride and for a
year no tidings of Leelinau came to the
village.</p>
<p>It happened one calm evening when the sun
was sinking into the Big Sea Water, that an
Indian youth in a birch bark canoe was swiftly
skimming along toward the shore bordered by
the sacred grove. There, standing near the
deep forest, was a familiar figure. It was
Leelinau, the lost maiden. In his surprise and
joy the youth shouted to her and she waved
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>72]</a></span>
her hand to him in recognition. Then he
noticed that she was not alone. By her side
stood a handsome brave with a green plume
standing high on his head. With all his might
the young Indian quickened the speed of his
canoe and in a few moments he sprang ashore.
But where were Leelinau and the young
brave! They had disappeared and not a trace
of them was to be found on the lonely shore
or in the forest.</p>
<p>The youth returned to the village and told
his story. Reverently the people bowed their
heads and whispered, “Leelinau will never
come back to us. She is the bride of her
favourite pine tree.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>73]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap04" id="bk2chap04"></a>THE HOLLY</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Janet Harvey Kelman</p>
<p>The Holly is our most important evergreen,
and is so well known that it scarcely needs
any description. It has flourished in this country
as long as the Oak, and is often found growing
under tall trees in the crowded forests, as
well as in the open glades, where lawns of fine
grass are to be found.</p>
<p>People say that the Holly, or Holm tree,
as it is often called, is the greenwood tree
spoken of by Shakespeare, and that under its
bushy shelter Robin Hood and his merry men
held their meetings in the open glades of
Sherwood Forest. Sometimes it is called the
Holly tree, because from the oldest time of
which we have any record its boughs have
been used to deck our shrines and churches,
and in some parts of England the country people
in December speak of gathering Christmas,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>74]</a></span>
which is the name they give to the Holly,
or Holy tree. It is this evergreen which we
oftenest use at Christmas-tide to decorate our
churches, and very lovely the dark green
sprays, with their coral berries, look when
twined round the grey stone pillars.</p>
<p>The Holly is looked upon as a second-rate
forest tree. It is never very large, and it
usually appears as a thick, tall bush, with
many branches reaching almost to the ground.
Sometimes you find it with a slender, bare
trunk, clothed with pale grey bark, and if you
look closely at this bark you will see that it is
covered with curious black markings, as if
some strange writing had been traced on it
with a heavy black pen.</p>
<p>This writing is the work of a tiny plant
which makes its home on the Holly stem and
spreads in this strange way.</p>
<p>The bark of the young Holly shoots and
boughs is pale green and quite smooth.</p>
<p>The tree requires little sunshine, and it
seems to keep all it gets as every leaf is highly
polished and reflects the light like a mirror.
These leaves grow closely on every branch;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>75]</a></span>
they are placed alternately on each side of the
twigs, and are oval, with the edges so much
waved that the leaves will not lie flat, but curl
on each side of the centre rib.</p>
<p>The prickly leaves which grow low down
on the tree have sharp spines along the waved
edges, and a very sharp spine always grows
at the point of the leaf. But the upper
branches are clothed with blunt leaves which
have no spines along the edges; instead there
is a pale yellow line round each leaf, and there
is a single blunt spine at the point.</p>
<p>Sheep and deer are very fond of eating the
tough, leathery leaves of the Holly, and it is
believed that the tree clothes its lower
branches in prickly leaves to protect itself
from these greedy enemies.</p>
<p>Country people tell you that if branches of
smooth Holly are the first to be brought into
the house at Christmas-time, then the wife
will be head of the house all the next year,
but if the prickly boughs enter first, then the
husband will be ruler.</p>
<p>The Holly leaves hang on the tree several
years, and after they fall they lie a long time
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>76]</a></span>
on the ground before the damp soaks through
their leathery skin and makes them decay.
You will find Holly leaves from which all the
green part of the leaf has disappeared, leaving
a beautiful skeleton leaf of grey fibre,
which is still perfect in every vein and rib.</p>
<p>The flowers of the Holly bloom in May.
They appear in small crowded clusters between
the leaf stalk and the twig, and each
flower is a delicate pale pink on the outside,
but is pure white within. There is a calyx
cup edged with four green points, and inside
this cup stands a long white tube, with four
white petals at the top. There are four yellow-headed
stamens, and a tiny seed-vessel is
hidden inside the flower tube. Sometimes all
these parts will be found complete in a single
flower; sometimes there will be flowers on the
same branch which have stamens and no seed-vessel,
and others which have seed-vessels and
no stamens. Perhaps you will find a whole
tree on which not a single seed flower grows.
This tree may be laden with lovely white flowers
in spring, but it will bear no berries in
winter. You must have both stamen flowers
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>77]</a></span>
and seed flowers if the tree is to produce any
fruit.</p>
<p>As summer passes, the seed-vessels, which
have had stamen dust scattered over them, become
small green berries and these berries
turn yellow and then change into a deep red,
the colour of coral or sealing wax. The berries
cluster round the green stalk, and most
beautiful they are among the glossy dark
leaves. Inside each berry there are four little
fruit stones containing seeds, and the birds
love to eat these red berries, which are full of
mealy pulp; but remember that children must
never eat the Holly berries, as they are poisonous
except for the birds.</p>
<p>You will find that if the Holly tree has a
good crop of berries this winter there will not
be many the following year; the tree seems to
require a year’s rest before it can produce a
second large crop.</p>
<p>There are some Holly trees with leaves
which are shaded with pale yellow or white-variegated
Hollies, we call them. These are
greatly prized for planting in gardens, where
the bushes with different-coloured leaves lend
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>78]</a></span>
much beauty when all the trees are bare in
winter.</p>
<p>The wood of the Holly is too small to be of
much use. It is white and very hard, and
when stained black it is largely used instead
of ebony, which is scarce and expensive. The
black handles of many of our silver teapots
are made of stained Holly wood, and the slender
branches are good for making walking-sticks
and coachmen’s whips.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>79]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap05" id="bk2chap05"></a>THE FABLE OF THE THREE ELMS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The North Wind spoke to three sturdy elms,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And, “Now you are dead!” said he;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I have blown a blast till the snow whirled past,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And withered your leaves, and see:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You are brown and old and your boughs are cold!”<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And he sneered at the elm trees three.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The first elm spoke in a hollow tone<br /></span>
<span class="i1">(For the snow lay deep and white,)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“You think we are dead, North Wind?” he said,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">“Why we sleep—as you sleep at night.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath the snow lie my sturdy roots,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">They grip on the friendly earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I rest—till another year!” said he,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And he shook with a noisy mirth.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>80]</a></span>
<span class="i0">The second elm laughed a hearty laugh,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And, “North Wind,” he cried in glee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Beneath my bark glows a living spark,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The sap of a healthy tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My boughs are bare and my leaves are gone,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">But—what have I to fear?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For the winter time is my time of rest<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And I sleep till another year!”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The third elm spoke and his voice was sweet,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And kind as the summery sea;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Oh, Wind!” he said, “we are far from spring—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The God in whose hand we be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Looks down, with love, from the winter sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And sends us His sun to cheer;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If we had no snow there would be no spring—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">We rest till another year!”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The three elms rocked in the stinging blast,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And under the heavy snow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their roots were warm from the raging storm,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And safe from the winds that blow.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>81]</a></span>
<span class="i0">They smiled in their hearts and their leafless boughs<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Spread over the frosty way;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For they knew that the God of forest trees<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Would watch through each winter day.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The North Wind uttered a frosty sigh,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">As the snow blew far and free;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And his weary eyes sought the winter skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And, “Mighty is God!” said he.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“To die or live are His gifts to give!”<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And he smiled at the elm trees three.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>82]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap06" id="bk2chap06"></a>THE PINE AND THE WILLOW</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Japanese Tale)</p>
<p class="center smcap">Mine Morishima</p>
<p>In a beautiful large garden, among many
kinds of trees and shrubs, there stood a tall
fine Pine tree, and near to him, and almost
as tall, a graceful Willow.</p>
<p>One dark winter morning the wind blew
hard and the clouds showed that a storm was
coming soon.</p>
<p>The Pine felt lonesome, as little children
often do and thought he would talk to the
Willow. So he said, “Friend Willow, your
branches are trembling. I am sorry for you,
for I know you are afraid of the storm that
is coming. I wish you were like me. I am
so strong nothing can hurt me. The frost cannot
change the colour of my leaves nor the
wind blow them off; occasionally, some old
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>83]</a></span>
ones may fall on the ground, but there are
always new ones to take their places—and I
am the only tree in this large garden that is
always fresh and bright. As for you, dear
Willow, your branches all hang down, you
have no leaves now and, as you are neither
strong nor pretty and shake in such a little
wind, of what good are you to yourself, or
to any one else?”</p>
<p>“Dear Pine,” the Willow answered, “I do
not tremble with fear, for I am not afraid,
but God made me so that the wind would
move my branches very easily, and that I
should not have leaves in the winter time. By
and by I shall have delicate green leaves and
blossoms, and I thank Him for giving me a
beautiful summer dress, even though I go bare
in cold weather. It must be very beautiful
to be strong and handsome, as you are, and I
am happy in having so good a friend.”</p>
<p>While they were talking the wind had
grown much stronger, and now the rain came
pouring down. The Pine stood up angrily
against the wind, scolding with a hin, hin, hin,
while the Willow bent and swayed to and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>84]</a></span>
fro and all the other trees bowed their heads.</p>
<p>Then the Pine said, “Willow, why do you
not push this rude wind away instead of yielding
to him; you are cowardly to let him abuse
you so, when you might resist him, as I do.”</p>
<p>Then the Willow answered, “There are
many ways to keep oneself from harm, and I
do not like to resist any one with force.”</p>
<p>The Pine was vexed at the Willow and
would say no more, but battled with the wind
he could no longer hold back. Then his
branches were torn and his top broken off;
they fell to the ground and the proud tree was
a sad sight.</p>
<p>But the Willow bent her branches and
yielded to the wind, and so was unhurt.</p>
<p>The next morning, when the rain had ceased
and the sun shone brightly, the owner of the
garden came out to see how his trees had
stood the storm. When he saw the broken
Pine he thought it was too bad to have a
broken tree in his fine garden, so he ordered
the gardener to move the Pine into the back
yard.</p>
<p>After a time, spring came, and the Willow
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>85]</a></span>
put forth her lovely green leaves and every
one who passed looked at the graceful tree
and said, “How beautiful she is, how gentle
she seems!”</p>
<p>The little birds built their nests in her
branches, and soon baby birds came, which
made the tree very happy. The butterflies
danced around in the sunshine and all summer
little children loved to play in the shade
of the drooping Willow.</p>
<p>And when the Pine peeped in from the
back yard, and saw how happy and beautiful
the Willow was, and how the children, the
birds, and the butterflies loved to play about
her, he thought, “If only I had been less proud
of my own strength, then might I, too, be
standing in that beautiful garden with my
crown of leaves, and with young life all about
me.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>86]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap07" id="bk2chap07"></a>WHY THE WILD RABBITS ARE WHITE IN WINTER</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Algonquin Legend)</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="smlfont">Adapted from “Algonquin Indian Tales,” by Egerton R.
Young. Copyright, 1903, by Egerton R. Young. Reprinted
by permission of the Abington Press, Publishers.</p>
</div>
<p>Long ago Wild Rabbit of the Northland
wore a brown fur coat, throughout the year.
Today, when the long winter months come,
Wild Rabbit changes his coat of brown to one
that is the colour of the snow. And this is how
the change happened.</p>
<p>Wild Rabbit could not defend himself
from his many foes. Almost all the animals,—foxes
of all kinds, wildcats, wolves, wolverines,
weasels, and ermine hunted Wild Rabbit
for food. Then there were the fierce birds,—the
eagles, hawks, and owls—that were always
on the lookout for rabbits, young or old. The
result was that with this war continually
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>87]</a></span>
waged against them, the poor rabbits had a
hard time of it, especially in winter. They
found it very difficult to hide themselves when
the leaves were off the trees and the ground
was covered with snow.</p>
<p>In those days of long ago the animals used
to have a large council. There was a great
father at the head of each kind of animal and
bird, and these leaders used to meet and talk
about the welfare of their kind. There was
always peace and friendship among them
while at the council. They appointed a king
and he presided as chief. All the animals
that had troubles or grievances had a right to
come and speak about them at the council, and
if it were possible, all wrongs were remedied.</p>
<p>Sometimes queer things were said. At one
council the bear found great fault with the fox
who had deceived him and had caused him to
lose his beautiful tail by telling him to go and
catch fish with it in a big crack in the ice.
The bear sat fishing so long that the crack
froze up solidly and, to save his life, the bear
had to break off his tail.</p>
<p>But all the things they talked about were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>88]</a></span>
not so funny as the bear’s complaint. They
had their troubles and dangers and they discussed
various plans for improving their condition;
also, they considered how they could
best defeat the skill and cleverness of the
human hunters.</p>
<p>At one of the council meetings, when the
rabbit’s turn to be heard came, he said that
his people were nearly all destroyed, that the
rest of the world seemed to be combined
against his race and they were killing them by
day and night, in summer and winter. Also,
he declared that the rabbits had little power
to fight against enemies, and, therefore, his
people were almost discouraged, but they had
sent him to the council to see if the members
could suggest any remedy or plan to save the
rabbit race from complete destruction.</p>
<p>While the rabbit was speaking the wolverine
winked at the wildcat, while the fox, although
he tried to look solemn, could not keep
his mouth from watering as he thought of the
many rabbits he intended to eat.</p>
<p>Thus it can be seen that the rabbit did not
get much sympathy from his enemies in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>89]</a></span>
council. But his friends,—the moose, the
reindeer, and the mountain goat—stood up in
the meeting and spoke out bravely for their
little friend. Indeed, they told the animals
that had laughed at the little rabbit’s sad
story that if they continued to kill all the rabbits
they could find there would soon be none
left. Then these cruel animals would be the
greatest sufferers, for what else could they find
to eat in sufficient numbers to keep them alive,
if the rabbits were all gone?</p>
<p>This thought sobered the thoughtless animals
at first but they soon resumed their mocking
at the poor little rabbit and his story. As
they happened to be in the majority, the
council refused to do anything in the matter.</p>
<p>When the moose heard the decision of the
council he was very sorry for his poor little
brother rabbit. He lowered his head and
told the rabbit to jump on one of his flat horns.
The moose then carried him some distance
away from the council and said, “There is no
hope for you here. Most of the animals live
on you and so they will not do anything that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>90]</a></span>
will make it more difficult for you to be caught
than it now is. Your only hope is to go to
Manabozho, and see what he can do for you.
His name was once Manabush, which means
Great Rabbit, so I am sure he will be your
friend because I think he is a distant relative
of yours.”</p>
<p>Away sped the rabbit along the route described
by the moose, who had lately found
out where Manabozho was stopping.</p>
<p>The rabbit was such a timid creature that,
when he came near to Manabozho, he was
much afraid that he would not be welcomed.
However, his case was desperate, and although
his heart was thumping with fear he hurried
along to have the matter decided as soon as
possible.</p>
<p>To his great joy he found Manabozho in
the best humour and the little creature was
received most kindly. The great Master saw
how weary the little rabbit was after the long
journey so he made the little fellow rest on
some fragrant grass in the sunshine. Then
Manabozho went out and brought in some of
the choicest things in his garden for the rabbit.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>91]</a></span>
“Tell me all your troubles, little brother,”
said Manabozho. “Also, tell me about the
council meeting.”</p>
<p>The rabbit repeated his story and told all
about the treatment he had received at the
council.</p>
<p>When the Great Master heard how unjustly
the little rabbit had been treated he grew
very angry and said, “And that is the way
they treated little brother rabbit at the council
we have given them, is it? And they know
we expect them to give the smallest and weakest
the same kind of justice as they offer the
biggest and strongest! It is high time for
some one to report the council news to me if
such unfair meetings take place. Look out,
Mr. Fox, Mr. Wolverine, and Mr. Wildcat,
for if I take you in hand you’ll be sorry little
brother rabbit was obliged to come to Manabozho
for help.”</p>
<p>The Great Master had worked himself up
into such a furious temper that the rabbit was
frightened almost to death. But when Manabozho
saw this he laughed and said, “I’m
sorry to have frightened you, little brother.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>92]</a></span>
But I was so very angry with those animals
for ill-treating you that I forgot myself. And
now tell me what you wish me to do for you?”</p>
<p>After a long talk about the matter it was
decided that there should be two great changes
made. First, the eyes of the rabbit should be
so increased in power that in the future they
would be able to see by night as well as by
day. Second, in all the Northland where
much snow falls during many months of the
year the rabbits of that region should change
their coats for the winter season into a beautiful
white colour like the snow.</p>
<p>And the rabbits of the Northland now have
a much better time than they had formerly.
In their soft white coats they can glide away
from their enemies, or they can sometimes
escape notice by remaining perfectly still on
the white earth. (<i>Adapted.</i>)</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>93]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap08" id="bk2chap08"></a>THE YEW</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Janet Harvey Kelman</p>
<p>Once upon a time a discontented Yew tree
grew in a wood. Other trees, it thought, had
larger and more beautiful leaves which fluttered
in the breeze and became red and brown
and yellow in the sunshine, and the Yew
tree pined because the fairies had given
it such an unattractive dress. One morning
the sunshine disclosed that all its green
leaves had changed into leaves made of
gold, and the heart of the Yew tree danced
with happiness. But some robbers, as they
stole through the forest, were attracted by the
glitter, and stripped off every golden leaf.
Again the tree bemoaned its fate, and next day
the sun shone on leaves of purest crystal.
“How beautiful!” thought the tree; “see how
I sparkle!” But a hailstorm burst from the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>94]</a></span>
clouds, and the sparkling leaves lay shivered
on the grass. Once more the good fairies
tried to comfort the unhappy tree. Smooth
broad leaves covered its branches, and the Yew
tree flaunted these gay banners in the wind.
But, alas, a flock of goats came by and ate of
the fresh young leaves “a million and ten.”
“Give me back again my old dress,” sobbed
the Yew, “for I see that it was best.” And
ever since its leaves remain unchanging, and
it wears the sombre dress which covered its
boughs in the days when King William landed
from Normandy on our shores, and the swineherd
tended his pigs in the great forests which
covered so much of Merry England.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>95]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap09" id="bk2chap09"></a>HOW THE PINE TREE DID SOME GOOD</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Samuel W. Duffield</p>
<p>It was a long narrow valley where the Pine
Tree stood, and perhaps if you want to look
for it you might find it there today. For pine
trees live a long time, and this one was not
very old.</p>
<p>The valley was quite barren. Nothing
grew there but a few scrubby bushes; and, to
tell the truth, it was about as desolate a place
as you can well imagine. Far up over it hung
the great, snowy caps of the Rocky Mountains,
where the clouds played hide and seek
all day, and chased each other merrily across
the snow. There was a little stream, too, that
gathered itself up among the snows and came
running down the side of the mountain; but
for all that the valley was very dreary.</p>
<p>Once in a while there went a large grey
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>96]</a></span>
rabbit, hopping among the sagebushes; but
look as far as you could you would find no
more inhabitants. Poor, solitary little valley,
with not even a cottonwood down by the
stream, and hardly enough grass to furnish
three oxen with a meal! Poor, barren little
valley lying always for half the day in the
shadow of those tall cliffs—burning under the
summer sun, heaped high with the winter
snows—lying there year after year without a
friend! Yes, it had two friends, though they
could do it but little good, for they were two
pine trees. The one nearest the mountain,
hanging quite out of reach in a cleft of the
rock, was an old, gnarled tree, which had
stood there for a hundred years. The other
was younger, with bright green foliage, summer
and winter. It curled up the ends of its
branches, as if it would like to have you understand
that it was a very fine, hardy fellow,
even if it wasn’t as old as its father up there
in the cleft of the rock.</p>
<p>Now the young Pine Tree grew very lonesome
at times, and was glad to talk with any
persons who came along, and they were few,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>97]</a></span>
I can tell you. Occasionally, it would look
lovingly up to the father pine, and wonder if
it could make him hear what it said. It would
rustle its branches and shout by the hour, but
the father pine heard him only once, and then
the words were so mixed with falling snow
that it was really impossible to say what they
meant.</p>
<p>So the Pine Tree was very lonesome and no
wonder. “I wish I knew of what good I am,”
he said to the grey rabbit one day. “I wish I
knew,—I wish I knew,” and he rustled his
branches until they all seemed to say, “Wish I
knew—wish I knew.”</p>
<p>“O pshaw!” said the rabbit, “I wouldn’t
concern myself much about that. Some day
you’ll find out.”</p>
<p>“But do tell me,” persisted the Pine Tree,
“of what good you think I am.”</p>
<p>“Well,” answered the rabbit, sitting up on
her hind paws and washing her face with her
front ones, in order that company shouldn’t
see her unless she looked trim and tidy—“well,”
said the rabbit, “I can’t exactly say
myself what it is. If you don’t help one, you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>98]</a></span>
help another—and that’s right enough, isn’t
it? As for me, I take care of my family. I
hop around among the sagebushes and get
their breakfast and dinner and supper. I have
plenty to do, I assure you, and you must really
excuse me now, for I have to be off.”</p>
<p>“I wish I was a hare,” muttered the Pine
Tree to himself, “I think I could do some
good then, for I should have a family to support,
but I know I can’t now.”</p>
<p>Then he called across to the little stream
and asked the same question of him. And the
stream rippled along, and danced in the sunshine,
and answered him. “I go on errands
for the big mountain all day. I carried one
of your cones not long ago to a point of land
twenty miles off, and there now is a pine tree
that looks just like you. But I must run along,
I am so busy. I can’t tell you of what good
you are. You must wait and see.” And the
little stream danced on.</p>
<p>“I wish I were a stream,” thought the Pine
Tree. “Anything but being tied down to this
spot for years. That is unfair. The rabbit
can run around, and so can the stream; but I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>99]</a></span>
must stand still forever. I wish I were dead.”</p>
<p>By and by the summer passed into autumn,
and the autumn into winter, and the snowflakes
began to fall.</p>
<p>“Halloo!” said the first one, all in a flutter,
as she dropped on the Pine Tree. But he
shook her off, and she fell still farther down
on the ground. The Pine Tree was getting
very churlish and cross lately.</p>
<p>However, the snow didn’t stop for all that
and very soon there was a white robe over all
the narrow valley. The Pine Tree had no
one to talk with now. The stream had covered
himself in with ice and snow, and wasn’t to be
seen.</p>
<p>The hare had to hop around very industriously
to get enough for her children to eat;
and the sagebushes were always low-minded
fellows and couldn’t begin to keep up a ten-minutes’
conversation.</p>
<p>At last there came a solitary figure across
the valley, making its way straight for the
Pine Tree. It was a lame mule, which had
been left behind from some wagon-train. He
dragged himself slowly on till he reached the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>100]</a></span>
tree. Now the Pine, in shaking off the snow,
had shaken down some cones as well, and they
lay on the snow. These the mule picked up
and began to eat.</p>
<p>“Heigh ho!” said the tree, “I never knew
those things were fit to eat before.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you?” replied the mule. “Why I
have lived on these things, as you call them,
ever since I left the wagons. I am going back
on the Oregon Trail, and I sha’n’t see you
again. Accept my thanks for breakfast.
Good-bye.”</p>
<p>And he moved off to the other end of the
valley and disappeared among the rocks.</p>
<p>“Well!” exclaimed the Pine Tree. “That’s
something, at all events.” And he shook down
a number of cones on the snow. He was really
happier than he had ever been before,—and
with good reason, too.</p>
<p>After a while there appeared three people.
They were a family of Indians,—a father, a
mother, and a little child. They, too, went
straight to the tree.</p>
<p>“We’ll stay here,” said the father, looking
across at the snow-covered bed of the stream
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>101]</a></span>
and up at the Pine Tree. He was very poorly
clothed, this Indian. He and his wife and the
child had on dresses of hare-skins, and they
possessed nothing more of any account, except
bow and arrows, and a stick with a net on the
end. They had no lodge poles, and not even
a dog. They were very miserable and hungry.
The man threw down his bow and arrows
not far from the tree. Then he began to
clear away the snow in a circle and to pull up
the sagebushes. These he and the woman
built into a round, low hut, and then they
lighted a fire within it. While it was beginning
to burn the man went to the stream and
broke a hole in the ice. Tying a string to his
arrow, he shot a fish which came up to breathe,
and, after putting it on the coals, they all ate
it half-raw. They never noticed the Pine
Tree, though he scattered down at least a
dozen more cones.</p>
<p>At last night came on, cold and cheerless.
The wind blew savagely through the valleys,
and howled at the Pine Tree, for they were
old enemies. Oh, it was a bitter night, but finally
the morning broke! More snow had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>102]</a></span>
fallen and heaped up against the hut so that
you could hardly tell that it was there. The
stream had frozen tighter than before and the
man could not break a hole in the ice again.
The sagebushes were all hid by the drifts, and
the Indians could find none to burn.</p>
<p>Then they turned to the Pine Tree. How
glad he was to help them! They gathered up
the cones and roasted the seeds on the fire.
They cut branches from the tree and burned
them, and so kept up the warmth in their hut.</p>
<p>The Pine Tree began to find himself useful,
and he told the hare so one morning when she
came along. But she saw the Indian’s hut,
and did not stop to reply. She had put on her
winter coat of white, yet the Indian had seen
her in spite of all her care. He followed her
over the snow with his net, and caught her
among the drifts. Poor Pine Tree! She was
almost his only friend, and when he saw her
eaten and her skin taken for the child’s mantle,
he was very sorrowful, you may be sure. He
saw that if the Indians stayed there, he, too,
would have to die, for they would in time burn
off all his branches, and use all his cones; but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>103]</a></span>
he was doing good at last, and he was content.</p>
<p>Day after day passed by,—some bleak, some
warm,—and the winter moved slowly along.
The Indians only went from their hut to the
Pine Tree now. He gave them fire and food,
and the snow was their drink. He was smaller
than before, for many branches were gone,
but he was happier than ever.</p>
<p>One day the sun came out more warmly, and
it seemed as if spring was near. The Indian
man broke a hole in the ice, and got more fish.
The Indian woman caught a rabbit. The Indian
child gathered sagebushes from under
the fast-melting snow and made a hotter fire to
cook the feast. And they did feast, and then
they went away.</p>
<p>The Pine Tree had found out his mission.
He had helped to save three lives.</p>
<p>In the summer there came along a band of
explorers, and one, the botanist of the party,
stopped beside our Pine Tree:</p>
<p>“This,” said he in his big words, “is the
Pinus Monophyllus, otherwise known as the
Bread Pine.” He looked at the deserted hut
and passed his hand over his forehead.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>104]</a></span>
“How strange it is,” said he. “This Pine
Tree must have kept a whole family from cold
and starvation last winter. There are very
few of us who have done as much good as
that.” And when he went away, he waved his
hand to the tree and thanked God in his heart
that it grew there. And the Bread Pine
waved his branches in return, and said to himself
as he gazed after the departing band: “I
will never complain again, for I have found
out what a pleasant thing it is to do good, and
I know now that every one in his lifetime can
do a little of it.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>105]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap10" id="bk2chap10"></a>A WONDERFUL WEAVER</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There’s a wonderful weaver<br /></span>
<span class="i1">High up in the air,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he weaves a white mantle<br /></span>
<span class="i1">For cold earth to wear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With the wind for his shuttle,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The cloud for his loom,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How he weaves, how he weaves,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">In the light, in the gloom.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, with finest of laces,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">He decks bush and tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On the bare, flinty meadows<br /></span>
<span class="i1">A cover lays he.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then a quaint cap he places<br /></span>
<span class="i1">On pillar and post,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he changes the pump<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To a grim, silent ghost.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>106]</a></span>
<span class="i0">But this wonderful weaver<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Grows weary at last;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the shuttle lies idle<br /></span>
<span class="i1">That once flew so fast.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then the sun peeps abroad<br /></span>
<span class="i1">On the work that is done;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he smiles: “I’ll unravel<br /></span>
<span class="i1">It all, just for fun.”<br /></span>
<span class="poet">George Cooper.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>107]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap11" id="bk2chap11"></a>THE PINE AND THE FLAX</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Albrekt Segerstedt</p>
<p>Just where a forest ended grew a pine tree
taller and more beautiful than all the others
in the forest. Far away could be seen its feathery
round crown, whose soft branches waved
so gracefully when the wind blew across the
plain.</p>
<p>At the foot of the pine tree the fields of
grain began.</p>
<p>Here the farmer sowed seeds of many kinds,
but the flax was sowed nearest the pine. It
came up beautiful and even, and the pine
thought a great deal of the slender green
thing.</p>
<p>The flax stalk raised itself higher and
higher, and near the close of summer it bore a
little blue helmet on his head.</p>
<p>“Thou art so beautiful!” said the tall pine.</p>
<p>The flax bowed itself low, but raised again
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>108]</a></span>
so gracefully that it looked like a billowy sea.</p>
<p>The pine and the flax often talked to each
other and became great friends.</p>
<p>“What folly!” said the other forest trees to
the pine. “Do not have anything to do with
the flax; it is so weak. Choose the tall spruce
or the birch tree. They are strong.”</p>
<p>But the pine would not desert the flax.</p>
<p>The thistle and other small plants talked to
the flax.</p>
<p>“You are crazy to think of the lofty pine.
It does not trouble itself about you. It is tall
and proud. Children of a size play best together.
Think of the bush and vine and content
yourself.”</p>
<p>“I shall trust the pine,” replied the flax. “It
is honourable and faithful and I am fond of
it.”</p>
<p>So the pine and the flax remained friends.</p>
<p>Time passed and the flax was pulled up and
made into ropes and cloth. The pine was
felled and its trunk carried to the city. But
the pine and flax did not forget each other,
though neither knew where the other was.</p>
<p>A large, beautiful ship was launched upon
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>109]</a></span>
the water. On this the pine tree was erected
as a mast, and on the highest part waved a
flag.</p>
<p>Then came a great white sail to help the
mast carry the proud ship forward. It
wrapped itself around the mast, spread itself
out like a great wing, and caught the wind on
its wide curve.</p>
<p>The sail had been woven of linen that grew
as flax out in the field on the edge of the wood.
And the two friends had met again.</p>
<p>Clasping each other faithfully, out over the
foaming billows they went to new lands. It
was life, it was pleasure to go on united as
friends.</p>
<p>The winds took a message back to the forest.</p>
<p>“Who would have believed it?” said the
spruce and the birch.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>110]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap12" id="bk2chap12"></a>THE FIR TREE</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O singing Wind<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Searching field and wood,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Cans’t thou find<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aught that’s sweet or good—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flowers, to kiss awake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or dewy grass, to shake,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Or feathered seed<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Aloft to speed?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i1">Replies the wind:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">“I cannot find<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flowers, to kiss awake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or dewy grass to shake,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Or feathered seed<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Aloft to speed;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yet I meet<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Something sweet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the scented fir,—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Balsam-breathing fir—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">In my flight I stir.”<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Edith M. Thomas.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>111]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap13" id="bk2chap13"></a>WHY BRUIN HAS A STUMPY TAIL</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Norwegian Legend)</p>
<p>Once upon a time a sly fox lived in a deep forest
which bordered a river. One fine winter
day he was lying in the sun near a brush heap
with his eyes closed, and he was thinking: “It
has been several days since I had a dainty supper.
How I should enjoy a fine large fish this
evening. I’ll slip over to the edge of the forest
and watch the fishermen as they go home with
their day’s catch. Perhaps good luck will do
something for me.”</p>
<p>Now one old man had caught a very fine lot
of fish of all sizes. Indeed, he had so many
that he was obliged to hire a cart in which to
carry them home. He was driving along
slowly when suddenly he noticed a red fox
crouched under the bush near the road. He
stopped his horse, jumped down from the cart,
and carefully crept near the spot where he had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>112]</a></span>
seen Master Reynard. The fox did not open
his eyes nor move a muscle.</p>
<p>“Well,” said the old fisherman, “I do believe
he is dead! What a fine coat he has. I
will take him home and give him to my wife
for a present.” He lifted the fox and put him
into the cart among the fish. The old man
then mounted to his seat and drove merrily on,
thinking how pleased his wife would be with
the fine fish and the fox. When they were
well on their way, the sly fox threw one fish
after another out of the cart until all lay scattered
along on the road; then he slipped out
of the cart.</p>
<p>When the old man reached his cottage, he
called out to his wife, “Come and see the fine
fish I caught to-day. And I have brought you
a beautiful gift, also.”</p>
<p>His wife hurried to the cart and said,
“Where are the fish, my husband, and where
is my present?”</p>
<p>“Why, there in the cart,” he replied.</p>
<p>“In the cart!” exclaimed his wife. “Why,
there is nothing here; neither fish nor present,
so far as I can see.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>113]</a></span>
The old man looked and to his great surprise
and disappointment he discovered that
what his wife said was true.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the sly fox had gathered up the
fish and had taken them to the forest in order
to enjoy a fine supper. Presently he heard a
pleasant voice saying, “Good evening, Brother
Reynard.”</p>
<p>He looked up and saw his friend Bruin.
“Oh, good evening to you,” answered the fox.
“I have been fishing to-day, and, as you see,
luck certainly attended me.”</p>
<p>“It did, indeed,” answered the bear.
“Could you not spare me one fish? I should
consider the gift a great favor.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” answered the fox, “why don’t you go
fishing yourself? I assure you when one becomes
a fisherman, he thoroughly enjoys the
fruits of patience.”</p>
<p>“Go fishing, my friend,” said Bruin, in astonishment.
“That is impossible. I know
nothing about catching fish, I assure you.”</p>
<p>“Pooh, it is very easy, especially in the winter
time when ice nearly covers the river. Let
me tell you what to do. Make a hole in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>114]</a></span>
ice and stick your tail down into it. Hold it
there just as long as you can and keep saying,
‘Come, little fish; come, big fish.’ Don’t mind
if the tail smarts a little; that only means that
you have a bite, and I assure you the longer
you hold it there the more fish you will catch.
Then all at once, out with your tail. Give a
strong pull sideways, then upward, and you’ll
have enough fish to last you several days. But
mind you, follow my directions closely.”</p>
<p>“Oh, my friend, I am very grateful for your
kind information,” said Bruin, and off he went
to the river where he proceeded to follow Master
Fox’s directions.</p>
<p>In a short time sly Reynard passed by, and
when he saw Bruin patiently sitting on the ice
with his tail in a hole, he laughed until his
sides ached. He said, wickedly, under his
breath: “A clear sky, a clear sky! Bruin’s tail
will freeze, Bruin’s tail will freeze.”</p>
<p>“What did you say, my friend?” asked the
bear.</p>
<p>“Oh, I was making a wish,” replied the fox.</p>
<p>All night long Bruin sat there, fishing patiently.
Then he decided to go home. How
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>115]</a></span>
very heavy his tail felt. He thought to himself
that all the fish in the river must be fastened
there. In a little while the women of
the village came to get water from the river,
and when they saw the bear, they called out at
the top of their voices: “Come, come! A bear,
a bear! Kill him! Kill him!”</p>
<p>The men came quickly with great sticks in
their hands. Poor Bruin gave a short pull
sideways and his tail snapped off short. He
made off to the woods as fast as he could go,
but to this day he goes about with a stumpy
tail.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>116]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap14" id="bk2chap14"></a>PINES AND FIRS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Mrs. Dyson</p>
<p>Pines and firs! Who knows the difference
between a pine and a fir! These trees are first
cousins; they often dwell together in our
woods; they are evergreen; they have narrow,
pointed leaves; and they bear cones, and so we
often call them all firs, as if they were brothers.
This may satisfy strangers and passers-by
who only turn their heads and say: “Ah!
a fir wood,” but it will not be sufficient
for the friends of the trees. Pines and firs
are as different as oaks and beeches; and who
would not be ashamed to take a beech for an
oak!</p>
<p>A fir is the shape of a church steeple or a
spear-head about to cleave the sky. The lowermost
branches come out in a ring and spread
out straight and stiff like the spokes of a wheel.
Above this whorl is another of shorter
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>117]</a></span>
branches still, and so on, till the top ring is
quite a little one round a pointed shoot. The
little shoots fork out on each side of the big
branches, and like them are set closely with
leaves. These shoots do not point up to the
sky nor down to the earth; they spread out
flat, so that the branch looks like a huge fern.</p>
<p>Pines begin to grow like firs; but as they
shoot up side by side in the woods, their lower
branches drop off for want of air and sunshine,
and their upper branches spread out wider.
A fir is a pyramid with a pointed top; but
a full-grown pine has a flat top, and often a
tall, bare trunk, so that it looks like a great
umbrella. A famous Roman writer, Pliny,
said that the smoke of a volcano was like a pine
tree. The smoke shoots up in a great pillar
from the mouth of the fiery mountain, and
then spreads itself out in a black cap.</p>
<p>You have often amused yourselves with finding
pictures in the clouds. Have you seen a
pillar of mist rise up from the horizon, the
meeting line of the earth and sky, and then lose
itself in a soft cloud? The country people in
some parts of Europe call this cloud-form
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>118]</a></span>
<em>Abraham’s tree</em> or <em>Adam’s tree</em>, because it is
so like a pine tree. When the clouds break up
into the soft, white, fleecy ripples that we call
a mackerel sky, they say, “We shall have wind,
for Adam’s tree is putting forth leaves.”</p>
<p>The pine trees dress themselves in long,
blue-green, rounded needles set in bundles of
two, three, or more, bristling out all round
their branches; but the fir trees wear short,
narrow, flat leaves of a yellow-green colour, set
singly each one by itself. These fir leaves
come out all round the stem just as pine leaves
do, but they are parted down the middle as we
sometimes part our hair, so that they spread
out flat in two thick rows.</p>
<p>Mr. Ruskin calls the pines and firs and their
relations the builders with the sword, because
of their narrow, pointed leaves, and the broad-leaved
trees he calls the builders with the
shield. The trees of the sword stand erect on
the hills like armed soldiers prepared for war;
while the trees of the shield spread themselves
in the valleys to shelter the fields and pastures.</p>
<p>Why do these mountain trees have such narrow
leaves? Can you find out a reason?
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>119]</a></span>
Perhaps this is one: when the great, strong wind is
raging with all his force, he will not suffer
any resistance but breaks down everything that
tries to stay him in his course; if he meets
broad leaves and heavy branches, he hurls
them out of his way, but he just whistles
through the slender leaves and branches of the
pines and firs, and scarcely knows they are
there.</p>
<p>When you gather the cones in the wood, you
may know at once whether they have fallen
from pine trees or from fir trees. A pine cone
looks like a single piece of carved solid wood
until it opens, and then each hard scale shows
a thick, square head; but the fir cones are made
of broad, papery scales, with thin edges laid
neatly one over the other.</p>
<p>Now you will never have any difficulty in
knowing the pines from the firs, even in the
far distance—colour, form, dress, fruit, all are
different.</p>
<p>How is it we make a mistake, and call the
Scotch pine by the name of Scotch fir? Perhaps
it is because this tree is the only one of
the great pine and fir family that is a real
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>120]</a></span>
native of Britain. Our stay-at-home ancestors
who lived above three hundred years ago
never saw a real fir, and so their one pine had
to represent all its relations. They knew it
perhaps better than we do, for in their days
there were many forests that have since been
cut down to make room for houses and gardens
and fields.</p>
<p>Sometimes when you have been walking
over the moorland you have run to gather some
bright yellow moss, and have suddenly found
your foot sinking into wet, black mud, and you
have heard stories of men and horses sucked
down by just such dreadful slime. Hundreds
of years ago forests stood where now lie these
dangerous bogs, and the trees and shrubs rotting
and decaying in the wet have changed
into black, brown swamps. Many bogs have
been drained, and the trunks of pine trees have
been found in them standing as they grew. In
one bog in Yorkshire pine trees were found
sawn across and left to lie and rot. Who felled
these trees which have been lying there hundreds
of years? Can we tell? Yes; for among
the trees are scattered axe-heads and Roman
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>121]</a></span>
coins, and we are able to picture the old story
of the place. There was once a forest there,
and the ancient Britons hid themselves in its
shelter, and the Romans cut down the trees to
drive them from their hiding-place.</p>
<p>There are two common kinds of firs which
you will find in the woods. One is the spruce
fir, a very prim and proper tree, with slightly
curving branches turned up at the tips. It
looks as if the branches had been all cut to a
pattern, and their length and the distances between
them carefully measured. When you
have been washed and brushed and pulled and
straightened, and had every hair and bow set
in its proper place, so that you look particularly
trim and neat, you sometimes laugh and
call one another <em>spruce</em>, like the spruce fir.</p>
<p>Some people think the name “spruce” means
the <em>pruce</em>, or Prussian tree; others say it means
the sprouting tree, the tree that sprouts at the
ends of its branches. In some countries these
bright-green sprouts are cut off and made into
a kind of beer called spruce beer.</p>
<p>The spruce fir is at home on the high mountains
of Europe where it often grows one
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>122]</a></span>
hundred and fifty feet high. You long for the
time when you will be taken to Switzerland
to see the snow-capped Alps. Then standing
out against the white snow and the glittering
ice rivers you will see the dark spruce forests.
This fir is also at home in Norway and
the cold lands of the North, and so we call it
the Norway Spruce to distinguish it from
other kinds of spruce fir that grow in America.
In Norway many old men and women
earn a living by gathering and selling in the
markets pieces of fir for the people to strew on
the graves as we do flowers.</p>
<p>What sort of cones has the spruce? Can
you find some in the fir wood? They are five
or six inches long and perhaps two inches
thick. You will see them hanging from the
ends of the upper branches, and perhaps you
may find some empty ones on the ground.
Look at them. Those thin scales are very different
from the tough walls of the pine cone:
each one is shaped off to a point, and this point
is divided into two sharp teeth.</p>
<p>Perhaps when you are looking for the cones,
you will find growing fast to the branches
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>123]</a></span>
among the leaves some fanciful things that
look like little cones. These are very gay;
every scale has a border of crimson velvet and
a green spine in the middle of its back, like a
little tusk. If you open them you will find
some brown, soft things inside. Do you know
what they are? Perhaps, if you have not already
made friends with the real cone, you
will think these are seeds; but some of you are
growing wise, and know that you have intruded
into a little nest of insects. If you tie
a net round the branch and keep watch, you
may see them come out. Their mother
pierced a hole in a brown bud last autumn and
laid her eggs there; then when the buds burst
in spring the lower leaves grew fast together
and made this comfortable house, and those
green tusks you see are the leaf points.</p>
<p>But what is the other kind of fir that grows
in our wood? It is rather like the spruce in
shape, but it is not quite so stiff and prim and
proper, and underneath each little leaf there
are two silver lines, and so we call this the silver
fir. You may always know it from the
spruce by these silver lines. Each stiff little
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>124]</a></span>
leaf has its edges rolled under as if ready for
hemming, and there is a thick green rib down
the middle of the under side, so the silver lining
just peeps out in single streaks between the
rib and the hems.</p>
<p>The spring tufts of the Norway spruce are
of a bright yellow-green; those of the silver
fir are paler and softer in tint, more like the
primrose. When the sulphur butterfly lights
on them we lose sight of him, so he flits from
one to another, feeling quite safe, and keeping
carefully away from those dark old leaves
where he would be pounced upon at once.</p>
<p>The silver fir does not let its cones hang
down; it holds them proudly erect on its
branches; like little towers often eight inches
high. We wonder how such slender twigs can
hold up such large cones. They look like
hairy giants, for their scales do not end in two
little teeth, but in a long point which turns
back and bends downwards.</p>
<p>The silver fir does not like quite such cold
places as the spruce and the Scotch pine; it
dwells lower down the mountain sides, and is
at home in Central Europe.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>125]</a></span>
All the pines and firs, like the Scotch pine,
have those wonderful pipes and reservoirs of
sticky turpentine juice inside their bark, but
each kind of fir has its own way of making its
stores, and so we get different kinds of resin
and turpentine and balsams from different
trees.</p>
<p>It is these stores of resin that make the pine
wood burn so brightly. The Highland chief
needed no gas for his great illuminations; he
had only to call his followers to hold up
branches of blazing pine. It is not very wise
to light a picnic fire in a pine or fir wood, for
sometimes a few sparks will set a whole forest
in flames.</p>
<p><em>Fir</em>—<em>fire</em>: how much alike these two words
are! Do you think they must have some connection
with one another? Were the first fires
made of fir wood? or was this tree called fir
because it made such good fires? These words
are so old that we can only guess their history.</p>
<p>Those of you who like pretty things have
often fingered admiringly some bright, shining
necklace of amber beads. The pieces of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>126]</a></span>
amber from which those beads were cut were
picked up on the shores of the Baltic Sea, and
it is supposed that once upon a time some great
pines or firs dropped their gummy juice and
this hardened into these beautiful transparent
stones.</p>
<p>Pines and firs are some of our greatest tree
givers. They seem never tired of giving. Can
you think of anything that is made of pine or
fir wood? Perhaps you remember hearing
that the seats or panels or ceilings in your
school or church were of the wood of an
American pine called the pitch pine. But
common fir wood has a name of its own. Who
has not heard of <em>deal</em>? A <em>deal</em> is a part or
portion, and so we talk of a great deal of something
meaning a large portion. Our fir wood
comes in great quantities from Norway and
Germany, where it is first cut and sawn into
planks. Each plank is a <em>deal</em>—that is, a portion
of the wood. It has been easy to leave out
the article and call the wood <em>deal</em>.</p>
<p>Our white deal comes from the firs, chiefly
from the Norway spruce. The darker-coloured
deal is the gift of the Scotch pine.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>127]</a></span>
How can the great trees be carried from the
mountain-tops, do you suppose? The streams
are the carriers; they float the great trunks
down to the rivers, where they are tied together
in great rafts and floated on again to
their new home, or to the seaport from which
they can be shipped to foreign lands. Sometimes
when the nearest stream is at a long distance
from the trees, a wooden slide is made
to it. In the winter, water is poured down the
slide, and when it freezes the trees easily shoot
down the slippery way to the stream. Oh,
what fun it must be! You would like to be
there to see. In the year 1810, when all Europe
was at war with the great Emperor Napoleon,
the deal traffic on the Baltic Sea was
stopped. What was to be done? Near the
Lake of Lucerne there is a high mountain,
called Mont Pilate, covered with great forests
of pine and fir. If these could only be cut
down and brought to the lake, they could
easily be floated down the Rhine to the sea.
So a tremendous slide was made from Mont
Pilate to the lake. It was six feet broad, and
from three to six feet deep, and eight miles
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>128]</a></span>
long, and twenty-five thousand pine trees were
used in making it. When water had been
poured down and had frozen, the great trunks
were started one at a time. Away they shot,
and reached the lake, eight miles off, in six
minutes, and in wet weather, when the slide
was very slippery, they were only three minutes
on the way.</p>
<p>Look at the deal planks on the floor of your
room. Do you see those dark knots? They
show you where once branches sprang out of
the trunk. Many of these decayed and
dropped off while quite young, and a little
store of juice prepared for the branch gathered
into the knot and turned it brown and
dark. You will often find the knots in pairs,
showing you how the branches grew opposite
one another.</p>
<p>These long straight lines in the plank that
we call the <em>grain</em> show the rings of wood made
by the pine tree year by year.</p>
<p>How astonished you would be if suddenly
out of that plank a great insect were to creep
and spread out its wings. This sometimes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>129]</a></span>
happens, to the alarm of the people in the
room, but only when the wood is new and has
been used too soon, before it was properly
dried and seasoned. The insect looks very
formidable, for it has a long, pointed weapon
at the end of its body, but it is quite harmless.
It is called the <em>giant sirex</em>, and it looks something
like a wasp or hornet. With its weapon
it pierces holes in the pine tree bark and lays
its eggs there. The grubs eat great tunnels in
the trunk, and when they are full grown they
creep nearly to the outside, and there wait till
they are changed and their wings are ready before
they creep out. Sometimes while they
wait the tree is cut down and then they are
either sawn in two or left inside the plank.</p>
<p>We often see young fir trees in a very strange
place, bearing wonderful fruit of gold and silver
shining lights, and glittering toys.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">“The fir tree stood<br /></span>
<span class="i4">In a beautiful room;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">A hundred tapers<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Dispelled the gloom.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>130]</a></span>
<span class="i0">All decked with gold and silver was he,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lilies and roses so fair to see.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurrah for the fir tree, the Christmas tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A prince in all the forests is he!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">The little children<br /></span>
<span class="i4">With merry shout<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Came crowding, clustering<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Round about.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Brighter and rounder grew their eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And they gazed at the fir in glad surprise.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurrah for the fir tree, the Christmas tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A prince in all the forests is he!”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>131]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk2chap15" id="bk2chap15"></a>WHO LOVES THE TREES BEST?</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who loves trees best?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I,” said the spring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Their leaves so beautiful<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To them I bring.”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who loves the trees best?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I,” summer said,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I give them blossoms,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">White, yellow, red.”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who loves the trees best?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I,” said the fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I give luscious fruits,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bright tints to all!”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who loves the trees best?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I love them best,”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Harsh winter answered,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“I give them rest.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"><!-- no visible page number --></a></span></p>
<h2 class="padtop"><a name="book3" id="book3"></a>CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>134]</a></span></p>
<h3 class="padtop"><a name="bk3chap01" id="bk3chap01"></a>A CHRISTMAS SONG</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christmas in lands of fir tree and pine;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christmas in lands of palm tree and vine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christmas where snow peaks stand solemn and white;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christmas where cornfields lie sunny and bright;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Christmas where children are hopeful and gay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christmas where old men are patient and grey;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christmas where peace like a dove in its flight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Broods over brave men in the thick of the fight;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Phillips Brooks.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>135]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap02" id="bk3chap02"></a>THE SHEPHERD MAIDEN’S GIFT</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Eastern Legend)</p>
<p>In the quiet midnight, peace brooded over the
fields where the shepherds were watching
their flocks. The tinkling of sheepbells, the
bleating of lambs, and the barking of watchdogs
had gradually ceased. Around a large
campfire several shepherds lay resting, for
they had had a long, hard day. Each had beside
him a strong shepherd’s crook and a stout
club ready for use in case any lurking danger
threatened the beloved flocks.</p>
<p>Not far away from the campfire a shepherd
maiden lay sleeping in the rude shelter of a
rocky cave. All day long she had helped her
father guard the sheep, and when darkness
fell over the fields and hills, she was glad to lie
down in her snug bed made of the fleecy skins
of kids and lambs.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>136]</a></span>
Suddenly a light filled the cave and wakened
the maiden. Thinking it was daybreak,
she sprang up, stepped to the rude doorway,
and pushed aside the curtain of goatskin.</p>
<p>“What has happened?” she whispered.</p>
<p>The fields and hills were flooded with light.
The group of shepherds were standing close
together, gazing intently at the luminous eastern
sky. A moment later she saw them fall on
their knees in worship. There in the entrance
of her rude shelter, she, too, knelt and prayed.
Clearly she saw the shining angel appear and
in the peaceful stillness of the night she heard
these words:</p>
<p>“Be not afraid; for, behold, I bring good
tidings of great joy which shall be to all the
people: for there is born to you this day, in
the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ
the Lord. And this shall be the sign unto you:
ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling
clothes and lying in a manger.”</p>
<p>And suddenly there was with the angel
many, many others. Together they lifted up
their voices in praise and sang,</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>137]</a></span>
<span class="i0">“Glory to God in the highest,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Peace on earth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Good will toward men.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>When the sweet music died away, the
maiden rose to her feet and joined the shepherds.</p>
<p>“I saw the angel, Father, and heard the
singing,” she whispered.</p>
<p>“Christ, the Lord, is born,” answered her
father.</p>
<p>“Let us hasten to Bethlehem and see the
Heavenly Child who fulfills the promise of
God,” said one of the shepherds.</p>
<p>“Shall we leave our flocks?” asked another.
But the question was not answered.</p>
<p>“Come, let us see what gifts we have to carry
to the Christ-child,” said the shepherd who
first saw the light in the sky.</p>
<p>In a few moments these simple-hearted men
were ready to start across the fields and over
the low hills to Bethlehem. Very humble
gifts they had to offer, but their hearts were
filled with joy and wonder.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>138]</a></span>
Standing near the entrance to the cave the
shepherd maiden could see the outline of the
group of men making their way to the city of
David. “They are going to see the Christ-child,”
she said to herself, “a babe wrapped
in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”</p>
<p>How she would love to see the Heavenly
Child! A deep longing to behold the little
new-born King seized her. She would follow
the shepherds to Bethlehem. One glimpse at
the Christ-child would fill her heart with joy.</p>
<p>Away over the star-lit fields and hills she
started. Not once did she falter, although the
way was long and some of the hillsides were
hard to climb.</p>
<p>Finally, she saw the shepherds pass in the
gate of the city of Bethlehem.</p>
<p>“I came to see the Christ-child,” she said to
a group of people who stood whispering together.
They looked at her in astonishment.</p>
<p>“I am following the shepherds,” she added.</p>
<p>“They have gone to the inn,” was the answer.</p>
<p>When she reached the inn she was directed
to a cave near, which served as a stable.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>139]</a></span>
There through the entrance she saw the
shepherds lay their humble presents at Mary’s
feet and then kneel in solemn adoration.</p>
<p>“I have brought nothing to offer,” whispered
the maiden, looking wistfully into the
rude shelter. “I cannot go in without a gift—a
little gift for the Christ-child.”</p>
<p>Tears of disappointment filled her eyes.
Slowly she turned to leave the place. But
after she had taken a few steps she stopped
and burst into sobs. How could she go away
without a glimpse of the Heavenly Child?
Then, as she stood weeping, a marvelous thing
happened. An angel appeared beside her
and said:</p>
<p>“Lo, here at thy feet is a gift for the Christ-child.”</p>
<p>Then she saw growing near her, slender
stems covered with delicate green leaves and
bearing lovely flowers.</p>
<p>The maiden did not stop to wonder. Here
was a gift fit to offer the little Saviour. With
trembling joy she gathered the Christmas
roses and stepped lightly into the humble
house where the little babe lay smiling in his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>140]</a></span>
mother’s arms. In Mary’s lap the maiden laid
her gift of flowers, and, with radiant face, she
knelt and filled her heart with the glorious
vision.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>141]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap03" id="bk3chap03"></a>CHRISTMAS GIFTS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Laura E. Richards</p>
<p>“Mother,” said Jack, “may I have some
money to buy Christmas presents with?”</p>
<p>“Dear,” said his mother, “I have no money.
We are very poor, and I can hardly buy
enough food for us all.”</p>
<p>Jack hung his head; if he had not been ten
the tears would have come to his eyes, but he
was ten.</p>
<p>“All the other boys give presents!” he said.</p>
<p>“So shall you!” said his mother. “All presents
are not bought with money. The best boy
that ever lived was as poor as we are, and yet
He was always giving.”</p>
<p>“Who was He,” asked Jack; “and what did
He give?”</p>
<p>“This is His birthday,” said the mother.
“He was the good Jesus. He was born in a
stable, and He lived in a poor working-man’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>142]</a></span>
house. He never had a penny of His own, yet
he gave twelve good gifts every day. Would
you like to try His way?”</p>
<p>“Yes!” cried Jack.</p>
<p>So his mother told him this and that; and
soon after Jack started out, dressed in his best
suit, to give his presents.</p>
<p>First, he went to Aunt Jane’s house. She
was old and lame, and she did not like boys.</p>
<p>“What do you want?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Merry Christmas!” said Jack. “May I
stay for an hour and help you?”</p>
<p>“Humph!” said Aunt Jane. “Want to keep
you out of mischief, do they? Well, you may
bring in some wood.”</p>
<p>“Shall I split some kindling, too?” asked
Jack.</p>
<p>“If you know how,” said Aunt Jane. “I
can’t have you cutting your foot and messing
my clean shed all up.”</p>
<p>Jack found some fresh pine wood and a
bright hatchet, and he split up a great pile of
kindling and thought it fun. He stacked it
neatly, and then brought in a pail of fresh
water and filled the kettle.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>143]</a></span>
“What else can I do?” he asked. “There
are twenty minutes more.”</p>
<p>“Humph!” said Aunt Jane. “You might
feed the pig.”</p>
<p>Jack fed the pig, who thanked him in his
own way.</p>
<p>“Ten minutes more!” he said. “What
shall I do now?”</p>
<p>“Humph!” said Aunt Jane. “You may sit
down and tell me why you came.”</p>
<p>“It is a Christmas present!” said Jack. “I
am giving hours for presents. I had twelve,
but I gave one to mother, and another one was
gone before I knew I had it. This hour was
your present.”</p>
<p>“Humph!” said Aunt Jane. She hobbled
to the cupboard and took out a small round
pie that smelt very good. “Here!” she said.
“This is <em>your</em> present, and I thank you for
mine. Come again, will you?”</p>
<p>“Indeed I will,” said Jack, “and thank you
for the pie!”</p>
<p>Next Jack went and read for an hour to
old Mr. Green, who was blind. He read a
book about the sea, and they both liked it very
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>144]</a></span>
much, so the hour went quickly. Then it was
time to help mother get dinner, and then time
to eat it; that took two hours, and Aunt Jane’s
pie was wonderful. Then Jack took the Smith
baby for a ride in its carriage, as Mrs. Smith
was ill, and they met its grandfather, who
filled Jack’s pockets with candy and popcorn
and invited him to a Christmas tree that night.</p>
<p>Next Jack went to see Willy Brown, who
had been ill for a long time and could not leave
his bed. Willy was very glad to see him; they
played a game, and then each told the other a
story, and before Jack knew it the clock struck
six.</p>
<p>“Oh!” cried Jack. “You have had two!”</p>
<p>“Two what?” asked Willy.</p>
<p>“Two hours!” said Jack; and he told Willy
about the presents he was giving. “I am glad
I gave you two,” he said, “and I would give
you three, but I must go and help mother.”</p>
<p>“Oh, dear!” said Willy. “I thank you very
much, Jack. I have had a perfectly great
time; but I have nothing to give you.”</p>
<p>Jack laughed. “Why, don’t you see?” he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>145]</a></span>
cried; “you have given me just the same thing.
I have had a great time, too.”</p>
<p>“Mother,” said Jack, as he was going to
bed, “I have had a splendid Christmas, but
I wish I had had something to give you besides
the hours.”</p>
<p>“My darling,” said his mother, “you have
given me the best gift of all—yourself!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>146]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap04" id="bk3chap04"></a>SILVER BELLS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Across the snow the Silver Bells<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Come near and yet more near;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Each Day and Night, each Night and Day<br /></span>
<span class="i1">They tinkle soft and clear.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis Father Christmas on his way<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Across the winter Snows;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While on his sleigh the Silver Bells<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Keep chiming as he goes.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I listen for them in the Night,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">I listen all the Day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I think these merry Silver Bells<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Are long, long on the way!<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Hamish Hendry.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>147]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap05" id="bk3chap05"></a>THE ANIMALS’ CHRISTMAS TREE</h3>
<p class="center smcap">John P. Peters</p>
<p>Once upon a time the animals decided to have
a Christmas tree, and this was how it came
about: The swifts and the swallows in the
chimneys in the country houses, awakened
from their sleep by joy and laughter, had
stolen down and peeped in upon scenes of happiness,
the center of which was always an
evergreen tree covered with wonderful fruit,
bright balls of many colours, and sparkling
threads of gold and silver, lying like beautiful
frost-work among the green fir needles.
A sweet, fairy-like figure of a Christ Child or
an angel rested high among the branches, and
underneath the tree were dolls and sleds and
skates and drums and toys of every sort, and
furs and gloves and tippets, ribbons and handkerchiefs,
and all the things that boys and
girls need and like; and all about this tree
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>148]</a></span>
were gathered always little children with
faces—oh! so full of wonderment and expectation,
changing to radiant, sparkling merriment
as toys and candies were taken off the
tree or from underneath its boughs and distributed
among them.</p>
<p>The swifts and swallows told their feathered
friends all about it, and they told others, both
birds and animals, until at last it began to be
rumoured through all the animal world that
on one day in the year the children of men
were made wonderfully happy by means of
some sort of festival which they held about a
fir tree from the forest. Now, of course, the
tame animals and the house animals, the dogs
and the cats and the mice, knew something
more about this festival. But then, they did
not exchange visits with the wild animals, because
they felt themselves above them.</p>
<p>They were always trying to be like men and
women, you know, putting on airs and pretending
to know everything; but, after all, they
were animals and could not help making
friendships now and then with the wild creatures,
especially when the men and women
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>149]</a></span>
were not there. And when they were asked
about the Christmas tree, they told still more
wonderful stories than the swifts and the swallows
from the chimneys had told, for some of
them had taken part in these festivals, and
some had even received presents from the tree,
just like the children.</p>
<p>They said that the tree was called a Christmas
tree, because that strange fruit and that
wonderful frosting came on it only in the
Christmas time, and that the Christmas time
was the time when men and women and little
children, too, were always kind and good and
loving, and gave things to one another; and
they said, moreover, that on the Christmas
tree grew the things which every one wanted,
and which would make them happy, and that
it was so, because in the Christmas time everyone
was trying to make everyone else happy
and to think of what other people would like.
This they said was what they had seen and
heard told about Christmas trees. They did
not quite understand why it was so, but they
knew that the Christmas tree, when rightly
made, brought the Christmas spirit, and they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>150]</a></span>
had heard men say that the Christmas spirit
was the great thing, and that that was what
made everyone happy.</p>
<p>Well, the long and the short of it was that
the animals talked of it in their dens and on
their roosts, in the fields, and in the forests,
wild beasts and tame alike—the cows and the
horses in their stalls, the sheep in their fold,
the doves in their cotes and the poultry in the
poultry-yard, until all agreed that a Christmas
tree would be a grand thing for the wild
and tame alike. Like the men, they, too,
would have a tree of their very own. But how
to do it?</p>
<p>Then the lion called a meeting of all the
creatures, wild and tame; for you know the
lion is king of beasts and when he calls they
all must come. You know, too, that before
and during and after these animal congresses
there is a royal peace. The lamb can come to
the meeting and sit down by the wolf, and
the wolf dare not touch him; the dove may
perch on the bough between the hawk and the
owl and neither will harm him, when the great
king of beasts has summoned them all together
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>151]</a></span>
to take counsel. But you know all about the
rules of the animals, for you have read them
in books, and you have seen the pictures: how
the lion sits on his throne with a crown on one
side of his head, and all the other creatures
gather about—the elephant, and giraffe, the
hippopotamus, the buffalo, wolves and tigers
and leopards, foxes and deer, goats and sheep,
monkeys and orang-outangs, parrots and robins
and turkeys and swans and storks and
eagles and frogs and lizards and alligators,
and all the rest besides.</p>
<p>Then, when the lion had called the meeting
to order, the swifts and the swallows told what
they had seen, and a fat little pug-dog, with a
ribbon and a silver bell about his neck,
wheezed out a story of a Christmas tree that
he had seen, and how a silver bell had grown
on that tree for him and a whole box of the
best sweets he had ever dreamed of while he
lay comfortably snoozing on his cushion before
the fire. And a Persian cat, with her hair
turned the wrong way, mewed out her story
of a Christmas tree that she had attended, and
told how there was a white mouse made of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>152]</a></span>
cream cheese for her creeping about beneath
the branches.</p>
<p>Then the monkeys chattered and the elephants
trumpeted, the horses neighed, the hyenas
laughed, and each in his own way argued
for a Christmas tree and told what he would
do to help make it.</p>
<p>The elephant would go into the forest, and
choose the tree and pull it up. The buffaloes
would drag it in. The giraffe would fix the
ornaments on the higher limbs, because its
neck was long. The monkeys would scramble
up where the giraffe could not reach. The
squirrels could run out on the slender twigs
and help the monkeys. The birds would fly
about and get the golden threads and put them
on the tree with their beaks. The fire-flies
would hide themselves among the branches
and sparkle like diamonds, and the glow-worms
promised to help the fire-flies by playing
candles, if someone would lift them up
and put them on the branches. The parrots
and paroquets and other birds of gay plumage
would give feathers to hang among the
branches, and the humming-birds promised to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>153]</a></span>
flutter in and out among the twigs, and the
sheep to give white wool to lie like snow
among the boughs.</p>
<p>Then the parrots screeched and the peacocks
screamed with delight, and you and I never
could have told whether anybody voted aye or
nay; but the lion knew; and the owl, for he
was clerk, set it down in the minutes, as the
lion bade him, that all the birds and beasts
would do their part. So each planned what
he could do. Even the little beetle, who makes
great balls of earth, thought that if he could
only once see one of those gay balls that grow
on the children’s Christmas tree, he might
make some for the animals’ tree. Different
birds and beasts told of the oranges and apples
and holly-berries and who knows what they
could get and hang upon the tree. You see
the animals came from many places, and then,
too, they could send the carrier pigeons to go
and bring fruit and berries, and who knows
what besides, from oh, so far away, because the
carrier pigeons can fly through the air no one
knows how fast or how far.</p>
<p>Well, I cannot tell you everything that each
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>154]</a></span>
one was going to do, but if you will go and
get your Noah’s ark and take the animals out
one by one, then you surely will think it out
for yourself, for you have all the animals
there.</p>
<p>And so they arranged how they would ornament
the tree, and the next thing was to decide
what presents should be hung on the tree
or put beneath its boughs, for each one must
have his present. Well, after much discussion
in roars, and bellows, crows and croaks, lows
and screams and bleats, and baas and grunts,
and all the other sounds of birds and beast language,
it was voted that each might choose the
present he wished hung on the tree. The
clerkly owl should call their names one by one,
and each might declare his choice. So they
began. The parrots and the macaws thought
that they would like oranges and bananas and
such things, which would look so pretty on the
tree, too; and so they were arranged for. The
robins and the cedar birds chose cherries; the
the partridges, partridge berries, the squirrels,
the red and grey and black, nuts and apples
and pears. The monkeys said the popcorn
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>155]</a></span>
strings would do for them, and the cats and
dogs, remembering the Christmas gift which
the pug-dog and Persian cat had told about,
asked for tiny mice made of cream cheese or
chocolate. By and by it came the pig’s turn to
tell his choice. “Grunt, grunt!” said the pig,
“I want a nice pail of swill hung on the very
lowest bough of all.”</p>
<p>“Ugh!” said the black leopard, so sleek and
so clean.</p>
<p>“Faugh!” said the gazelle, with his dainty
sense of smell.</p>
<p>“Neigh!” said the horse, so daintily
groomed.</p>
<p>“What!” roared the lion, “what’s that you
want?”</p>
<p>“A pail of swill,” grunted the pig. “Each
one has chosen what he wants, and I have a
right to choose what I want.”</p>
<p>“But,” roared the lion, “each one has chosen
something beautiful to make the tree a joy to
all.”</p>
<p>“Grunt, grunt,” said the pig. “The parrots
and macaws are going to have oranges and bananas,
and the robins and the cedar birds red
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>156]</a></span>
cherries, the partridges, their berries, the
squirrels, nuts and apples and pears, the dog
and the cat, their cream and chocolate mice.
They all have what they want to eat. Grunt,
grunt,” said he; “I will have what I want to
eat, too, and what I want is a pail of swill.”</p>
<p>Now, you see it had been voted, as I told
you, that each should have what he wanted
hung on the tree for him, and so the lion could
not help himself. If the pig chose swill, swill
he must have, and angrily he had to roar: “If
the pig wants swill, a pail of swill he must
have, hung on the lowest bough of the tree!”</p>
<p>Then the wolf’s wicked eyes gleamed, for
his turn was next, and he said: “If the pig has
swill because he wants swill to eat, I must have
what I want to eat, and I want a tender lamb,
six months old.” And at that all the lambs and
the sheep bleated and baaed.</p>
<p>“Ha, ha!” barked the fox; “then I want
a turkey!” And the turkeys gobbled in
fear.</p>
<p>“And I,” said the tiger, “want a yearling
calf.” And the cows and the calves lowed in
horror.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>157]</a></span>
“And I,” said the owl, the clerk, “I want a
plump dove.”</p>
<p>“And I,” said the hawk, “will take a rabbit.”</p>
<p>“And I,” said the leopard, “want a deer or
a gazelle.”</p>
<p>Then all was fear and uproar. The hares
and rabbits scuttled into the grass; the gazelles
and the deer bounded away; the sheep and the
cattle crowded close together; the small birds
rose in the air in flocks; and the Christmas tree
was like to have come to grief and ended,
not in Christmas joy, but in fear and hatred
and terror.</p>
<p>Then a little lamb stepped out and bleated:
“Ah! king lion, it would be very sad if all the
animals should lose their Christmas tree, for
the very thought of that tree has brought us
closer together, and here we were, wild and
tame, fierce and timid, met together as
friends; and oh! king lion, rather than there
should not be a tree, they may take me and
hang me on it. Let them not take the turkeys
and gazelles and the calves and the rabbits
and all the rest that they have chosen. Let the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>158]</a></span>
tigers and leopards, and wolves and foxes and
eagles, and hawks and owls and all their kind
be content that their Christmas present shall
be a lamb; and so we may come together again
and have our happy Christmas tree, and each
have what he wishes.”</p>
<p>“But,” said the lion, “what will you have?
If you give yourself, then you will have no
Christmas present.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the lamb, “I, too, shall have
what I want, for I shall have brought them all
together again, and made each one happy.”</p>
<p>Then a dove fluttered down from a tree and
landed on the ground beside the lamb, and
very timidly and softly she cooed: “Take me,
too, king lion, as the present for the owls and
the hawks, and the weasels and minks, because
for them a lamb is too big. I am the best present
for them. Take me, king lion!”</p>
<p>Then the lion roared: “See what the lamb
and the dove have done! My food, oh, tigers
and leopards and wolves and eagles and all
your kind, is like your food; but I would
rather eat nothing from our Christmas tree
than take this lamb or dove for my present.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>159]</a></span>
Then all the beasts kept still, because the
lion roared so loud and angrily, and the birds
that were flying away settled on the branches
of the trees, and the gazelles stopped their
running and turned their heads to listen, and
the rabbits peeped out through the grass and
brush where they had hid. Then the lion
turned to the pig, and roared:</p>
<p>“See this lamb and this dove! Are you not
ashamed for what you have done? You have
spoiled all our happiness. Will you take back
your choice, you pig, or do you wish to ruin
our Christmas tree?”</p>
<p>“Grunt, grunt,” said the pig, “it is my right.
I want something good. I don’t care for your
lambs and your doves. I want my swill!”</p>
<p>Then the lion roared again: “Have all
chosen?” and all answered, “Yes.”</p>
<p>“Then,” said the lion, “it is my choice.”</p>
<p>And all said: “It is.”</p>
<p>“I love fat and tender pigs. I choose a pig
for my Christmas gift,” roared the lion.</p>
<p>Did you ever hear a pig squeal? Oh, how
that pig squealed then! And he got up on his
fat little legs and tried to run away, but all
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>160]</a></span>
the animals gathered around in a ring and the
hyenas laughed, and the jackals cried, and the
dogs and the wolves and the foxes headed him
off and hunted the poor pig back again.
Then, when the pig found that he could not
run away, he lay down on his back with his
feet in the air and squealed with all his might:
“Oh, I don’t want the swill; oh, I don’t want
the swill! I take it all back! I don’t want
anything!”</p>
<p>But at first no one heard him, because all
were talking at once in their own way—barking
and growling and roaring and chattering;
but by and by the lion saw that the pig was
squealing something, so he roared for silence,
and then they all heard the pig squeal out that
he did not want any swill. And the lion
roared aloud: “You have heard. Has the owl
recorded that the pig will have no swill?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the owl.</p>
<p>“Then,” said the lion, “record that the lion
wants no pig.”</p>
<p>Then the tiger growled: “And I want no
calf,” and one by one the leopard and the
eagle, the wolf and the fox, the hawk and owl,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>161]</a></span>
and all their kind, took back their votes.</p>
<p>And so it came about that the animals did
have a Christmas tree after all; but instead of
hanging lambs and doves upon the tree, they
agreed that they could hang little images of
lambs and doves, and other birds and animals,
too, perhaps. And by and by the custom
spread until the humans came to hang the
same little images on their trees, too, and when
you see a little figure of a lamb or a dove on
the Christmas tree, you may know that it is all
because the lamb and the dove, by their unselfishness,
saved the animals from strife; for
neither thought what he wanted from the tree,
but each was ready to give himself for the others,
so that they might not fight and kill one
another at the Christmas time.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>162]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap06" id="bk3chap06"></a>A CHRISTMAS CAROL</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The Shepherds had an Angel,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The Wise Men had a star,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But what have I, a little child,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To guide me home from far,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where glad stars sing together<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And singing angels are?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Those Shepherds through the lonely night<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Sat watching by their sheep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until they saw the heavenly host<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Who neither tire nor sleep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All singing “Glory, glory,”<br /></span>
<span class="i1">In festival they keep.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The Wise Men left their country<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To journey morn by morn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With gold and frankincense and myrrh,<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>163]</a></span>
<span class="i1">Because the Lord was born:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">God sent a star to guide them<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And sent a dream to warn.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My life is like their journey,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Their star is like God’s book;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I must be like those good Wise Men<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With heavenward heart and look:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But shall I give no gifts to God?—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">What precious gifts they took!<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Christina Rossetti.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>164]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap07" id="bk3chap07"></a>HOLLY</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Ada M. Marzials</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Highty-tighty, Paradighty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Clothèd all in green.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The King could not read it<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No more could the Queen.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They sent for a Wise Man out of the East,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who said it had horns but was not a beast.<br /></span>
<span class="i8">(<i>Old Riddle.</i>)<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>There was once upon a time a very war-like
kingdom where they had never heard of
Christmas. The men spent all their days
fighting, and the women spent <em>their</em> days in
urging the warriors to further deeds of valour.</p>
<p>This had gone on for a very long time, and
no one had ever yet said that he was tired
of it. There was but one person in the whole
kingdom who had openly declared that war
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>165]</a></span>
was hateful, but as she was only the Youngest
Princess nobody paid any heed to her.</p>
<p>Then came a time, just before our Christmas
Day, when the King was preparing a
great campaign against a far-off country. He
called together his Council of War—grave old
warriors, dressed completely in armour.</p>
<p>“My friends,” said he, “we are about to
wage war on the distant kingdoms of Zowega.
Up till this time the people of that country
have been our very good friends, but as we
have now conquered all our enemies, there
seems no one but our friends left to fight,
and of these the King of the Zowegians is
chief.</p>
<p>“You will remember that his youngest son,
Prince Moldo, spent some of his boyhood at
our court in order to gain instruction in feats
of arms, and that the Prince left us to travel
over the world. A few months ago his father
sent word to me that the Prince had returned
home, bringing with him the news of a Pearl
of Great Price, which contained the Secret of
Happiness. It is this Pearl which I have
made the excuse for war, for I have demanded
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>166]</a></span>
it in payment for the services that we rendered
to Prince Moldo. In my message I have said
that if the Pearl, and the Secret which it contains,
are not brought and revealed to us here
within the next five days, our troops will descend
upon the kingdom of Zowega and wipe
it off the face of the earth.”</p>
<p>Loud and long cheered the Council at the
speech of their King, as, indeed, was their
duty, though in their hearts of hearts they had
no wish to fight against the King of the Zowegians,
who was their very good friend. The
Queen and the Princesses smiled graciously
upon them, all save the Youngest Princess,
who had been Prince Moldo’s playfellow. She
disgraced herself by bursting into passionate
tears, and was forthwith ordered out of the
Council Hall.</p>
<p>At the end of five days the Council once
more assembled to await the arrival of the
messenger with the answer from the King of
Zowega.</p>
<p>The day was bright and cold, and there was
snow on the ground. The King and Queen
were wrapped in thick fur cloaks. The
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>167]</a></span>
Princesses were all assembled, too, even the Youngest,
who was dressed in ermine and looked as
pale as death.</p>
<p>It was Christmas Eve, but there were no
Christmas trees preparing and no presents.
No one was thinking of hanging his stockings
up. The Hall was not decorated, neither
were the churches; indeed, there were no
churches to decorate, for, as you remember,
the people in this kingdom knew nothing
about Christmas.</p>
<p>The Council sat and waited in the big bare
Hall.</p>
<p>At last the great doors were flung open,
there was a blast of trumpets, and the messenger
appeared.</p>
<p>He was tall and fair, and held himself
proudly. His eyes were bright and shining
and there was a smile upon his face. He was
completely dressed in bright green and the
Council noted with astonishment that he was
without armour of any kind. He wore neither
breastplate, shield nor helmet; he had neither
sword by his side, nor spurs on his feet. He
was bare-headed, and in his right hand he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>168]</a></span>
carried something green, horny and prickly, with
little red dots on it.</p>
<p>Looking neither to the right nor to the left,
he walked with firm and steady step up the
long Hall between the rows of armed warriors.</p>
<p>As he passed the Youngest Princess she
blushed deeply, but he did not seem to notice
her.</p>
<p>When he reached the throne he bowed low
before the King and Queen, and laid the
prickly object on the table before them.</p>
<p>“Your Majesty,” said he in a clear, ringing
voice. “From the King of Zowega, greeting!
He sends you this token. It is the symbol of
the Secret of Happiness.”</p>
<p>The King stared, so did the Queen.</p>
<p>They had expected a Pearl of Great Price,
accompanied by a scroll on which was written
the Secret of Happiness, and the King of
Zowega had sent them <em>this</em>!</p>
<p>Amid dead silence the King took the token
up in his hands in order to examine it more
carefully.</p>
<p>He dropped it hastily, for it pricked him,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>169]</a></span>
and little drops of blood were seen starting
from his hand.</p>
<p>“Highty-tighty!” said he. “’Tis surely
some kind of beast and a symbol of war, for
it pricked me right smartly. Truly the King
of Zowega deals in riddles which I for one
cannot read! Take it, my dear,” added he to
the Queen and pointing to the token; “perchance
your quick wits may be able to understand
this mystery.”</p>
<p>She picked up the token and examined it
carefully.</p>
<p>It rather resembled the branch of a tree, but
the leaves were thick and resisting and edged
with very sharp spikes, and there was on it a
cluster of round, bright red objects like tiny
balls. But even as it had pricked the King
so did it prick her, and she dropped it hastily
into the lap of the Eldest Princess, who was
sitting beside her.</p>
<p>“Paradighty!” exclaimed the Queen in her
own language. “It is certainly a beast. See,
it has horns!” and she pointed to the spikes.</p>
<p>“But I certainly cannot read the riddle—if
riddle it be.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>170]</a></span>
Then it was passed to all the Princesses in
turn, but they could not read the token any
more than could the King and Queen. At
last it reached the Youngest Princess, and,
though it pricked her little hands sorely, she
took it up tenderly and kissed it.</p>
<p>“’Tis a token of love,” said she.</p>
<p>The messenger turned his shining eyes full
upon her.</p>
<p>“The Princess has read the riddle of the
token aright,” said he, and he stepped forward
as though to kiss her hand.</p>
<p>“Stay!” said the King imperiously springing
to his feet. “A token of love, forsooth!
But I sent the King of Zowega a Declaration
of War! What does he mean by sending me a
token of love? The Princess must certainly
be mistaken—and as for <em>you</em>,” he continued,
turning fiercely to the messenger, “you shall be
marched off to prison until we have had time
to consult with our Wise Men as to the real
meaning of this extraordinary token.”</p>
<p>So there and then the messenger was
marched off to spend the night in prison, and
all the Wise Men in the kingdom were bidden
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>171]</a></span>
to appear in the Council Chamber the very
next day, especially one very old Wise Man
from the East who was reputed to be wiser
than all the others put together.</p>
<p>The next day, of course, was Christmas
Day, but, as these people had never heard of
Christmas, there were no bells ringing, no
carols were sung, and there was neither holly,
ivy nor mistletoe upon the walls.</p>
<p>Slowly and painfully the Wise Men began
to arrive.</p>
<p>They were all dressed alike, in black flowing
robes, and on their heads they wore
long pointed black caps covered with weird
devices.</p>
<p>The very old Wise Man from the East wore
a red pointed cap, but in all other respects was
dressed just like the others.</p>
<p>They assembled round a large circular table
at one end of the Hall. In the middle of the
table was placed the token.</p>
<p>At the other end of the Hall were gathered
the warriors, and above them on a double
throne sat the King and Queen with the Princesses
grouped on either side of the dais.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>172]</a></span>
The Wise Men examined the token in
silence.</p>
<p>“’Tis a curious beast,” said one of them at
last.</p>
<p>“Of a new and quite unheard-of species,”
said another.</p>
<p>“It has neither legs nor tail,” said a third.</p>
<p>“Yet it has a number of globular red eyes,”
said a fourth.</p>
<p>“And it certainly has horns,” said a fifth.</p>
<p>And so said they all, until it came to the turn
of the very old Wise Man from the East.</p>
<p>He looked long at the token.</p>
<p>“It has horns,” said he at last, “but it is not a
beast.”</p>
<p>“Not a beast!” said they, one to the other.</p>
<p>“But what is it then?”</p>
<p>“It is a token of love,” said he.</p>
<p>“Highty-tighty,” interrupted the King.
“Read us then the full meaning of the token.”</p>
<p>“I cannot,” said the very old Wise Man;
“but let the youth be brought hither who carried
it. He will be able to explain it more
fully than I.”</p>
<p>“Paradighty!” said the Queen in her own
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>173]</a></span>
language. “Why did we not think of that
before! Fetch him back again at once!”</p>
<p>So two of the warriors fetched the youth
from prison, and he was soon standing before
the Assembly, with his head held as high and
his eyes as bright and shining as before.</p>
<p>“Read us the token!” commanded the King.</p>
<p>The youth bowed low. “The Princess read
it aright yesterday. It is a token of love.”</p>
<p>“Explain yourself!” said the King. “How
can a beast with horns be a token of love?”</p>
<p>The youth drew himself up to his full
height.</p>
<p>“It is not a beast,” said he. “It is the branch
of a holly-tree. On this day of the year, which
in my country we call Christmas Day, our
people decorate their houses with branches of
this holly or holy tree as a token of love and
peace and good-will. This is the message that
I have brought to you—a message that we in
our country know very well, but which you
have never heard before.”</p>
<p>The King and the Warriors, the Wise Men,
the Queen and Princesses all listened to his
words in silence.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>174]</a></span>
When he had ended there was a long
pause.</p>
<p>“And in what particular way does your
message affect us?” said the King at last.</p>
<p>“Thus, your Majesty,” answered the youth,
approaching the Youngest Princess and taking
both her hands in his, “on this day I, Prince
Moldo, would have peace and good-will between
my kingdom and your kingdom; and
I would seal it for ever by taking the Youngest
Princess home with me as my bride. You,
O King, recognized me not, for I have much
changed since I lived here with her for playfellow,
but in all my wanderings I found a
Pearl of no greater price than this, and I
would proclaim to all the world that the
Secret of Happiness is Love.”</p>
<p>So on that very Christmas Day they were
married, amid great rejoicings, and war
ceased throughout the kingdom. And on
every Christmas Day for ever after, the people
of that country decorated their houses with
holly, the symbol of love and peace and good-will,
and wished each other a Merry Christmas,
even as I do now to you.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>175]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap08" id="bk3chap08"></a>THE WILLOW MAN</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There once was a Willow, and he was very old,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There grew upon his hoary head a crop of Mistletoe.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All wrinkled and furrowed was this old Willow’s skin<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>176]</a></span>
<span class="i0">A Dame who dwelt a-near was the only one who knew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That every year upon his head the Christmas berries grew;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when the Dame cut them, she said—it was her whim—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“A merry Christmas to you, Sir,” <em>and left a bit for him</em>.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Oh, Granny dear, tell us,” the children cried, “where we<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May find the shining mistletoe that grows upon the tree?”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At length the Dame told them, but cautioned them to mind<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To greet the willow civilly, <em>and leave a bit behind</em>.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Who cares,” said the children, “for this old Willow-man?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We’ll take the Mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With rage the ancient Willow shakes in every limb,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For they have taken all, and <em>have not left a bit for him</em>.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>177]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Then bright gleamed the holly, the Christmas berries shone<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in the wintry wind, without the Willow-man did moan:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic Mistletoe<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow.”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A year soon passed by, and the children came once more,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But not a sprig of Mistletoe the aged Willow bore.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient Willow-tree.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O children, who gather the spoils of wood and wold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From selfish greed and wilful waste your little hands withhold.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though fair things be common, this moral bear in mind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Pick thankfully and modestly, <em>and leave a bit behind</em>.”<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Juliana Horatia Ewing.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>178]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap09" id="bk3chap09"></a>THE IVY GREEN</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">That creepeth o’er ruins old!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">In his cell so lone and cold.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To pleasure his dainty whim;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the mouldering dust that years have made,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Is a merry meal for him.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Creeping where no life is seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A rare old plant is the ivy green.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Charles Dickens.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>179]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap10" id="bk3chap10"></a>LEGEND OF SAINT NICHOLAS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Amy Steedman</p>
<p>Of all the saints that little children love is
there any to compare with Santa Claus? The
very sound of his name has magic in it, and
calls up visions of well-filled stockings, with
the presents we particularly want peeping
over the top, or hanging out at the side, too
big to go into the largest sock. Besides, there
is something so mysterious and exciting about
Santa Claus, for no one seems to have ever
seen him. But we picture him to ourselves as
an old man with a white beard, whose favourite
way of coming into our rooms is down
the chimney, bringing gifts for the good children
and punishments for the bad.</p>
<p>Yet this Santa Claus, in whose name the
presents come to us at Christmas time, is a
very real saint, and we can learn a great deal
about him, only we must remember that his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>180]</a></span>
true name is Saint Nicholas. Perhaps the
little children, who used to talk of him long
ago, found Saint Nicholas too difficult to say,
and so called him their dear Santa Claus. But
we learn, as we grow older, that Nicholas is
his true name, and that he is a real person who
lived long years ago, far away in the East.</p>
<p>The father and mother of Nicholas were
noble and very rich, but what they wanted
most of all was to have a son. They were
Christians, so they prayed to God for many
years that He would give them their hearts’
desire; and when at last Nicholas was born,
they were the happiest people in the world.</p>
<p>They thought there was no one like their
boy; and indeed, he was wiser and better than
most children, and never gave them a moment’s
trouble. But alas, while he was still a
child, a terrible plague swept over the country,
and his father and mother died, leaving
him quite alone.</p>
<p>All the great riches which his father had
possessed were left to Nicholas, and among
other things he inherited three bars of gold.
These golden bars were his greatest treasure,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>181]</a></span>
and he thought more of them than all the
other riches he possessed.</p>
<p>Now in the town where Nicholas lived
there dwelt a nobleman with three daughters.
They had once been very rich, but great misfortunes
had overtaken the father, and now
they were all so poor they had scarcely enough
to live upon.</p>
<p>At last a day came when there was not even
bread enough to eat, and the daughters said
to their father:</p>
<p>“Let us go into the streets and beg, or do
anything to get a little money, that we may
not starve.”</p>
<p>But the father answered:</p>
<p>“Not to-night. I cannot bear to think of it.
Wait at least until to-morrow. Something
may happen to save my daughters from such
disgrace.”</p>
<p>Now, just as they were talking together,
Nicholas happened to be passing, and as the
window was open he heard all that the poor
father said. It seemed terrible to think that
a noble family should be so poor and actually
in want of bread, and Nicholas tried to plan
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>182]</a></span>
how it would be possible to help them. He
knew they would be much too proud to take
money from him, so he had to think of some
other way. Then he remembered his golden
bars, and that very night he took one of them
and went secretly to the nobleman’s house,
hoping to give the treasure without letting
the father or daughters know who brought it.</p>
<p>To his joy Nicholas discovered that a little
window had been left open, and by standing
on tiptoe he could reach it. So he lifted the
golden bar and slipped it through the window,
never waiting to hear what became of it, in
case any one should see him. (And now do
you see the reason why the visits of Santa
Claus are so mysterious?)</p>
<p>Inside the house the poor father sat sorrowfully
watching, while his children slept. He
wondered if there was any hope for them anywhere,
and he prayed earnestly that heaven
would send help. Suddenly something fell at
his feet, and to his amazement and joy, he
found it was a bar of pure gold.</p>
<p>“My child,” he cried, as he showed his
eldest daughter the shining gold, “God has
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>183]</a></span>
heard my prayer and has sent this from
heaven. Now we shall have enough and to
spare. Call your sisters that we may rejoice
together, and I will go instantly and change
this treasure.”</p>
<p>The precious golden bar was soon sold to a
money-changer, who gave so much for it that
the family were able to live in comfort and
have all that they needed. And not only was
there enough to live upon, but so much was
over that the father gave his eldest daughter
a large dowry, and very soon she was happily
married.</p>
<p>When Nicholas saw how much happiness
his golden bar had brought to the poor nobleman
he determined that the second daughter
should have a dowry too. So he went as before
and found the little window again open,
and was able to throw in the second golden
bar as he had done the first. This time the
father was dreaming happily, and did not find
the treasure until he awoke in the morning.
Soon afterwards the second daughter had her
dowry and was married too.</p>
<p>The father now began to think that, after
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>184]</a></span>
all, it was not usual for golden bars to fall
from heaven, and he wondered if by any
chance human hands had placed them in his
room. The more he thought of it the stranger
it seemed, and he made up his mind to keep
watch every night, in case another golden bar
should be sent as a portion for his youngest
daughter.</p>
<p>And so when Nicholas went the third time
and dropped the last bar through the little
window, the father came quickly out, and before
Nicholas had time to hide, caught him
by his cloak.</p>
<p>“O Nicholas,” he cried, “is it thou who hast
helped us in our need? Why didst thou hide
thyself?” And then he fell on his knees and
began to kiss the hands that had helped him so
graciously.</p>
<p>But Nicholas bade him stand up and give
thanks to God instead, warning him to tell no
one the story of the golden bars.</p>
<p>This was only one of the many kind acts
Nicholas loved to do, and it was no wonder
that he was beloved by all who knew him.</p>
<p>Soon afterwards Nicholas made up his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>185]</a></span>
mind to enter God’s service as a priest. He
longed above all things to leave the world and
live as a hermit in the desert, but God came
to him in a vision and told him he must stay
in the crowded cities and do his work among
the people. Still his desire to see the deserts
and the hermits who lived there was so great
that he went off on a journey to Egypt and
the Holy Land. But remembering what God
had bade him do he did not stay there but
returned to his own country.</p>
<p>On the way home a terrific storm arose, and
it seemed as if the ship he was in must be
lost. The sailors could do nothing, and great
waves dashed over the deck, filling the ship
with water. But just as all had given up hope,
Nicholas knelt and prayed to God to save
them, and immediately a calm fell upon the
angry sea. The winds sank to rest and the
waves ceased to lash the sides of the ship so
that they sailed smoothly on, and all danger
passed.</p>
<p>Thus Nicholas returned home in safety, and
went to live in the city of Myra. His ways
were so quiet and humble that no one knew
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>186]</a></span>
much about him, until it came to pass one
day that the Archbishop of Myra died.
Then all the priests met to choose another
archbishop, and it was made known to them
by a sign from heaven that the first man who
should enter the church next morning should
be the bishop whom God had chosen.</p>
<p>Now Nicholas used to spend most of his
nights in prayer and always went very early
to church, so next morning just as the sun was
rising and the bells began to ring for the early
mass, he was seen coming up to the church
door and was the first to enter. As he knelt
down quietly to say his prayers as usual, what
was his surprise to meet a company of priests
who hailed him as their new archbishop,
chosen by God to be their leader and guide.
So Nicholas was made Archbishop of Myra
to the joy of all in the city who knew and
loved him.</p>
<p>Not long after this there was great trouble
in the town of Myra, for the harvests of that
country had failed and a terrible famine
swept over the land. Nicholas, as a good
bishop should, felt the suffering of his people
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>187]</a></span>
as if it were his own, and did all he could to
help them.</p>
<p>He knew that they must have corn or they
would die, so he went to the harbour where
two ships lay filled with grain, and asked the
captains if they would sell him their cargo.
They told the bishop they would willingly do
so, but it was already sold to merchants of
another country and they dared not sell it over
again.</p>
<p>“Take no thought of that,” said Nicholas,
“only sell me some of thy corn for my starving
people, and I promise thee that there shall be
nought wanting when thou shalt arrive at thy
journey’s end.”</p>
<p>The captains believed in the bishop’s promise
and gave him as much corn as he asked.
And behold! when they came to deliver their
cargo to the owners, there was not a bag lacking.</p>
<p>There are many stories told about the good
bishop. Like his Master, he ever went about
doing good; and when he died, there were a
great many legends told about him, for the
people loved to believe that their bishop still
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>188]</a></span>
cared for them and would come to their aid.
We do not know if all these legends are true,
but they show how much Saint Nicholas was
loved and honoured even after his death, and
how every one believed in his power to help
them.</p>
<p>Here is one of the stories which all children
who love Saint Nicholas will like to hear.</p>
<p>There was once a nobleman who had no
children and who longed for a son above
everything else in the world. Night and day
he prayed to Saint Nicholas that he would
grant him his request, and at last a son was
born. He was a beautiful child, and the
father was so delighted and so grateful to the
saint who had listened to his prayers that,
every year on the child’s birthday, he made a
great feast in honour of Saint Nicholas and a
grand service was held in the church.</p>
<p>Now the Evil One grew angry each year
when this happened, for it made many people
go to church and honour the good saint,
neither of which things pleased the Evil One
at all. So each year he tried to think of some
plan that would put an end to these rejoicings,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>189]</a></span>
and he decided at last that if only he could do
some evil to the child the parents would blame
Saint Nicholas and all would be well.</p>
<p>It happened just then to be the boy’s sixth
birthday and a greater feast than ever was being
held. It was late in the afternoon, and
the gardener and porter and all the servants
were away keeping holiday, too. So no one
noticed a curious-looking pilgrim who came
and sat close to the great iron gates which led
into the courtyard. He had on the ordinary
robe of a poor pilgrim, but the hood was
drawn so far over his face that nothing but a
dark shadow could be seen inside. And indeed
that was as well, for this pilgrim was a
demon in disguise, and his wicked, black face
would have frightened any one who saw it.
He could not enter the courtyard for the great
gates were always kept locked, and, as you
know, the porter was away that day, feasting
with all the other servants.</p>
<p>But, before very long, the little boy grew
weary of his birthday feast, and, having had
all he wanted he begged to be allowed to go
to play in the garden. His parents knew that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>190]</a></span>
the gardener always looked after him there,
so they told him he might go. They forgot
that the gardener was not there just then.</p>
<p>The child played happily alone for some
time and then wandered into the courtyard,
and looking out of the gate saw a poor pilgrim
resting there.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” asked the
child, “and why do you sit so still?”</p>
<p>“I am a poor pilgrim,” answered the demon,
trying to make his harsh voice sound as gentle
as possible, “and I have come all the way
from Rome. I am resting here because I am
so weary and footsore and have had nothing to
eat all day.”</p>
<p>“I will let you in, and take you to my
father,” said the child; “this is my birthday,
and no one must go hungry to-day.”</p>
<p>But the demon pretended he was too weak
to walk, and begged the boy to bring some
food out to him.</p>
<p>Then the child ran back to the banquet hall
in a great hurry and said to his father:</p>
<p>“O father, there is a poor pilgrim from
Rome sitting outside our gate, and he is so
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>191]</a></span>
hungry, may I take him some of my birthday
feast?”</p>
<p>The father was very pleased to think that
his little son should care for the poor and
wish to be kind, so he willingly gave his permission
and told one of the servants to give
the child all that he wanted.</p>
<p>Then as the demon sat eating the good
things he began to question the boy and tried
to find out all that he could about him.</p>
<p>“Do you often play in the garden?” he
asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” said the child. “I play there
whenever I may, for in the midst of the lawn
there is a beautiful fountain, and the gardener
makes me boats to sail on the water.”</p>
<p>“Will he make you one to-day?” asked the
demon quickly.</p>
<p>“He is not here to-day,” answered the child,
“for this is a holiday for every one and I am
quite alone.”</p>
<p>Then the demon rose to his feet slowly and
said he felt so much better after the good
food that he thought he could walk a little
and would like very much to come in and see
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>192]</a></span>
the beautiful garden and the fountain he had
heard about.</p>
<p>So the child climbed up and with great
difficulty drew back the bolts. The great
gates swung open and the demon walked in.</p>
<p>As they went along together towards the
fountain the child held out his little hand to
lead the pilgrim, but even the demon shrunk
from touching anything so pure and innocent,
and folded his arms under his robe, so that
the child could only hold by a fold of his
cloak.</p>
<p>“What strange kind of feet you have,” said
the child as they walked along; “they look as
if they belonged to an animal.”</p>
<p>“Yes, they are curious,” said the demon,
“but it is just the way they are made.”</p>
<p>Then the child began to notice the demon’s
hands, which were even more curious than
his feet, and just like paws of a bear. But
he was too courteous to say anything about
them, when he had already mentioned the
feet.</p>
<p>Just then they came to the fountain, and
with a sudden movement the demon threw
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>193]</a></span>
back his hood and showed his dreadful face.
And before the child could scream he was
seized by those hairy hands and thrown into
the water.</p>
<p>But just at that moment the gardener was
returning to his work and saw from a distance
what had happened. He ran as fast as he
could, but he only got to the fountain in time
to see the demon vanish, while the child’s
body was floating on the water. Very quickly
he drew him out, and carried him, all dripping
wet, up to the castle, where they tried
to bring him back to life. But, alas! it all
seemed of no use; he neither moved nor
breathed, and the day that had begun with
such rejoicing, ended in the bitterest woe.
The poor parents were heart-broken, but they
did not quite lose hope and prayed earnestly
to Saint Nicholas who had given them the
child, that he would restore their boy to them
again.</p>
<p>As they prayed by the side of the little bed
where the body of the child lay, they thought
something moved, and to their joy and
surprise the boy opened his eyes and sat
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>194]</a></span>
up, and in a short time was as well as ever.</p>
<p>They asked him eagerly what had happened,
and he told them all about the pilgrim
with the queer feet and hands, who had gone
with him to the fountain and had then thrown
back his hood and shown his terrible face.
After that he could remember nothing until
he found himself in a beautiful garden, where
the loveliest flowers grew. There were lilies
like white stars, and roses far more beautiful
than any he had ever seen in his own garden,
and the leaves of the trees shone like silver
and gold. It was all so beautiful that for a
while he forgot his home, and when he did
remember and tried to find his way back, he
grew bewildered and did not know in what
direction to turn. As he was looking about,
an old man came down the garden path and
smiled so kindly upon him that he trusted him
at once. This old man was dressed in the
robes of a bishop, and had a long white beard
and the sweetest old face the child had ever
seen.</p>
<p>“Art thou searching for the way home?”
the old man asked. “Dost thou wish to leave
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>195]</a></span>
this beautiful garden and go back to thy
father and mother?”</p>
<p>“I want to go home,” said the child, with a
sob in his voice, “but I cannot find the way,
and I am, oh, so tired of searching for it.”</p>
<p>Then the old man stooped down and lifted
him in his arms, and the child laid his head on
the old man’s shoulder, and, weary with his
wandering, fell fast asleep and remembered
nothing more till he woke up in his own little
bed.</p>
<p>Then the parents knew that Saint Nicholas
had heard their prayers and had gone to fetch
the child from the Heavenly Garden and
brought him back to them.</p>
<p>So they were more grateful to the good
saint than ever, and they loved and honoured
him even more than they had done before;
which was all the reward the demon got for
his wicked doings.</p>
<p>That is one of the many stories told after
the death of Saint Nicholas, and it ever helped
and comforted his people to think that,
though they could no longer see him he would
love and protect them still.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>196]</a></span>
Young maidens in need of help remembered
the story of the golden bars and felt sure the
good saint would not let them want. Sailors
tossing on the stormy waves thought of that
storm which had sunk to rest at the prayer of
Saint Nicholas. Poor prisoners with no one
to take their part were comforted by the
thought of those other prisoners whom he had
saved. And little children perhaps have remembered
him most of all, for when the happy
Christmas time draws near, who is so much in
their thoughts as Saint Nicholas, or Santa
Claus, as they call him? Perhaps they are a
little inclined to think of him as some good
magician who comes to fill their stockings with
gifts, but they should never forget that he was
the kind bishop who, in olden days, loved to
make the little ones happy. There are some
who think that even now he watches over and
protects little children, and for that reason he
is called their patron saint.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>197]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap11" id="bk3chap11"></a>CHRISTMAS BELLS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I heard the bells on Christmas Day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their old, familiar carols play,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And wild and sweet<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The words repeat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of peace on earth, good-will to men!<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>198]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap12" id="bk3chap12"></a>A NIGHT WITH SANTA CLAUS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Anna R. Annan</p>
<p>Not very long ago, and not far from here,
lived a little boy named Bobby Morgan. Now
I must tell at once how Bobby looked, else
how will you know him if you meet him in
the street? Blue-eyed was Rob, and fair-haired,
and pug-nosed—just the sweetest trifle,
his mother said.</p>
<p>Well, the day before Christmas, Rob
thought it would be a fine thing to run down
Main Street and see what was going on.
After dinner his mother put on his fur cap
and bright scarf, and filled his pockets with
crackers and cookies. She told him to be very
polite to Santa Claus if he should happen to
meet him.</p>
<p>Off he trotted, merry as a cricket, with now
a skip and now a slide. At every corner he
held his breath, half expecting to run into
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>199]</a></span>
Santa himself. Nothing of the sort happened,
however, and he soon found himself before
the gay windows of a toy shop.</p>
<p>There he saw a spring hobby-horse, as
large as a Shetland pony, all saddled and
bridled, too,—lacking nothing but a rider.
Rob pressed his nose against the glass, and
tried to imagine the feelings of a boy in that
saddle. He must have stood there all day,
had not a ragged little fellow pulled his coat.
“Wouldn’t you jist like that popgun?” he
piped.</p>
<p>“Catch me looking at popguns!” said Rob
shortly. But when he saw how tattered the
boy’s jacket was he said more softly, “P’r’raps
you’d like a cooky.”</p>
<p>“Try me wunst!” said the shrill little voice.</p>
<p>There was a queer lump in Rob’s throat as
he emptied one pocket of its cakes and thrust
them into the dirty, eager hands. Then he
marched down the street without so much as
glancing at that glorious steed again.</p>
<p>Brighter and brighter grew the windows,
more and more full of toys. At last our boy
stood, with open eyes and mouth, before a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>200]</a></span>
great store lighted from top to bottom, for it
was growing dark. Rob came near taking off
his cap and saying, “How do you do, sir?”</p>
<p>To whom, you ask. Why, to an image of
Santa Claus, the size of life, holding a Christmas
tree filled with wonderful fruit.</p>
<p>Soon a happy thought struck Rob. “Surely
this must be Santa Claus’s own store, where
he comes to fill his basket with toys! What if
I were to hide there and wait for him?”</p>
<p>As I said, he was a brave little chap, and he
walked straight into the store with the stream
of big people. Everybody was busy. No one
had time to look at our mite of a Rob. He
tried in vain to find a quiet corner, till he
caught sight of some winding stairs that led
up to the next story. He crept up, scarcely
daring to breathe.</p>
<p>What a fairyland! Toys everywhere!
Oceans of toys! Nothing but toys, excepting
one happy little boy. Think of fifty great
rocking-horses in a pile; of whole flocks of
woolly sheep and curly dogs with the real
bark in them; stacks of drums; regiments of
soldiers armed to the teeth; companies of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>201]</a></span>
firemen drawing their hose carts; no end of
wheelbarrows and velocipedes!</p>
<p>Rob screwed his knuckles into his eyes, as a
gentle hint that they had better not play him
any tricks, and then stared with might and
main.</p>
<p>Suddenly Rob thought he heard a footstep
on the stairs. Fearing to be caught, he hid
behind a baby-wagon. No one came, however,
and as he felt rather hungry, he took
out the remaining cakes and had a fine supper.</p>
<p>Why didn’t Santa Claus come?</p>
<p>Rob was really getting sleepy. He stretched
out his tired legs, and, turning one of the
woolly sheep on its side, pillowed his curly
head upon it. It was so nice to lie there, looking
up at the ceiling hung with toys, and with
the faint hum of voices in his ears. The blue
eyes grew more and more heavy. Rob was
fast asleep.</p>
<p>Midnight! The bells rang loud and clear,
as if they had great news to tell the world.
What noise is that besides the bells? And
look, oh, look! Who is that striding up the
room with a great basket on his back? He
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>202]</a></span>
has stolen his coat from a polar bear, and his
cap, too, I declare! His boots are of red
leather and reach to his knees. His coat and
cap are trimmed with wreaths of holly, bright
with scarlet berries.</p>
<p>Good sir, let us see your face—why! that
is the best part of him,—so round, and so
ruddy, such twinkling eyes, and such a merry
look about those dimples! But see his long
white beard; can he be old?</p>
<p>Oh, very, very old. Over nineteen hundred
years. Is that not a long life, little ones? But
he has a young heart, this dear old man, and a
kind one. Can you guess his name? “Hurrah
for Santa Claus!” Right—the very one.</p>
<p>He put his basket down near Robby, and
with his back turned to him shook the snow
from his fur coat. Some of the flakes fell on
Rob’s face and roused him from his sleep.
Opening his eyes, he saw the white figure, but
did not stir nor cry out, lest the vision should
vanish.</p>
<p>But bless his big heart! He had no idea
of vanishing till his night’s work was done.
He took a large book from his pocket, opened
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>203]</a></span>
to the first page, and looked at it very closely.</p>
<p>“Tommy Turner,” was written at the top,
and just below was a little map—yes, there was
Tommy’s heart mapped out like a country.
Part of the land was marked good, part of it
bad. Here and there were little flags to point
out places where battles had been fought during
the year. Some of them were black and
some white; wherever a good feeling had won
the fight there was a white one.</p>
<p>“Tommy Turner,” said Santa Claus aloud,
“six white flags, three black ones. That leaves
only three presents for Tommy; but we must
see what can be done for him.”</p>
<p>So he bustled among the toys, and soon had
a ball, a horse, and a Noah’s ark tied up in a
parcel, which he tossed into the basket.</p>
<p>Name after name was read off, some of
them belonging to Rob’s playmates, and you
may be sure that the little boy listened with
his heart in his mouth.</p>
<p>“Robby Morgan!” said Santa Claus.</p>
<p>In his excitement that small lad nearly
upset the cart, but Santa did not notice it.</p>
<p>“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven”—Rob’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>204]</a></span>
breath came very short—“whites!”</p>
<p>He almost clapped his hands.</p>
<p>“One, two, three, blacks! Now I wonder
what that little chap would like—here’s a
drum, a box of tools, a knife, a menagerie. If
he hadn’t run away from school that day and
then told a lie about it I’d give him a rocking-horse.”</p>
<p>Rob groaned in anguish of spirit.</p>
<p>“But, bless him! he’s a fine little fellow,
and perhaps he will do better next year if I
give him the horse.”</p>
<p>That was too much for our boy. With a
“Hurrah!” he jumped up and turned a somersault
right at Santa Claus’s feet.</p>
<p>“Stars and stripes!” cried Santa. “What’s
this?”</p>
<p>“Come along, I’ll show you the one!” cried
Rob.</p>
<p>Santa Claus allowed himself to be led off
to the pile of horses. You may believe that
Rob’s sharp eyes soon picked out the one with
the longest tail and the thickest mane.</p>
<p>“Well, he beats all the boys that ever I saw!
What shall I do with the little spy?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>205]</a></span>
“Oh, dear Santa Claus,” cried Robby, hugging
the red boots, “do just take me along with
you. I’ll stick tight when you slide down the
chimney.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I guess you will stick tight—in the
chimney, my little man.”</p>
<p>“I mean to your back,” half sobbed Rob.</p>
<p>Santa Claus can’t bear to see little folks in
trouble, so he took the boy into his arms, and
asked where he wanted to go.</p>
<p>“To Tommy Turner’s, and, oh, you know,
that boy in the awful old jacket that likes popguns,”
was the breathless reply.</p>
<p>Of course he knew him, for he knows every
boy and girl in Christendom; so a popgun was
added to the medley of toys. Santa Claus then
strapped Rob and the basket on his back. He
next crept through an open window to a ladder
he had placed there, down which he ran as
nimbly as a squirrel. The reindeer before the
sledge were in a hurry to be off, and tinkled
their silver bells right merrily. An instant
more and they were snugly tucked up in the
white robes; an instant more and they were
flying like the wind over the snow.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>206]</a></span>
Ah! Tommy’s home. Santa Claus sprang
out, placed the light ladder against the house,
and before Rob could wink a good fair wink
they were on the roof, making for the chimney.
Whether it swallowed him, or he swallowed it,
is still a puzzle to Robby.</p>
<p>Tommy lay sleeping in his little bed and
dreaming of a merry Christmas. His rosy
mouth was puckered into something between
a whistle and a smile. Rob longed to give him
a friendly punch, but Santa Claus shook his
head. They filled his stocking and hurried
away, for empty little stockings the
world over were waiting for that generous
hand.</p>
<p>On they sped again, never stopping until
they came to a wretched little hovel. A black
pipe instead of a chimney was sticking through
the roof.</p>
<p>Rob thought, “Now I guess he’ll have to
give it up.” But no, he softly pushed the
door open and stepped in.</p>
<p>On a ragged cot lay the urchin to whom
Robby had given the cookies. One of them,
half eaten, was still clutched in his hand.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>207]</a></span>
Santa Claus gently opened the other little fist
and put the popgun into it.</p>
<p>“Give him my drum,” whispered Rob, and
Santa Claus, without a word, placed it near
the rumpled head.</p>
<p>How swiftly they flew under the bright
stars! How sweetly rang the bells!</p>
<p>When Santa Claus reined up at Robby’s
door he found his little comrade fast asleep.
He laid him tenderly in his crib, and drew off
a stocking, which he filled with the smaller
toys. The rocking-horse he placed close to
the crib, that Rob might mount him on Christmas
morning.</p>
<p>A kiss, and he was gone.</p>
<p>P.S.—Rob’s mother says it was all a dream,
but he declares that “It’s true as Fourth of
July!” I prefer to take his word for it.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>208]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap13" id="bk3chap13"></a>A CHILD’S THOUGHTS ABOUT SANTA CLAUS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What do you think my grandmother said,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Telling Christmas stories to me<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To-night, when I went and coaxed and coaxed<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With my head and arms upon her knee?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She thinks—she really told me so—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">That good Mr. Santa Claus, long ago,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was as old and grey as he is to-day,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Going around with his loaded sleigh.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She thinks he’s driven through frost and snow<br /></span>
<span class="i1">For a hundred, yes, a thousand times or so,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With jingling bells and a bag of toys—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Ho, ho! for good girls and boys,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With a carol gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Crying, “Clear the way,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For a rollicking, merry Christmas day!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grandmother knows almost everything—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">All that I ask her she can tell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rivers and towns in geography,<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>209]</a></span>
<span class="i0">And the hardest words she can always spell.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">But the wisest ones, sometimes, they say,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Mistake—and even grandmother may.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">If Santa Claus never had been a boy<br /></span>
<span class="i1">How would he always know so well<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What all the boys are longing for<br /></span>
<span class="i1">On Christmas day? Can grandmother tell?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why does he take the shiny rings,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The baby houses, the dolls with curls,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The little lockets and other such things<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Never to boys, but always to girls?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why does he take the skates and all<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The bats and balls, and arrows and bows,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And trumpets and drums, and guns—hurrah!<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To the boys? I wonder if grandmother knows?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But there’s one thing that doesn’t seem right—<br /></span>
<span class="i1">If Santa Claus was a boy at play<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hung up his stocking on Christmas night,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Who filled it for him on Christmas day?<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Sydney Dayre.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>210]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap14" id="bk3chap14"></a>CHARITY IN A COTTAGE</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Jean Ingelow</p>
<p>The charity of the rich is much to be commended;
but how beautiful is the charity of
the poor!</p>
<p>Call to mind the coldest day you ever experienced.
Think of the bitter wind and driving
snow; think how you shook and shivered—how
the sharp white particles were driven
up against your face—how, within doors, the
carpets were lifted like billows along the
floors, the wind howled and moaned in the
chimneys, windows cracked, doors rattled, and
every now and then heavy lumps of snow
came thundering down with a dull weight
from the roof.</p>
<p>Now hear my story.</p>
<p>In one of the broad, open plains of Lincolnshire,
there is a long reedy sheet of water, a
favourite resort of wild ducks. At its northern
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>211]</a></span>
extremity stand two mud cottages, old, and
out of repair.</p>
<p>One bitter, bitter night, when the snow lay
three feet deep on the ground, and a cutting
east wind was driving it about, and whistling
in the dry frozen reeds by the water’s edge,
and swinging the bare willow trees till their
branches swept the ice, an old woman sat spinning
in one of these cottages before a moderately
cheerful fire. Her kettle was singing
on the coals, she had a reed candle, or home-made
rushlight, on her table, but the full moon
shone in, and was the brighter light of the
two. These two cottages were far from any
road, or any other habitation; the old woman
was, therefore, surprised, in an old northern
song, by a sudden knock at the door.</p>
<p>It was loud and impatient, not like the
knock of her neighbours in the other cottage;
but the door was bolted, and the old woman
rose, and shuffling to the window, looked out
and saw a shivering figure, apparently that of
a youth.</p>
<p>“Trampers!” said the old woman, sententiously,
“tramping folks be not wanted here.”
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>212]</a></span>
So saying she went back to the fire without
deigning to answer the door.</p>
<p>The youth upon this tried the door, and
called to her to beg admittance. She heard
him rap the snow from his shoes against her
lintel, and again knock as if he thought she
was deaf, and he should surely gain admittance
if he could make her hear.</p>
<p>The old woman, surprised at his audacity,
went to the casement and with all the pride of
possession, opened it and inquired his business.</p>
<p>“Good woman,” the stranger began, “I only
want a seat at your fire.”</p>
<p>“Nay,” said the old woman, giving effect to
her words by her uncouth dialect, “thou’ll get
no shelter here; I’ve nought to give to beggars—a
dirty, wet critter,” she continued
wrathfully, slamming to the window. “It’s a
wonder where he found any water, too, seeing
it freeze so hard a body can get none for
the kettle, saving what’s broken up with a
hatchet.”</p>
<p>The stranger turned very hastily from her
door and waded through the deep snow
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>213]</a></span>
towards the other cottage. The bitter wind
helped to drive him towards it. It looked no
less poor than the first; and when he had tried
the door and found it bolted and fast, his
heart sank within him. His hand was so
numbed with cold that he had made scarcely
any noise; he tried again.</p>
<p>A rush candle was burning within and a
matronly looking woman sat before the fire.
She held an infant in her arms and had
dropped asleep; but his third knock aroused
her, and wrapping her apron round the child,
she opened the door a very little way, and
demanded what he wanted.</p>
<p>“Good woman,” the youth began, “I have
had the misfortune to fall in the water this
bitter night, and I am so numbed I can
scarcely walk.”</p>
<p>The woman gave him a sudden earnest look
and then sighed.</p>
<p>“Come in,” she said; “thou art so nigh the
size of my Jem, I thought at first it was him
come home from sea.”</p>
<p>The youth stepped across the threshold,
trembling with cold and wet; and no wonder,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>214]</a></span>
for his clothes were completely encased in wet
mud, and the water dripped from them with
every step he took on the sanded floor.</p>
<p>“Thou art in a sorry plight,” said the
woman, “and it be two miles to the nighest
house; come and kneel down afore the fire;
thy teeth chatter so pitifully I can scarce bear
to hear them.”</p>
<p>She looked at him more attentively and
saw that he was a mere boy, not more than
sixteen years of age. Her motherly heart was
touched for him. “Art hungry?” she asked,
turning to the table. “Thou art wet to the
skin. What hast been doing?”</p>
<p>“Shooting wild ducks,” said the boy.</p>
<p>“Oh,” said the hostess, “thou art one of the
keeper’s boys, then, I reckon?”</p>
<p>He followed the direction of her eyes, and
saw two portions of bread set upon the table,
with a small piece of bacon on each.</p>
<p>“My master be very late,” she observed, for
charity did not make her use elegant language,
and by her master she meant her husband;
“but thou art welcome to my bit and
sup, for I was waiting for him. Maybe it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>215]</a></span>
will put a little warmth in thee to eat and
drink.” So saying, she placed before him her
own share of the supper.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” said the boy; “but I am so
wet I am making quite a pool before your fire
with the drippings from my clothes.”</p>
<p>“Aye, they are wet indeed,” said the woman,
and rising again she went to an old box, in
which she began to search, and presently came
to the fire with a perfectly clean check shirt in
her hand and a tolerably good suit of clothes.</p>
<p>“There,” said she, showing them with no
small pride, “these be my master’s Sunday
clothes, and if thou wilt be very careful of
them I’ll let thee wear them till thine be dry.”
She then explained that she was going to put
her “bairn” to bed, and proceeded up a ladder
into the room above, leaving the boy to array
himself in these respectable garments.</p>
<p>When she had come down her guest had
dressed himself in the labourer’s clothes; he
had had time to warm himself, and he was
eating and drinking with hungry relish. He
had thrown his muddy clothes in a heap upon
the floor. As she looked at him she said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>216]</a></span>
“Ah, lad, lad, I doubt that head been under
water: thy poor mother would have been
sorely frightened if she could have seen thee
a while ago.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the boy; and in imagination the
cottage dame saw this same mother, a careworn,
hard-working creature like herself;
while the youthful guest saw in imagination a
beautiful and courtly lady; and both saw the
same love, the same anxiety, the same terror,
at sight of a lonely boy struggling in the moonlight
through breaking ice, with no one to help
him, catching at the frozen reeds, and then
creeping up, shivering and benumbed, to a
cottage door.</p>
<p>But, even as she stooped, the woman forgot
her imagination, for she had taken a waistcoat
into her hands, such as had never passed between
them before; a gold pencil-case
dropped from the pocket; and on the floor
amidst a heap of mud that covered the outer
garments, lay a white shirt sleeve, so white,
indeed, and so fine, that she thought it could
hardly be worn by a squire!</p>
<p>She glanced from the clothes to the owner.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>217]</a></span>
He had thrown down his cap, and his fair
curly hair and broad forehead convinced her
that he was of gentle birth; but while she
hesitated to sit down, he placed a chair for
her, and said with boyish frankness:</p>
<p>“I say, what a lonely place this is! If you
had not let me in, the water would have frozen
me before I reached home. Catch me duck-shooting
again by myself!”</p>
<p>“It’s very cold sport that, sir,” said the
woman.</p>
<p>The young gentleman assented most readily,
and asked if he might stir the fire.</p>
<p>“And welcome, sir,” said the woman.</p>
<p>She felt a curiosity to know who he was,
and he partly satisfied her by remarking that
he was staying at Deen Hall, a house about
five miles off, adding that in the morning he
had broken a hole in the ice very near the
decoy, but it iced over so fast, that in the dusk
he had missed it, and fallen in, for it would not
bear him. He had made some landmarks, and
taken every proper precaution, but he supposed
the sport had excited him so much that
in the moonlight he had passed them by.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>218]</a></span>
He then told her of his attempt to get shelter
in the other cottage.</p>
<p>“Sir,” said the woman, “if you had said you
were a gentleman——”</p>
<p>The boy laughed. “I don’t think I knew it,
my good woman,” he replied, “my senses were
so benumbed; for I was some time struggling
at the water’s edge among the broken ice, and
then I believe I was nearly an hour creeping
up to your cottage door. I remember it all
rather indistinctly, but as soon as I had felt
the fire and eaten something I was a different
creature.”</p>
<p>As they still talked, the husband came in;
and while he was eating his supper it was
agreed that he should walk to Deen Hall, and
let its inmates know of the gentleman’s safety.
When he was gone the woman made up the
fire with all the coal that remained to the poor
household, and crept up to bed, leaving her
guest to lie down and rest before it.</p>
<p>In the grey dawn the labourer returned,
with a servant leading a horse, and bringing
a fresh suit of clothes.</p>
<p>The young man took his leave with many
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>219]</a></span>
thanks, slipping three half-crowns into the
woman’s hand, probably all the money he had
about him. And I must not forget to mention
that he kissed the baby; for when she
tells the story, the mother always adverts to
that circumstance with great pride, adding
that her child, being as “clean as wax, was
quite fit to be kissed by anybody.”</p>
<p>“Misses,” said her husband, as they stood in
the doorway looking after their guest, “who
dost think that be?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” answered the misses.</p>
<p>“Then I’ll just tell thee; that be young Lord
W——; so thou mayest be a proud woman;
thou sits and talks with lords, and then asks
them to supper—ha, ha!”</p>
<p>So saying, her master shouldered his spade
and went his way, leaving her clinking the
three half-crowns in her hand, and considering
what she should do with them.</p>
<p>Her neighbour from the other cottage presently
stepped in, and when she heard the tale
and saw the money her heart was ready to
break with envy and jealousy.</p>
<p>“Oh, to think that good luck should have
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>220]</a></span>
come to her door, and she should have been so
foolish as to turn it away! Seven shillings and
sixpence for a morsel of food and a night’s
shelter—why it was nearly a week’s wages!”</p>
<p>So there, as they both supposed, the matter
ended, and the next week the frost was sharper
than ever. Sheep were frozen in the fenny
field and poultry on their perches, but the
good woman had walked to the nearest town
and bought a blanket. It was a welcome addition
to their bed covering, and it was many a
long year since they had been so comfortable.</p>
<p>But it chanced one day at noon that, looking
out at her casement she spied three young
gentlemen skating along the ice towards her
cottage. They sprang on to the bank, took
off their skates, and made for her door. The
young nobleman, for he was one of the three,
informed her that he had had such a severe
cold he could not come to see her before. “He
spoke as free and pleasantly,” she said, in telling
the story, “as if I had been a lady, and no
less, and then he brought a parcel out of his
pocket, saying, ‘I have been over to B——
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>221]</a></span>
and brought you a book for a keepsake, and I
hope you will accept it;’ and then they all
talked as pretty as could be for a matter of ten
minutes, and went away. So I waited till my
master came home, and we opened the parcel,
and there was a fine Bible inside, all over
gold and red morocco, and my name and his
name written inside; and, bless him, a ten-pound
note doubled down over the names.
I’m sure, when I thought he was a poor forlorn
creature, he was kindly welcome. So
my master laid out part of the money in tools,
and we rented a garden; and he goes over on
market days to sell what we grow, so now,
thank God, we want for nothing.”</p>
<p>This is how she generally concludes the
little history, never failing to add that the
young lord kissed her baby.</p>
<p>But I have not yet told you what I thought
the best part of the story. When this poor
Christian woman was asked what had induced
her to take in a perfect stranger and trust him
with the best clothing her home afforded, she
answered simply, “Well, I saw him shivering
and shaking, so I thought, thou shalt come in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>222]</a></span>
here, for the sake of Him that had not where
to lay His head.”</p>
<p>The old woman in the other cottage may
open her door every night of her future life
to some forlorn beggar, but it is all but certain
that she will never open it to a nobleman
in disguise!</p>
<p>Let us do good, not to receive more good
in return, but as evidence of gratitude for
what has been already bestowed. In a few
words, let it be “all for love and nothing for
reward.”</p>
<p>“The most excellent gift is charity.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>223]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap15" id="bk3chap15"></a>THE WAITS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">At the break of Christmas Day,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Through the frosty starlight ringing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Faint and sweet and far away,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Comes the sound of children, singing,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Chanting, singing,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">“Cease to mourn,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">For Christ is born,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Peace and joy to all men bringing!”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Careless that the chill winds blow,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Noiseless footfalls in the snow<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Bring the happy voices nearer;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Hear them singing,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">“Winter’s drear,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">But Christ is here,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>224]</a></span>
<span class="i0">“Merry Christmas!” hear them say,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">As the East is growing lighter;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“May the joy of Christmas Day<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Make your whole year gladder, brighter!”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Join their singing,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">“To each home<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Our Christ has come,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All love’s treasures with Him bringing!”<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Margaret Deland.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>225]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap16" id="bk3chap16"></a>WHERE LOVE IS THERE GOD IS ALSO</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Leo Tolstoi</p>
<p>Martuin, the shoemaker, lived in a city of
Russia. His house was a little basement room
with one window. Through this window he
used to watch the people walking past. He
was so far below the street that from his
bench he could see only the feet of the passers-by
but he knew them all by their boots.
Nearly every pair of boots in the neighbourhood
had been in his hands once and again.
Some he would half sole, and some he would
patch, some he would stitch around, and occasionally
he would also put on new uppers.
“Ah,” he would say to himself, “there goes
the baker. That was a fine piece of leather.”
Martuin always had plenty to do because he
was a faithful workman, used good materials,
and always finished an order as early as he
promised it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>226]</a></span>
In the evening when his work was done he
would light his little oil lamp, take his book
down from the shelf and begin to read. He
had but one book, a Bible, and as he read he
thought of the wonderful Christ-child. “Ah,”
he cried one night, “if He would only come to
me and be my guest. If He should come, I
wonder how I should receive Him.” Martuin
rested his head upon his hands and dozed.
“Martuin,” a voice seemed suddenly to sound
in his ears.</p>
<p>He started from his sleep. “Who is here?”
He looked around but there was no one.</p>
<p>Again he fell into a doze. Suddenly he
plainly heard, “Martuin, ah, Martuin! Look
to-morrow on the street. I am coming.”</p>
<p>At daybreak next morning Martuin woke,
said his prayer, put his cabbage soup and
gruel on to cook and sat down by the window
to work. He worked hard but all the time he
was thinking of the voice that he had heard.
“Was it a dream,” he said to himself, “or is
He coming? Shall I really see Him to-day?”
When anyone passed by in boots that he did
not know he would bend down close to the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>227]</a></span>
window so that he could see the face as well
as the boots.</p>
<p>By and by an old, old man came along; he
carried a shovel. It was Stephanwitch. Martuin
knew him by his old felt boots. He was
very poor and helped the house porter with
all the hard work. Now he began to shovel
away the snow from in front of Martuin’s
window. Martuin looked up eagerly.</p>
<p>“Pshaw,” said Martuin, “old Stephanwitch
is clearing away the snow and I imagined the
Christ-child was coming to see me.” He
looked again. How old and feeble Stephanwitch
looked.</p>
<p>“He is cold and weary,” thought Martuin.
“I will call him in and give him a cup of tea,
the samovar must be boiling by now.”</p>
<p>He laid down his awl, made the tea, and
tapped on the window. “Come in and warm
yourself,” he said.</p>
<p>“May Christ reward you for this! My
bones ache,” said Stephanwitch.</p>
<p>Stephanwitch shook off the snow and tried
to wipe his feet so as not to soil the floor, but
he staggered from cold and weariness.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>228]</a></span>
“Never mind that, I will clean it up. We
are used to such things. Sit down and drink
a cup of tea,” said Martuin heartily.</p>
<p>Martuin filled two cups and handed one to
Stephanwitch who drank it eagerly, turned it
upside down, and began to express his thanks.</p>
<p>“Have some more?” said Martuin, refilling
the cup.</p>
<p>“Are you expecting anyone?” asked
Stephanwitch. “I see you keep turning to
look on the street.”</p>
<p>“I am ashamed to tell you whom I expect.
I am, and I am not, expecting someone. You
see, brother, I was reading about the Christ
and how He walked on earth and I thought,
‘If He came to me, should I know how to
receive Him?’ and I heard a voice, ‘Be on the
watch, I shall come to-morrow.’ It is absurd,
yet would you believe it, I am expecting Him,
the Christ-child.”</p>
<p>Stephanwitch shook his head but said nothing.</p>
<p>Martuin filled his guest’s cup with hot tea
and continued, “You see I have an idea He
would come to the simple people. He picked
out His disciples from simple working people
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>229]</a></span>
like us. Come, brother, have some more
tea.”</p>
<p>But Stephanwitch rose. “Thanks to you,
Martuin, for treating me kindly and warming
me, soul and body.”</p>
<p>“You are welcome, brother, come again.”</p>
<p>Stephanwitch departed. Martuin put away
the dishes and sat down by the window to
stitch on a patch. He kept looking out as he
stitched.</p>
<p>Two soldiers passed by; one wore boots that
Martuin had made; then the master of the next
house; then a baker. Then there came a
woman in woolen stockings and wooden
shoes. Martuin looked up through the window.
He saw she was a stranger poorly clad
in shabby summer clothes. She had turned
her back to the wind and was trying to shelter
a little child who was crying.</p>
<p>Martuin went to the door and called out,
“Why are you standing there in the cold?
Come into my room where it is warm.”</p>
<p>The woman was astonished when she saw
the old, old man in his leather apron and big
spectacles beckoning and calling to her, but
she gladly followed him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>230]</a></span>
“There,” said Martuin, “sit down near the
stove and warm yourself.” Then he brought
out bread, poured out cabbage soup, and took
up the pot with the gruel.</p>
<p>“Eat, eat,” he said. “I will mind the little
one. Tell me, why are you out in this bitter
cold?”</p>
<p>“I am a soldier’s wife, but my husband has
been sent far away. We have used up our
money and I went to-day for work but they
told me to come again.”</p>
<p>Martuin sighed. “Have you no warm
clothes?”</p>
<p>“Ah, this is the time to wear them, but
yesterday I sold my last warm shawl for
food.”</p>
<p>Martuin sighed. He went to the little cupboard
and found an old coat. “Take it,” he
said. “It is a poor thing, yet it may help you.”
He slipped some money into her hand and
with this said, “Buy yourself a shawl and
food till work shall be found.”</p>
<p>“May Christ bless you!” she cried. “He
must have sent me to you. It had grown so
cold my little child would have frozen to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>231]</a></span>
death, but He, the Christ-child, led you to
look through the window.”</p>
<p>“Indeed He did,” said Martuin, smiling.</p>
<p>The woman left. Martuin ate some sheki,
washed the dishes, and sat down again by the
window to work. A shadow darkened the
window. Martuin looked up eagerly. It was
only an acquaintance who lived a little further
down the street. Again the window
grew dark. This time Martuin saw that an
old apple woman had stopped right in front
of the window. She carried a basket with
apples and over her shoulder she had a bag
full of chips. One could see that the bag was
heavy. She lowered it to the sidewalk and
as she did so, she set the apples on a little post.
A little boy with a torn cap darted up, picked
an apple out of the basket and started to run
but the old woman caught him, knocked off his
cap, and seized him by the hair.</p>
<p>Martuin ran out in the cold. “Let him go,
Babushka; forgive him for Christ’s sake.”</p>
<p>“I will forgive him so that he won’t forget
it till the new broom grows! I am going to
take him to the police.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>232]</a></span>
“Let him go, Babushka, let him go for
Christ’s sake. He will never do it again.”</p>
<p>The old woman let him loose. The boy
tried to run, but Martuin kept him back.</p>
<p>“Ask Babushka’s forgiveness,” he said, “and
never do it again. I saw you take the apple.”</p>
<p>With tears in his eyes the boy began to ask
forgiveness.</p>
<p>“There, that’s all right,” said Martuin;
“take the apple. I will pay for it.”</p>
<p>“You ruin the good-for-nothings,” said the
old woman. “He should be well punished.
He deserves it.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” answered Martuin, “but God
forgives us though we deserve it not.”</p>
<p>“Well, well,” said the old woman, appeased,
“after all it was but a childish trick.” She
started to lift the bag upon her shoulder.</p>
<p>“Let me take it,” said the boy. “It is on
my way.”</p>
<p>Side by side they passed along the street, the
boy carrying the bag and chattering to the old
woman. Martuin turned and went back into
the little room.</p>
<p>After sewing a little while it grew too dark
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>233]</a></span>
to see. He lighted his little lamp, finished his
piece of work, put it away, and took down his
Bible. Suddenly he seemed to hear someone
stepping around behind him. In the dark
corner there seemed to be people standing.
Then he heard a voice, “Martuin, ah, Martuin,
did you not know me?”</p>
<p>“Who?” cried Martuin.</p>
<p>“It is I,” replied the voice, and Stephanwitch
stepped forth from the dark corner,
smiled, and faded away like a little cloud.</p>
<p>“And this is I!” said the voice again, and
from the dark corner stepped the woman and
the child. The woman smiled, the child
laughed, and then they, too, vanished.</p>
<p>“And this is I!” and the old woman and
the boy stepped forward, smiled, and vanished.
Then a light filled the little room and
glowed about the figure of a Child and Martuin
heard the words:</p>
<p>“For I was an hungered and ye gave me
meat; I was thirsty and ye gave me drink; I
was a stranger and ye took me in.” And Martuin
knew that the Christ-child had really
come to him that Christmas-tide. (<i>Adapted.</i>)</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>234]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk3chap17" id="bk3chap17"></a>GOD REST YE, MERRY GENTLEMEN</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">God rest ye, merry gentlemen,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Let nothing you dismay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Was born upon this day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To save us all from Satan’s pow’r<br /></span>
<span class="i1">When we were gone astray.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O tidings of comfort and joy!<br /></span>
<span class="i1">For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was born on Christmas Day.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now to the Lord sing praises,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">All you within this place,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with true love and brotherhood<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Each other now embrace;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This holy tide of Christmas<br /></span>
<span class="i1">All others doth deface.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O tidings of comfort and joy!<br /></span>
<span class="i1">For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was born on Christmas Day.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Dinah Mulock Craik.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"><!-- no visible page number --></a></span></p>
<h2 class="padtop"><a name="book4" id="book4"></a>THE GLAD NEW YEAR</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>236]</a></span></p>
<h3 class="padtop"><a name="bk4chap01" id="bk4chap01"></a>THE GLAD NEW YEAR</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It’s coming, boys,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">It’s almost here.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It’s coming, girls,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The grand New Year.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A year to be glad in,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Not to be sad in;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A year to live in,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To gain and give in.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A year for trying,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And not for sighing;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A year for striving<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And healthy thriving.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It’s coming, boys,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">It’s almost here.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It’s coming, girls,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The grand New Year.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Mary Mapes Dodge.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>237]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk4chap02" id="bk4chap02"></a>THE BAD LITTLE GOBLIN’S NEW YEAR</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Mary Stewart</p>
<p>Come, children dear, let’s sit on the floor
around the fire, so, and watch those golden
flames dancing and leaping. You see that
very gay one just springing up the chimney?
I know a story about him, a New Year’s story.
Let’s snuggle up closer and look into the fire.
You see that piece of coal black wood, there
at the end? There was a horrid little goblin
once who was as black as that bit of wood.
His clothes were all black, his round cap
looked like a bit of coal, his pointed shoes were
jet black, and his face was dark with dirt and
an ugly scowling expression. Altogether he
was a horrid looking goblin, and he was just
as hateful as he looked. There wasn’t a single
person who liked him. The birds hated him
because he would wait after dark when all the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>238]</a></span>
baby birds were cuddled down in the nest,
fast asleep. Then he would pop up from
under the nest where he had been hiding and
cry, “Morning time, wake up!” and all the
babies would cry, “Chirp, chirp, Daddy bring
us our breakfast!” They opened their bills
so wide that it took a long time to shut them
and put the excited babies to sleep again.
Once Blackie, that was the goblin’s name,
dropped a bit of twig down into a baby’s open
bill and the poor bird coughed so hard that
he kept the birds in the nests around awake
all night. Blackie chuckled with glee and
went scurrying off on another prank.</p>
<p>While the mother bunnies were asleep he
painted the tiny white flags they wear under
their tails with brown mud from the marsh.
When morning-time really did come and the
mother bunnies woke up and called to their
children to follow them, the little bunnies
couldn’t see any white flags on their mothers’
tails to follow, and all got lost in the long
grass. It took the whole day to gather them
together, and still longer to get those flags
clean again.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>239]</a></span>
Blackie jumped for joy. The mother bunnies
would have liked to reach him with their
sharp claws, but he was too quick for them.</p>
<p>Then Blackie found the holes where the
squirrels had hidden their nuts for the winter.
It had taken months to gather them, but
Blackie waited until they were out hunting
again, and he carried all the nuts away and hid
them in the roots of an old tree where they
would never think of looking!</p>
<p>That wasn’t all! Blackie did one last thing
so terrible that I don’t like to tell you about it.
He waited until a robin’s nest was full of
lovely blue eggs and the father bird was off in
search of worms. Then he made such a rustling
in the next tree that the mother bird flew
off to see what it was, and while she was gone—Blackie
danced upon the eggs until they
were all broken!</p>
<p>That filled the timid wood creatures with
fury. The birds, the rabbits, and the squirrels
rushed upon the goblin and drove him before
them. The birds pecked him with their
beaks, and the squirrels and rabbits hopped
after him with their claws outstretched.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>240]</a></span>
Away ran Blackie, really frightened at last,
faster and faster until he reached the darkest
part of the whole forest. There he jumped
into a hole in a tree, curling himself up so
tightly that his round cap touched his pointed
shoes, and while he trembled with fear he
heard the birds and bunnies and squirrels go
tearing past, thinking that the wicked little
goblin was still running ahead of them.</p>
<p>When they had all gone, Blackie peeked out
of his hole. Oh, how terribly quiet it was!
Not a bird chirped, not a squirrel or a rabbit
or a woodchuck lived there. It was so quiet
and so dark and so lonely that Blackie began
to feel quite forlorn. “I would almost be
polite to a tree toad!” he thought, but not even
a croak or a buzz or a rustle broke the stillness.
The bad little goblin put his head down
upon his black knees and went to sleep; there
was nothing else to do!</p>
<p>The first sound which woke him up was,
“Chop-chop!” He rubbed his eyes and
peeked out. He saw woodcutters cutting
down trees with their sharp axes. Then he
saw them coming toward the tree where he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>241]</a></span>
was hiding. Shaking with terror, Blackie
curled himself up into a tight ball. Chop-chop-crash!
went the tree, and Blackie’s head
bumped hard against the top of his hole as,
still inside it, he felt the tree fall to the
ground. That was rather fun, and much excited
he peeked out of a crack and watched
the men fastening chains around the trees and
loading them on wheels. His own tree went,
too, and the next thing Blackie heard was saw-saw,
as the tree was sawed into logs at a lumber
yard. Again he rolled up tight, hoping
the knives wouldn’t cut him in two, and they
didn’t! He was still safe in his hole when his
log was thrown with others, right down into
a dark cellar. It was even drearier there than
in the forest and Blackie began to long for
some playfellows. “I wouldn’t tease them. I’d
just play with them nicely,” he sighed, and two
tears ran down his little black face, washing it
almost clean.</p>
<p>Then Blackie heard a strange new sound.
It was gayer than a squirrel’s chatter, sweeter
than a bird’s song,—it was a child’s laughter!
Where did it come from? Blackie stopped
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>242]</a></span>
crying and listened. It came again and the
laughter of other children mingled with it.
Blackie peeked out. There was no one in the
cellar. He crept out and tiptoed up the
stairs, in search of those laughing voices.
Hiding in the shadows so that no one could see
him, he passed through the kitchen and on into
a room full of sunshine and children. He ran
in and hid behind a curtain, peeking out curiously.
In the center of the room stood a little
golden-haired girl, the one whose laughter he
had first heard. But as Blackie watched her
with delight he saw her pucker up her face as
though she were going to cry. “My dolly,
my dear dolly, I tan’t find her!” she wailed.
In a flash all the other boys and girls were
searching under chairs and tables for the runaway
dolly. They couldn’t find her, but
Blackie saw a pair of doll’s feet poking out
from under the sofa. He hopped swiftly
across the floor, pulled the doll out by one leg
and placed her on a chair beside the little girl.</p>
<p>“Oh, see, my doll’s tum back!” she cried,
hugging her with joy. “She went for a walk
and tame back again!” and taking the doll’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>243]</a></span>
two hands in hers she danced with her around
the room. The other children danced, too,
and their laughter rang out again. “She went
for a walk and came back all herself!” they
cried.</p>
<p>Blackie thought he had never seen or heard
anything so merry, it made him want to dance,
also. Poor little black goblin whom the maid,
if she had seen him, would have swept out of
the room, mistaking him for a bit of coal!</p>
<p>But Blackie took care that no one did see
him. Except, perhaps, the children, I don’t
know whether anyone ever saw him or not. He
spent most of the time with them, and somehow
they seemed to know that he was there
and that he was their friend. Every evening
when they had their supper they put a bowl of
milk in front of the fire for him, and when
they came in to breakfast the bowl was always
empty. I don’t know how Blackie drank it
without being seen, for he still slept in his log
in the cellar and was asleep as soon as the children’s
heads touched their pillows. The children’s
mother was puzzled over that empty
bowl, but she might have guessed there was a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>244]</a></span>
friendly goblin in the house by the way lost
things were always turning up.</p>
<p>“I can’t find my thimble!” the mother would
cry. “Come, children, and look for it!” On
the floor, under the rug, in the flower pots, and
on the tables hunted the children. But hiding
behind the curtain Blackie had seen a bit of
something gold shining through the tassels of
the sofa. Quick as a flash, he pulled it out
and placed it on the arm of the mother’s chair.
“Why, here it is!” she exclaimed. “How did
it get there?” The children laughed and
winked at each other, as though they understood,
but how could they explain about the
goblin to mother?</p>
<p>Their father was always looking for his
spectacles. Mother, the children, and all the
maids would be called in to help search. Before
Blackie came they often searched for
hours, but he always found them in a twinkling,
in a book, perhaps, or under the fender,
and would place them right in front of
father. “Gracious, look here, there must be
some magic around!” he would cry, and the
children would jump up and down with glee!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>245]</a></span>
They knew all about the magic. They guessed
that a little black goblin was also jumping
with delight behind the curtain!</p>
<p>One morning,—it was New Year’s Day,—Blackie
slept longer than usual. He was
curled up inside his log, so sound asleep that
even the joggling of his home being carried
upstairs didn’t waken him. Then he was
turned upside down, and, opening his eyes, he
peeked out of the crack and found that the log
was about to be thrown onto the blazing fire!
Crash! it went. How very warm it was, and
then Blackie heard the children laughing.
He poked his head out and saw them all sitting
in front of the fire, watching the blaze. All
around Blackie red and yellow flames were
dancing, so gay, so golden, so happy that
Blackie forgot to be frightened. “I want to
be gay, too!” he cried. “I want to laugh with
the children and dance with the flames.”
His log caught fire, blazed up and out
sprang Blackie,—a little black goblin no
longer!</p>
<p>Instead, he was the shiniest, most dancing
golden flame that you ever saw! For a few
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>246]</a></span>
moments he just danced up and down with delight,
then, waving and bowing to the children,
he cried, “Happy New Year! Happy New
Year!” and sprang up the chimney. The children’s
glad voices echoed after him.</p>
<p>When he reached the top he saw a glorious
sight. The sun shining on the snow and ice
turned the world into a sparkling Fairy-land,
and the sky was as blue as forget-me-nots, or
Polly’s eyes, or the very bluest thing you have
ever seen. Blackie danced with the sunbeams
over the glittering ice until he almost ran into
a flock of little birds huddled down in the
snow, too cold to fly. Their feathers were ruffled
and they looked very miserable. “Come
play with me!” he cried, dancing around them.
He was so gay and so beautiful that they forgot
the cold, and flew in circles around him.
“Come and join us!” he cried to a group of
rabbits who were hunched up upon the snow,
half-frozen. They hopped along slowly toward
him and then—they, too, forgot the cold
while they played games with the golden goblin
and the birds, until they were all as merry
as the sunbeams. “Happy New Year! Happy
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>247]</a></span>
New Year!” they called to each other, and to
the twinkling flame goblin.</p>
<p>Then Blackie saw some squirrels curled up
on the branches of a tree so miserable they
couldn’t even make-believe scamper. “What
is the matter; do you want some nuts?” he
cried. “Follow me!” And away he darted
to the roots of the tree where, as a naughty
little goblin, he had hidden their winter store.
The squirrels followed slowly, but when they
saw their treasure their eyes sparkled, their
teeth chattered with delight, and they scampered
back and forth from the tree root to
their own holes, their paws full of nuts. They
were as gay as Blackie himself. “Happy New
Year! Happy New Year!” they cried to their
gleaming friend, whom they never dreamed
was the bad little goblin they had chased away
the autumn before!</p>
<p>So all day and for many days the goblin
danced and sang and helped people and birds
and the wood creatures. He twinkled as merrily
in the sunshine out of doors as he did when
he danced in the fire, warming the children
and singing them songs.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>248]</a></span>
“It’s like Happy New Year every day when
the goblin is here!” cried the children, dancing
as gayly on the hearth rug as the sprite was
dancing within the fire. “There he is now, do
you see him? He is dancing and crackling
and crying to all of us, ‘Happy New Year,
Happy New Year!’”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<a name="bk4chap03" id="bk4chap03"></a>
<span class="i0">Let others looke for Pearle and Gold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tissues, or Tabbies manifold;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One only lock of that sweet Hay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whereon the blessed Babie lay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or one poore Swadling-clout, shall be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The richest New-Yeere’s Gift to me.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Robert Herrick.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>249]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk4chap04" id="bk4chap04"></a>THE QUEEN OF THE YEAR</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When suns are low and nights are long<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And winds bring wild alarms,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through the darkness comes the Queen of the Year<br /></span>
<span class="i1">In all her peerless charms,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">December, fair and holly-crowned,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With the Christ-child in her arms.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The maiden months are a stately train,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Veiled in the spotless snow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or decked with the bloom of Paradise<br /></span>
<span class="i1">What time the roses blow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or wreathed with the vine and the yellow wheat<br /></span>
<span class="i1">When the noons of harvest glow.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But, oh, the joy of the rolling year,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The queen with peerless charms,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is she who comes through the waning light<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To keep the world from harms,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">December, fair and holly-crowned,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With the Christ-child in her arms.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Edna Dean Proctor.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>250]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk4chap05" id="bk4chap05"></a>THE NEW YEAR’S BELL</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Andrea Hofer Proudfoot</p>
<p>A-ring-a-ring, ring! A-ring-a-ring, ring!</p>
<p>“Brother Carl, wake up! wake up! Don’t
you hear the great bell? Father is ringing the
New Year in, don’t you hear it, little Carl?
Wake up!”</p>
<p>Tangled-haired little Carl sat up in bed,
rubbed his eyes, and after a few winks opened
them wide.</p>
<p>“Is it the wind, brother Hans, that sings
so?”</p>
<p>“No, no! It is the great bell; don’t you hear
it ring? It is ringing for the New Year.”</p>
<p>“Is father drawing the rope?” asked the little
one.</p>
<p>“Of course he is, little Carl; he is waking
up the whole world that every one may wish a
‘Happy New Year.’ Come, let us go to the
window.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>251]</a></span>
And the two little fellows crept out of their
warm nest onto the cold floor, and over to the
window in the gable.</p>
<p>“Oh, see, there is father’s lantern in the
steeple window!” cried Carl.</p>
<p>It threw its light into the frosty night; the
clear stars cut sharp holes in the sky, and the
air was so cold it made everything glisten.</p>
<p>A-ring-a-ring, ring! clanged the great bell,
and little Hans and Carl knew their father’s
arms were making it ring. The strokes were
so strong that each one made little half-asleep
Carl wink; and the stars seemed to wink back
to him each time. He crept closer to Hans,
and the two stood still with their arms about
each other; the room was quite cold, but they
did not mind it, for with each stroke the great
bell seemed to ring more beautifully. It
seemed so near them, as if ringing right in
their ears, and the two little boys stood and
listened with beating hearts.</p>
<p>“I saw dear father trim his lantern,” whispered
Hans. “He set it near the door before
we went to bed, all ready to light when the
clock struck twelve. Mother said to him as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>252]</a></span>
he put the lantern there, ‘Ring the bell good
and strong, dear father, for who knows but
this year may bring the great blessing which
the Christ-child promised!’ We must watch
for it, little Carl.”</p>
<p>And the old bell seemed to speak louder
and clearer to the little ones, as they eagerly
listened for what it was telling.</p>
<p>“Father says the bell will never ring from
the old tower again, for the new one is being
built,” said Hans. “And what do you think,
brother Carl, our dear mother wept because
the old steeple must be broken down, and the
dear bell, that is even now a-ringing, must be
put into another great tower to ring.”</p>
<p>“Does the great bell know it, brother?”</p>
<p>“No, dear little Carl; but no matter where
it is put it will always ring, and be glad to
wake the village for the New Year.”</p>
<p>“Will we go and say good-bye to the dear
old bell, brother Hans?” whispered little Carl.</p>
<p>“Yes, brother mine; when it is day we will
go, for it has rung so many times for us.”</p>
<p>They crept out of the cold into their snug
bed again, and the great strokes poured from
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>253]</a></span>
the tower window long after the little curly
heads were full of dreams.</p>
<p>“Wake up, brother Hans! there is the
sun.”</p>
<p>This time little Carl was the first to arise.
Quickly they were both dressed, and, opening
their door noiselessly, they went down the narrow
stairs on tiptoe, and then out into the open
air.</p>
<p>A swift wind was blowing. It swept over
the bare bushes and whirled the snow into the
children’s faces, and filled their curly hair
with flakes. But the sun was smiling down on
them and said: “See what a beautiful day I
brought for a New Year’s gift to you!”</p>
<p>And the little ones passed through the
church door, that was always open, and into
the belfry tower. They knew the way, for
father had so often taken them with him.</p>
<p>They came to the long, dark ladder-way;
but they did not mind the dark—for they knew
the bell was at the top, and they bravely began
to climb.</p>
<p>Hans had wooden shoes, so he left them at
the foot of the ladder. It is so much easier to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>254]</a></span>
climb a ladder with bare feet. Besides, he
hardly felt the cold he was such a quick and
lively little boy.</p>
<p>Carl went ahead that brother Hans might
the more easily help him. They climbed, up
and up, and the brave big brother talked merrily
all the time, to keep little Carl from thinking
of the long, long way. Up and up they
went. It became darker and darker. Little
Carl led on and on, and he was glad that Hans
was behind him.</p>
<p>All at once a bright gleam of light greeted
them from above, and they knew that soon
they would be with the dear old bell.</p>
<p>Through the opening they crept, and there
the great bell hung and they stood beneath it.
Hans could just touch it, and he felt its long
tongue and saw the shining marks on its sides
where it had struck in clanging for many,
many years.</p>
<p>It was very cold in the belfry. Little Carl
tucked his hands under his blouse and gazed
at the bell, while Hans explained to him what
made the music and the great tolling tones that
came from it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>255]</a></span>
“The whole world loves the great bell,
brother Carl,” said Hans. “Mother thinks
that last night it rang in the great blessing
which the Christ-child had promised.”</p>
<p>“What did the little Christ-child promise,
brother?”</p>
<p>“Don’t you remember, little Carl? Mother
told us that the Christ-child would send little
children a beautiful gift; I think it must
be the New Year that he has sent, for that is
what the old bell brought to us last night.”</p>
<p>And Hans lifted little Carl, and he kissed
the beautiful bell on its great round lip, and
the bell was still warm from its long ringing.</p>
<p>And they stood and looked at the bell quietly
for a long time. And then they said, “Good-bye,
dear great bell,” and they went down the
dark ladder again.</p>
<p>Hans put on his wooden shoes at the foot
of the ladder, and with flying feet they crossed
the church garden, and there stood the dear
mother in the door looking for them. She had
found their little bed empty, and was just starting
out to find them.</p>
<p>“Dear Mother, we have been in the tower to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>256]</a></span>
thank the great bell for bringing the New
Year,” cried Hans.</p>
<p>“Did the Christ-child send it, Mother?”
asked little Carl.</p>
<p>The mother stooped and put her arms about
them and kissed them both. As she led them
into the room she said, “Yes, my little ones, the
Christ-child sends the New Year.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h3><a name="bk4chap06" id="bk4chap06"></a>THE NEW YEAR</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Snow-wrapped and holly-decked it comes,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To richest and to poorest homes.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Twelve jeweled months all set with days<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Of priceless opportunities.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A silver moon, a golden sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With diamond stars when day is done;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Over all a sapphire sky<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where pearly clouds go floating by.<br /></span>
<span class="i8">(<i>Selected.</i>)<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>257]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk4chap07" id="bk4chap07"></a>THE CHILD AND THE YEAR</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Said the child to the youthful year:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">“What hast thou in store for me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O giver of beautiful gifts! what cheer,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">What joy dost thou bring with thee?”<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“My seasons four shall bring<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Their treasures: the winter’s snows,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The autumn’s store, and the flowers of spring,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And the summer’s perfect rose.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“All these and more shall be thine,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Dear child—but the last and best<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thyself must earn by a strife divine,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">If thou wouldst be truly blest.”<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Celia Thaxter.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>258]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk4chap08" id="bk4chap08"></a>A MASQUE OF THE DAYS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Charles Lamb</p>
<p>The Old Year being dead, and the New Year
coming of age, which he does, by calendar law
as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman’s
body, nothing would serve the young
spark, but he must give a dinner upon the occasion,
to which all the Days in the year were
invited. The Festivals, whom he deputed as
his stewards, were mightily taken with the notion.
They had been engaged time out of
mind, they said, in providing mirth and good
cheer for mortals below, and it was time they
should have a taste of their own bounty.</p>
<p>It was stiffly debated among them whether
the Fasts should be admitted. Some said the
appearance of such lean, starved guests, with
their mortified faces, would pervert the ends
of the meeting. But the objection was overruled
by Christmas Day, who had a design
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>259]</a></span>
upon Ash Wednesday (as you shall hear), and
a mighty desire to see how the old Domine
would behave himself in his cups. Only the
Vigils were requested to come with their lanterns
to light the gentlefolk home at night.</p>
<p>All the Days came. Covers were provided
for three hundred and sixty-five guests at the
principal table; with an occasional knife and
fork at the sideboard for the Twenty-ninth of
February.</p>
<p>Cards of invitation had been issued. The
carriers were the Hours; twelve little, merry,
whirligig foot-pages that went all round and
found out the person invited, with the exception
of Easter Day, Shrove Tuesday, and a few
such movables, who had lately shifted their
quarters.</p>
<p>Well, they all met at last, foul Days, fine
Days, all sorts of Days, and a rare din they
made of it. There was nothing but “Hail, fellow
Day! well met!” only Lady Day seemed
a little scornful. Yet some said Twelfth Day
cut her out, for she came all royal and glittering
and Epiphanous. The rest came in green,
some in white, but old Lent and his family
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>260]</a></span>
were not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days
came in dripping, and Sunshiny Days laughing.
Wedding Day was there in marriage
finery. Pay Day came late, and Doomsday
sent word he might be expected.</p>
<p>April Fool took upon himself to marshal
the guests, and May Day, with that sweetness
peculiar to her, proposed the health of the
host. This being done, the lordly New Year,
from the upper end of the table, returned
thanks. Ash Wednesday, being now called
upon for a song, struck up a carol, which
Christmas Day had taught him. Shrovetide,
Lord Mayor’s Day, and April Fool next
joined in a glee, in which all the Days, chiming
in, made a merry burden.</p>
<p>All this while Valentine’s Day kept courting
pretty May, who sat next him, slipping
amorous billet-doux under the table till the
Dog Days began to be jealous and to bark and
rage exceedingly.</p>
<p>At last the Days called for their cloaks and
great-coats, and took their leave. Shortest
Day went off in a deep black fog that wrapped
the little gentleman all round. Two Vigils—so
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>261]</a></span>
watchmen are called in Heaven—saw
Christmas Day safe home; they had been used
to the business before. Another Vigil—a
stout, sturdy patrol, called the Eve of St.
Christopher—seeing Ash Wednesday in a condition
little better than he should be, e’en
whipt him over his shoulders, pick-a-pack
fashion, and he went floating home, singing:</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“On the bat’s back do I fly,”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>and a number of old snatches besides. Longest
Day set off westward in beautiful crimson
and gold; the rest, some in one fashion, some
in another; but Valentine and pretty May took
their departure together in one of the prettiest
silvery twilights a Lover’s Day could wish to
set in.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>262]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk4chap09" id="bk4chap09"></a>RING OUT, WILD BELLS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The flying cloud, the frosty light:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The year is dying in the night;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ring out the old, ring in the new,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Ring, happy bells, across the snow:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The year is going, let him go;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ring out the false, ring in the true.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Alfred Tennyson.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263"><!-- no visible page number --></a></span></p>
<h2 class="padtop"><a name="book5" id="book5"></a>MIDWINTER</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>264]</a></span></p>
<h3 class="padtop"><a name="bk5chap01" id="bk5chap01"></a>THE BELLS</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i1">Hear the sledges with the bells—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Silver bells!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What a world of merriment their melody foretells!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">In the icy air of night!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">While the stars, that oversprinkle<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All the heavens, seem to twinkle<br /></span>
<span class="i3">With a crystalline delight;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Keeping time, time, time,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells<br /></span>
<span class="i1">From the bells, bells, bells—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Bells, bells, bells—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Edgar Allen Poe.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>265]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk5chap02" id="bk5chap02"></a>A JANUARY THAW</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Dallas Lore Sharp</p>
<p>It was the twenty-first of January—the dead
of winter! The stubborn cold had had the
out of doors under lock and key since Thanksgiving
Day. We were having a hard winter,
and the novelty of the thing was beginning to
wear off—to us grown-ups anyhow, and to the
birds and wild things which for weeks had
found scant picking over the ice and snow.
But I was snug enough in my upstairs study,
when suddenly the door opened and four bebundled
boys stood before me, with an axe,
a long-handled shovel, a basket, and, evidently,
a big secret.</p>
<p>“Come on, father,” they whispered (as if
she hadn’t heard them clomping with their
kit through the house!), “it’s mother’s birthday
to-morrow, and we’re going after the flowers.”</p>
<p>“Going to chop them down with the axe or
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>266]</a></span>
dig them up with the shovel?” I asked. “Going
to give her a nice bunch of frost-flowers?
Better get the ice-saw then, for we’ll need a
big block of ice to stick their stems in.”</p>
<p>“Hurry,” they answered, dropping my hip-boots
on the floor. “Here are your scuffs.”</p>
<p>I hurried, and soon the five of us, in single
file were out on the meadow, the dry snow
squeaking under our feet, while the little
winds, capering spitefully about us, blew the
snow-dust into our faces or catching up the
thin drifts sent them whirling like waltzing
wraiths of dancers over the meadow’s glittering
floor.</p>
<p>I was beginning to warm up a little, but it
was a numb, stiff world about us, and bleak
and stark, a world all black and white, for
there was not even blue overhead. The white
underfoot ran off to meet the black of the
woods, and the woods in turn stood dark
against a sky so heavy with snow that it
seemed to shut us into some vast snow cave.
A crow flapping over drew a black pencil line
across the picture—the one sign of life besides
ourselves that we could see. Only small boys
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>267]</a></span>
are likely to leave their firesides on such a day—only
small boys, and those men who can’t
grow up. Yet never before, perhaps, had even
they gone out on such a tramp with an axe, a
shovel, and a basket, to pick flowers!</p>
<p>Suddenly one of the boys dashed off, crying:
“Let’s go see if the muskrats have gone to bed
yet!” and, trailing after him, we made for a
little mound that stood about three feet high
out in the meadow, more like a big ant hill or
a small, snow-piled haycock, than a lodge of
any sort. Only a practiced eye could have
seen it, and only a lover of bleak days would
have known what might be alive in there.</p>
<p>We crept up softly and surrounded the
lodge; then with the axe we struck the frozen,
flinty roof several ringing blows. Instantly
one-two-three muffled, splashy “plunks” were
heard as three little muskrats, frightened out
of their naps and half out of their wits,
plunged into the open water of their doorways
from off their damp, but cosy couch.</p>
<p>It was a mean thing to do—but not very
mean as wild animal life goes. And it did
warm me up so, in spite of the chilly plunge
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>268]</a></span>
the little sleepers took! Chilly to them? Not
at all and that is why it warmed me. To hear
the splash of water down under the two feet
of ice and snow that sealed the meadow like
a sheet of steel! To hear the sounds of stirring
life, and to picture that snug, steaming bed on
the top of a tough old tussock, with its open
water-doors leading into freedom and plenty
below! “Why, it won’t be long before the arbutus
is in bloom,” I began to think. I looked
at the axe and the shovel and said to myself,
“Well, the boys may know what they are
doing after all, though three muskrats do not
make a spring.”</p>
<p>We had cut back to our path, but had not
gone ten paces along it before another boy was
off to the left in the direction of a piece of
maple swamp.</p>
<p>“He’s going to see if ‘Hairy’ is in his hole,”
they informed me, and we all took after him.
The “hole” was almost twenty-five feet up in
a dead oak stub that had blown off and lodged
against a live tree. The meadow had been
bleak and wind-swept, but the swamp was
naked and dead, filled with ice and touched
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>269]</a></span>
with a most forbidding emptiness and stillness.
I was getting cold again, when the boy
ahead tapped lightly on the old stub, and at
the empty hole appeared a head—a fierce
black and white head, a sharp, long beak, a
flashing eye—as “Hairy” came forth to fight
for his castle. He was too wise a fighter to
tackle all of us, however, so, slipping out, he
spread his wings and galloped off with a loud,
wild call that set all the swamp to ringing.</p>
<p>It was a thrilling, defiant challenge that set
my blood to leaping again. Black and white,
he was a part of the picture, but there was a
scarlet band at the nape of his neck that, like
his call, had fire in it and the warmth of life.</p>
<p>As his woodpecker shout went booming
through the hollow halls of the swamp, it woke
a blue jay who squalled back from a clump of
pines, then wavering out into the open on curious
wings—flashing ice-blue and snow-white
wings—he dived into the covert of pines
again; and faint, as if from beyond the swamp,
the cheep of chickadees! Here a little troop
of them came to peep into the racket, curious
but not excited, discussing the disturbance of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>270]</a></span>
the solemn swamp in that desultory, sewing-bee
fashion of theirs, as if nipping off threads
and squinting through needle-eyes between
their running comment.</p>
<p>They, too, were grey and black, grey as the
swamp beeches, black as the spotted bark of
the birches. And how tiny! But——</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Here was this atom in full breath<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurling defiance at vast death—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This scrap of valour just for play<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fronts the north wind in waistcoat grey.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>And this, also, is what Emerson says he sings,</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Good day, good sir!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fine afternoon, old passenger!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Happy to meet you in these places<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where January brings few faces.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>And as I brought to mind the poet’s lines, I
forgot to shiver, and quite warmed up again
to the idea of flowers, especially as one of the
boys just then brought up a spray of green
holly with a burning red berry on it!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>271]</a></span>
We were tacking again to get back on our
course, and had got into the edge of the swamp
among the pines when the boy with the shovel
began to study the ground and the trees with a
searching eye, moving forward and back as if
trying to find the location of something.</p>
<p>“Here it is,” he said, and set in digging
through the snow at the foot of a big pine. I
knew what he was after. It was gold thread,
and here was the only spot, in all the woods
about, where we had ever found it—a spot not
larger than the top of a dining-room table.</p>
<p>Soon we had a fistful of the delicate plants
with their evergreen leaflets and long, golden
thread-like roots, that mixed with the red and
green of the partridge berry in a finger-bowl
makes a cheerful little winter bouquet. And
here with the gold thread, about the butt of
the pine, was the partridge berry, too, the
dainty vines strung with the beads which
seemed to burn holes in the snow that had covered
and banked the tiny fires.</p>
<p>For this is all that the ice and snow had
done. The winter had come with wind
enough to blow out every flame in the maple
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>272]</a></span>
tops, and with snow enough to smother every
little fire in the peat bogs of the swamp; but
peat fires are hard to put out, and here and
everywhere the winter had only banked the
fires of summer. Dig down through the snow
ashes anywhere and the smouldering fires of
life burst into blaze.</p>
<p>But the boy with the axe had gone on ahead.
And we were off again after him, stopping to
get a great armful of black alder branches that
were literally aflame with red berries.</p>
<p>We were climbing a piny knoll when almost
at our feet, jumping us nearly out of our skins,
and warming the very roots of our hair, was
a burrrr—burrrr—burrrr—burrrr—four big
partridges—as if four big snow mines had exploded
under us, hurling bunches of brown on
graceful scaling wings over the dip of the
hills!</p>
<p>On we went up over the knoll and down into
a low bog where, in the summer, we gather
high-bush blueberries, the boy with the axe
leading the way and going straight across the
ice toward the middle of the bog.</p>
<p>My eye was keen for signs, and soon I saw
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>273]</a></span>
he was heading for a sweet-pepper bush with
a broken branch. My eye took in another bush
off a little to the right with a broken branch.
The boy with the axe walked up to the broken
sweet-pepper bush and drew a line on the ice
between it and the bush off on the right, pacing
along this line till he got the middle; then
he started at right angles from it and paced off
a line to a clump of cat-tails sticking up
through the ice of the flooded bog. Halfway
back on this line he stopped, threw off his coat
and began to chop a hole about two feet square
in the ice. Removing the block while I looked
on, he rolled up his sleeve and reached down
the length of his arm through the icy water.</p>
<p>“Give me the shovel,” he said, “it’s down
here,” and with a few deep, dexterous cuts
soon brought to the surface a beautiful cluster
of pitcher plants, the strange, almost uncanny
leaves filled with muddy water, but
every pitcher of them intact, shaped and
veined and tinted by a master potter’s hand.</p>
<p>We wrapped it all carefully in newspapers,
and put it in the basket, starting back with our
bouquet as cheerful and as full of joy in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>274]</a></span>
season as we could possibly have been in June.</p>
<p>No, I did not say that we love January as
much as we love June. January here in New
England is a mixture of rheumatism, chillblains,
frozen water pipes, mittens, overshoes,
blocked trains, and automobile troubles by the
hoodsful, whereas any automobile will run in
June. I have not room in this essay to tell all
that June is; besides, this is a story of January.</p>
<p>What I was saying is that we started home
all abloom with our pitcher plants, and gold
thread, and partridge berry, and holly, and
black alder, all aglow inside with our vigorous
tramp, with the grey, grave beauty of the
landscape, with the stern joy of meeting and
beating the cold, and with the signs of life—of
the cosy muskrats in their lodge beneath the
ice cap on the meadow; with the hairy woodpecker
in his deep, warm hole in the heart of
the tree; with the red-warm berries in our
basket; with the chirping, the conquering
chickadee accompanying us and singing—</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“For well the soul, if stout within,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Can arm impregnably the skin;<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>275]</a></span>
<span class="i0">And polar frost my form defied<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Made of the air that blows outside.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>And actually as we came over the bleak
meadow one of the boys said he thought he
heard a song sparrow singing; and I thought
the pussywillows by the brook had opened a
little since we passed them coming out; and
we all declared the weather had changed, and
that there were signs of a break-up. But the
thermometer stood at fifteen above zero when
we got home—one degree colder than when
we started! So we concluded that the January
thaw must have come off inside of us;
and if the colour of the four glowing faces is
any sign, that was the correct reading of the
weather.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>276]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk5chap03" id="bk5chap03"></a>THE SNOW MAN</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Hans Christian Andersen</p>
<p>“It is so wonderfully cold that my whole body
crackles!” said the Snow Man. “This is a
kind of wind that can blow life into one; and
how the gleaming one up yonder is staring at
me.” That was the sun he meant, which was
just about to set. “It shall not make me wink—I
shall manage to keep the pieces.”</p>
<p>He had two triangular pieces of tile in his
head instead of eyes. His mouth was made of
an old rake, and consequently was furnished
with teeth.</p>
<p>He had been born amid the joyous shouts of
the boys, and welcomed by the sound of sledge
bells and the slashing of whips.</p>
<p>The sun went down, and the full moon rose,
round, large, clear, and beautiful in the blue
air.</p>
<p>“There it comes again from the other side,”
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>277]</a></span>
said the Snow Man. He intended to say the
sun is showing himself again.</p>
<p>“Ah! I have cured him of staring. Now
let him hang up there and shine, that I may
see myself. If I only knew how I could manage
to move from this place, I should like so
much to move. If I could, I would slide along
yonder on the ice, just as I see the boys slide;
but I don’t understand it; I don’t know how to
run.”</p>
<p>“Away! away!” barked the old Yard Dog.
He was quite hoarse, and could not pronounce
the genuine “Bow, wow.” He had got the
hoarseness from the time when he was an indoor
dog, and lay by the fire. “The sun will
teach you to run! I saw that last winter in
your predecessor, and before that in his predecessor.
Away! away! and away they all go.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand you, comrade,” said the
Snow Man.</p>
<p>“That thing up yonder is to teach me to
run?” He meant the moon. “Yes, it comes
creeping from the other side.”</p>
<p>“You know nothing at all,” retorted the
Yard Dog. “But then you’ve only just been
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>278]</a></span>
patched up. What you see yonder is the moon,
and the one that went before the sun. It will
come again to-morrow, and will teach you to
run down into the ditch by the wall. We
shall soon have a change of weather; I can feel
that in my left hind leg, for it pricks and pains
me; the weather is going to change.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand him,” said the Snow
Man; “but I have a feeling that he’s talking
about something disagreeable. The one who
stared so just now, and whom he called the
sun, is not my friend. I can feel that.”</p>
<p>“Away! Away!” barked the Yard Dog.
“They told me I was a pretty little fellow:
then I used to lie in a chair covered with velvet,
up in master’s house, and sit in the lap of
the mistress of all. They used to kiss my nose,
and wipe my paws with an embroidered handkerchief.
I was called ‘Ami—dear Ami—sweet
Ami——.’ But afterward I grew too
big for them, and they gave me away to the
housekeeper. So I came to live in the basement
story. You can look into that from
where you are standing, and you can see into
the room where I was master; for I was master
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>279]</a></span>
at the housekeeper’s. It was certainly a
smaller place than upstairs, but I was more
comfortable and was not continually taken
hold of and pulled about by children as I had
been. I received just as much good food as
ever, and even better. I had my own cushion,
and there was a stove, the finest thing in the
world at this season. I went under the stove,
and could lie down quite beneath it. Ah! I
will sometimes dream of that stove. Away!
Away!”</p>
<p>“Does a stove look so beautiful?” asked the
Snow Man. “Is it at all like me?”</p>
<p>“It’s just the reverse of you. It’s as black as
a crow, and has a long neck and a brazen
drum. It eats firewood, so that the fire spurts
out of its mouth. One must keep at its side
or under it, and there one is very comfortable.
You can see it through the window from where
you stand.”</p>
<p>And the Snow Man looked and saw a bright,
polished thing, with a brazen drum, and the
fire gleamed from the lower part of it. The
Snow Man felt quite strangely; an odd emotion
came over him; he knew not what it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>280]</a></span>
meant, and could not account for it, but
all people who are not men know the feeling.</p>
<p>“And why did you leave her?” asked the
Snow Man, for it seemed to him that the stove
must be of the female sex.</p>
<p>“How could you quit such a comfortable
place?”</p>
<p>“I was obliged,” replied the Yard Dog.
“They turned me out of doors, and chained
me up here. I had bitten the youngest young
master in the leg, because he kicked away the
bone I was gnawing. ‘Bone for bone,’ I
thought. They took that very much amiss,
and from that time I have been fastened to a
chain and have lost my voice. Don’t you hear
how hoarse I am? Away! away! I can’t talk
any more like other dogs. Away! away! That
was the end of the affair.”</p>
<p>But the Snow Man was no longer listening
at him. He was looking in at the housekeeper’s
basement lodging, into the room where the
stove stood on its four legs, just the same size
as the Snow Man himself.</p>
<p>“What a strange crackling within me!” he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>281]</a></span>
said. “Shall I ever get in there? It is an innocent
wish, and our innocent wishes are certain
to be fulfilled. I must go in there and
lean against her, even if I have to break
through the window.”</p>
<p>“You’ll never get in there,” said the Yard
Dog; “and if you approach the stove you’ll
melt away—away!”</p>
<p>“I am as good as gone,” replied the Snow
Man. “I think I am breaking up.”</p>
<p>The whole day the Snow Man stood looking
in through the window. In the twilight hour
the room became still more inviting; from the
stove came a mild gleam, not like the sun nor
like the moon; it was only as the stove can
glow when he has something to eat. When the
room door opened the flame started out of his
mouth; this was a habit the stove had. The
flame fell distinctly on the white face of the
Snow Man, and gleamed red upon his bosom.</p>
<p>“I can endure it no longer,” said he. “How
beautiful it looks when it stretches out its
tongue!”</p>
<p>The night was long; but it did not appear
long to the Snow Man, who stood there lost in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>282]</a></span>
his own charming reflections, crackling with
the cold.</p>
<p>In the morning the window-panes of the
basement lodging were covered with ice.
They bore the most beautiful ice flowers that
any snow man could desire; but they concealed
the stove, which he pictured to himself as a
lovely female. It crackled and whistled in
him and around him; it was just the kind of
frosty weather a snow man must thoroughly
enjoy.</p>
<p>But he did not enjoy it; and, indeed, how
could he enjoy himself when he was stove-sick?</p>
<p>“That’s a terrible disease for a Snow Man,”
said the Yard Dog. “I have suffered from it
myself, but I got over it. Away! away!” he
barked; and he added, “the weather is going to
change.”</p>
<p>And the weather did change; it began to
thaw. The warmth increased, and the Snow
Man decreased. He made no complaint—and
that’s an infallible sign.</p>
<p>One morning he broke down. And, behold,
where he had stood, something like a broomstick
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>283]</a></span>
remained sticking up out of the ground.
It was the pole around which the boys had
built him up.</p>
<p>“Ah! now I can understand why he had such
an intense longing,” said the Yard Dog.
“Why, there’s a shovel for cleaning out the
stove-rake in his body, and that’s what moved
within him. Now he has got over that, too.
Away, away!”</p>
<p>And soon they had got over the winter.</p>
<p>“Away! away!” barked the hoarse Yard
Dog. And nobody thought any more of the
Snow Man.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>284]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk5chap04" id="bk5chap04"></a>THE HAPPY PRINCE</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Oscar Wilde</p>
<p>High above the city, on a tall column, stood
the statue of the Happy Prince. He was
gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold,
for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a
large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He
was very much admired, indeed.</p>
<p>“He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked
one of the Town Councillors who
wished to gain a reputation for having artistic
taste. “Only not quite so useful,” he added,
fearing lest people should think him unpractical,
which he really was not.</p>
<p>“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?”
asked a sensible mother of her little boy who
was crying for the moon.</p>
<p>“The Happy Prince never dreams of crying
for anything.”</p>
<p>“I am glad there is some one in the world
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>285]</a></span>
who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed
man, as he gazed at the wonderful statue.</p>
<p>“He looks just like an angel,” said the charity
children, as they came out of the cathedral
in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean
white pinafores.</p>
<p>“How do you know?” said Mathematical
Master. “You have never seen one.”</p>
<p>“Ah! but we have in our dreams,” answered
the children; and the Mathematical Master
frowned and looked very severe, for he did not
approve of children dreaming.</p>
<p>One night there flew over the city a little
Swallow. His friends had gone away to
Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind,
for he was in love with the most beautiful
Reed. He had met her early in the spring
as he was flying down the river after a big yellow
moth, and had been so attracted by her
slender waist that he had stopped to talk to
her.</p>
<p>“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who
liked to come to the point at once, and the
Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round
and round her, touching the water with his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>286]</a></span>
wings, and making silver ripples. This was
his courtship, and it lasted all through the
summer.</p>
<p>“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered
the other Swallows, “she has no money, and
far too many relations”; and, indeed, the river
was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn
came, they all flew away.</p>
<p>After they had gone he felt lonely, and began
to tire of his lady-love. “She has no conversation,”
he said, “and I am afraid that she
is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the
wind.” And, certainly, whenever the wind
blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies.</p>
<p>“I admit that she is domestic,” he continued,
“but I love traveling, and my wife, consequently,
should love traveling, also.”</p>
<p>“Will you come away with me?” he said
finally to her; but the Reed shook her head,
she was so attached to her home.</p>
<p>“You have been trifling with me,” he cried.
“I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!” and
he flew away.</p>
<p>All day long he flew, and at night-time he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>287]</a></span>
arrived at the city. “Where shall I put up?”
he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.”</p>
<p>Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine
position with plenty of fresh air.” So he
alighted just between the feet of the Happy
Prince.</p>
<p>“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly
to himself, as he looked round, and he prepared
to go to sleep; but just as he was putting
his head under his wing a large drop of water
fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried,
“there is not a single cloud in the sky,
the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it
is raining. The climate in the north of Europe
is really dreadful. The Reed used to like
the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”</p>
<p>Then another drop fell.</p>
<p>“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep
the rain off?” he said. “I must look for a
good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly
away.</p>
<p>But before he had opened his wings a third
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>288]</a></span>
drop fell, and he looked up, and saw—Ah!
what did he see?</p>
<p>The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled
with tears, and tears were running down his
golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in
the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled
with pity.</p>
<p>“Who are you?” he said.</p>
<p>“I am the Happy Prince.”</p>
<p>“Why are you weeping then?” asked the
Swallow; “you have quite drenched me.”</p>
<p>“When I was alive and had a human heart,”
answered the statue, “I did not know what
tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci,
where sorrow is not allowed to enter.
In the daytime I played with my companions
in the garden, and in the evening I led the
dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden
ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to
ask what lay beyond it, everything about me
was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the
Happy Prince, and happy, indeed, I was, if
pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I
died. And now that I am dead they have set
me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>289]</a></span>
and all the misery of my city, and though
my heart is made of lead, yet I cannot choose
but weep.”</p>
<p>“What, is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow
to himself. He was too polite to make
any personal remarks out loud.</p>
<p>“Far away,” continued the statue in a low,
musical voice, “far away in a little street there
is a poor house. One of the windows is open,
and through it I can see a woman seated at a
table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has
coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle,
for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering
passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest
of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear
at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner
of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has
a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother
has nothing to give him but water, so he is crying.
Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will
you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt?
My feet are fastened to this pedestal
and I cannot move.”</p>
<p>“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow.
“My friends are flying up and down the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>290]</a></span>
Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers.
Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the
great King. The King is there himself in his
painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow
linen and embalmed with spices. Round his
neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his
hands are like withered leaves.”</p>
<p>“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said
the Prince, “will you not stay with me for one
night, and be my messenger? The boy is so
thirsty and the mother so sad.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the
Swallow. “Last summer, when I was staying
on the river, there were two rude boys, the
miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones
at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows
fly far too well for that, and, besides, I
come of a family famous for its agility; but
still, it was a mark of disrespect.”</p>
<p>But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the
little Swallow was sorry. “It is very cold
here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for
one night, and be your messenger.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the
Prince.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>291]</a></span>
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby
from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with
it in his beak over the roofs of the town.</p>
<p>He passed by the cathedral tower, where the
white marble angels were sculptured. He
passed by the palace and heard the sound of
dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the
balcony with her lover. “How wonderful the
stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful
is the power of love!” “I hope my dress will
be ready in time for the State-ball,” she answered.
“I have ordered passion-flowers to
be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are
so lazy.”</p>
<p>He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns
hanging to the masts of the ships. He
passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews
bargaining with each other, and weighing out
money in copper scales. At last he came to the
poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing
feverishly on his bed, and the mother had
fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped,
and laid the great ruby on the table beside the
woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round
the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>292]</a></span>
wings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I
must be getting better,” and he sank into a delicious
slumber.</p>
<p>Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy
Prince, and told him what he had done. “It
is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite
warm now, although it is so cold.”</p>
<p>“That is because you have done a good action,”
said the Prince. And the little Swallow
began to think, and then he fell asleep.
Thinking always made him sleepy.</p>
<p>When day broke he flew down to the river
and had a bath. “What a remarkable phenomenon,”
said the professor of Ornithology
as he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow
in winter!” And he wrote a long letter
about it to the local newspaper. Everyone
quoted it; it was full of so many words that
they could not understand.</p>
<p>“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow,
and he was in high spirits at the prospect.
He visited all the public monuments, and sat
a long time on top of the church steeple.
Wherever he went, Sparrows chirruped, and
said to each other, “What a distinguished
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>293]</a></span>
stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.</p>
<p>When the moon rose he flew back to the
Happy Prince. “Have you any commissions
for Egypt?” he cried. “I am just starting.”</p>
<p>“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said
the Prince, “will you not stay with me one
night longer?”</p>
<p>“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the
Swallow. “To-morrow my friends will fly
up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse
couches there among the bulrushes, and on a
great granite throne sits the God Memnon.
All night long he watches the stars, and when
the morning star shines he utters one cry of
joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow
lions came down to the water’s edge to drink.
They have eyes like green beryls, and their
roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.”</p>
<p>“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said
the Prince, “far away across the city I see a
young man in a garret. He is leaning over a
desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by
his side there is a bunch of withered violets.
His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are
red as pomegranate, and he has large and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>294]</a></span>
dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for
the Director of the Theater, but he is too cold
to write any more. There is no fire in the
grate, and hunger has made him faint.”</p>
<p>“I will wait with you one night longer,”
said the Swallow, who really had a good heart.
“Shall I take him another ruby?”</p>
<p>“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the
Prince; “my eyes are all that I have left.
They are made of rare sapphires, which were
brought out of India a thousand years ago.</p>
<p>“Pluck out one of them and take it to him.
He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food
and firewood, and finish his play.”</p>
<p>“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot
do that.”</p>
<p>“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said
the Prince, “do as I command you.”</p>
<p>So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s
eye, and flew away to the student’s garret. It
was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole
in the roof. Through this he darted, and came
into the room. The young man had his head
buried in his hands, so he did not hear the
flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>295]</a></span>
up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on
the withered violets.</p>
<p>“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he
cried; “this is from some great admirer. Now
I can finish my play,” and he looked quite
happy.</p>
<p>The next day the Swallow flew down to the
harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel
and watched the sailors hauling big chests out
of the hold with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they
shouted, as each chest came up: “I am going to
Egypt!” cried the Swallow, but nobody
minded, and when the moon rose he flew back
to the Happy Prince.</p>
<p>“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.</p>
<p>“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said
the Prince, “will you not stay with me one
night longer?”</p>
<p>“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and
the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt
the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and
the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily
about them. My companions are building
a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink
and white doves are watching them, and cooing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>296]</a></span>
to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave
you, but I will never forget you, and next
spring I will bring you back two beautiful
jewels in place of those you have given away.
The ruby shall be redder than a rose, and the
sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”</p>
<p>“In the square below,” said the Happy
Prince, “there stands a little match-girl. She
has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they
are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if
she does not bring home some money, and she
is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and
her little head is bare. Pluck out my other
eye, and give it to her, and her father will not
beat her.”</p>
<p>“I will stay with you one night longer,”
said the Swallow, “but I cannot pluck out your
eye. You would be quite blind then.”</p>
<p>“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said
the Prince, “do as I command you.”</p>
<p>So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye and
darted down with it. He swooped past the
match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the
palm of her hand. “What a lovely bit of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>297]</a></span>
glass,” cried the little girl; and she ran home,
laughing.</p>
<p>Then the Swallow came back to the Prince.
“You are blind now,” he said, “so I will stay
with you always.”</p>
<p>“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince,
“you must go away to Egypt.”</p>
<p>“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow,
and he slept at the Prince’s feet.</p>
<p>All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder,
and told him stories of what he had seen
in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises,
who stand in long rows on the banks of
the Nile and catch gold-fish in their beaks;
of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself,
and lives in the desert, and knows everything;
of the merchants, who walk slowly by
the side of their camels, and carry amber beads
in their hands; of the King of the Mountains
of the moon, who is as black as ebony, and
worships a large crystal; of the great, green
snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty
priests to feed it with honey cakes; and of the
pygmies who sail over a big lake on large, flat
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>298]</a></span>
leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.</p>
<p>“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you
tell me of marvelous things, but more marvelous
than anything is the suffering of men and
women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery.
Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell
me what you see there.”</p>
<p>So the Swallow flew over the great city, and
saw the rich making merry in their beautiful
houses, while the beggars were sitting at the
gates. He flew into the dark lanes, and saw
the white faces of starving children looking
out listlessly at the black streets. Under the
archway of a bridge two little boys were lying
in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves
warm.</p>
<p>“How hungry we are!” they said.</p>
<p>“You must not lie here,” shouted the watchman,
and they wandered out into the rain.</p>
<p>Then he flew back and told the Prince what
he had seen.</p>
<p>“I am covered with fine gold!” said the
Prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>299]</a></span>
give it to my poor; the living always think
that gold can make them happy.”</p>
<p>Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow
picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite
dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the gold he
brought to the poor, and the children’s faces
grew rosier, and they laughed and played
games in the street. “We have bread now!”
they cried.</p>
<p>Then the snow came, and after the snow
came the frost. The streets looked as if they
were made of silver, they were so bright and
glistening; long icicles, like crystal daggers,
hung down from the eaves of the houses,
everybody went about in furs, and the little
boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.</p>
<p>The poor little Swallow grew colder and
colder, but he would not leave the Prince; he
loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside
the baker’s door when the baker was not
looking, and tried to keep himself warm by
flapping his wings.</p>
<p>But at last he knew he was going to die. He
had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder
once more.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>300]</a></span>
“Good-bye, dear Prince!” he murmured.
“Will you let me kiss your hand?”</p>
<p>“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at
last, little Swallow,” said the Prince. “You
have stayed too long here; but you must kiss
me on the lips; for I love you.”</p>
<p>“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said
the Swallow. “I am going to the House of
Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he
not?”</p>
<p>And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips,
and fell down dead at his feet. At that moment
a curious crack sounded inside the statue
as if something had broken. The fact is that
the leaden heart had snapped right in two.
It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.</p>
<p>Early the next morning the Mayor was
walking in the square below in company with
the Town Councillors. As they passed the
column he looked up at the statue. “Dear me!
how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.</p>
<p>“How shabby, indeed!” cried the Town
Councillors, who always agreed with the
Mayor, and they went up to look at it.</p>
<p>“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>301]</a></span>
eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,”
said the Mayor; “in fact, he is little better than
a beggar!”</p>
<p>“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town
Councillors. “And here is actually a dead
bird at his feet!” continued the Mayor. “We
must really issue a proclamation that birds are
not to be allowed to die here.” And the Town
Clerk made a note of the suggestion.</p>
<p>So they pulled down the statue of the Happy
Prince. “As he is no longer beautiful, he is
no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at
the University.</p>
<p>Then they melted the statue in a furnace,
and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation
to decide what was to be done with the
metal. “We must have another statue, of
course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of
myself.”</p>
<p>“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors,
and they quarreled.</p>
<p>“What a strange thing!” said the overseer
of the workmen at the foundry. “This broken
lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We
must throw it away.” So they threw it on a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>302]</a></span>
dust-heap where the dead swallow was also
lying.</p>
<p>“Bring me the two most precious things in
the city,” said God to one of His angels; and
the angel brought Him the leaden heart and
the dead bird.</p>
<p>“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for
in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall
sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the
Happy Prince shall praise me.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>303]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk5chap05" id="bk5chap05"></a>THE LEGEND OF KING WENCESLAUS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(A Legend of Mercy)</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Good King Wenceslaus looked out<br /></span>
<span class="i1">On the Feast of Saint Stephen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the snow lay round about,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Deep and crisp and even.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>King Wenceslaus sat in his palace. He had
been watching from the narrow window of the
turret chamber where he was, the sunset as its
glory hung for a moment in the western
clouds, and then died away over the blue hills.
Calm and cold was the brightness. A freezing
haze came over the face of the land. The
moon brightened towards the southwest and
the leafless trees in the castle gardens and the
quaint turret and spires of the castle itself
threw clear dark shadows on the unspotted
snow.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>304]</a></span>
Still the king looked out upon the scene before
him. The ground sloped down from the
castle towards the forest. Here and there on
the side of the hill a few bushes grey with
moss broke the unvaried sheet of white. And
as the king turned his eye in that direction a
poor man came up to these bushes and pulled
something from them.</p>
<p>“Come hither, page,” called the king. One
of the servants of the palace entered in answer
to the king’s call. “Come, my good Otto;
come stand by me. Do you see yonder poor
man on the hillside? Step down to him and
learn who he is and where he dwells and what
he is doing. Bring me word at once.”</p>
<p>Otto went forth on his errand while the
good king watched him go down the hill.
Meanwhile, the frost grew more and more
intense and an east wind blew from the black
mountains. The snow became more crisp and
the air more clear. In a few moments the
messenger was back.</p>
<p>“Well, who is he?”</p>
<p>“Sire,” said Otto, “it is Rudolph, the swineherd,—he
that lives down by the Brunweis.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>305]</a></span>
Fire he has none, nor food, and he was gathering
a few sticks where he might find them,
lest, as he says, all his family perish with the
cold. It is a most bitter night, Sire.”</p>
<p>“This should have been better looked to,”
said the king. “A grievous fault it is that it
has not been done. But it shall be amended
now. Go to the ewery, Otto, and fetch some
provisions of the best.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Bring me flesh and bring me wine,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Bring me pine logs hither;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou and I will see him dine,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">When we bear them hither.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“Is your Majesty going forth?” asked
Otto in surprise.</p>
<p>“Yes, to the Brunweis, and you shall go
with me. When you have everything ready
meet me at the wood-stacks by the little chapel.
Come, be speedy.”</p>
<p>“I pray you, Sire, do not venture out yourself.
Let some of the men-at-arms go forth.
It is a freezing wind and the place is a good
league hence.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>306]</a></span>
“Nevertheless, I go,” said the king. “Go
with me, if you will, Otto; if not, stay. I can
carry the food myself.”</p>
<p>“God forbid, Sire, that I should let you go
alone. But I pray you be persuaded.”</p>
<p>“Not in this,” said King Wenceslaus.
“Meet me then where I said, and not a word to
any one besides.”</p>
<p>The noblemen of the court were in the palace
hall, where a mighty fire went roaring up
the chimney and the shadows played and
danced on the steep sides of the dark roof.
Gayly they laughed and lightly they talked.
And as they threw fresh logs into the great
chimney-place one said to another that so bitter
a wind had never before been known in
the land. But in the midst of that freezing
night the king went forth.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Page and Monarch forth they went,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Forth they went together;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through the rude wind’s wild lament,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And the bitter weather.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>The king had put on no extra clothing to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>307]</a></span>
shelter himself from the nipping air; for he
would feel with the poor that he might feel
for them. On his shoulders he bore a heap of
logs for the swineherd’s fire. He stepped
briskly on while Otto followed with the provisions.
He had imitated his master and had
gone out in his common garments. On the
two trudged together, over the crisp snow,
across fields, by lanes where the hedge trees
were heavy with their white burden, past the
pool, over the stile where the rime clustered
thick by the wood, and on out upon the moor
where the snow lay yet more unbroken and
where the wind seemed to nip one’s very
heart.</p>
<p>Still King Wenceslaus went on and still
Otto followed. The king thought it but little
to go forth into the frost and snow, remembering
Him who came into the cold night of
this world of ours; he disdained not, a king,
to go to the beggar, for had not the King of
King’s visited slaves? He grudged not, a king,
to carry logs on his shoulders, for had not the
Kings of Kings borne heavier burdens for his
sake?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>308]</a></span>
But at each step Otto’s courage and zeal
failed. He tried to hold out with a good
heart. For very shame he did not wish to do
less than his master. How could he turn back,
while the king held on his way? But when
they came forth on the white, bleak moor, he
cried out with a faint heart:</p>
<p>“My liege, I cannot go on. The wind
freezes my very blood. Pray you, let us
return.”</p>
<p>“Seems it so much?” asked the king. “Follow
me on still. Only tread in my footsteps
and you will proceed more easily.”</p>
<p>The servant knew that his master spoke not
at random. He carefully looked for the footsteps
of the king. He set his own feet in the
print of his master’s.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“In the master’s steps he trod,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Where the snow lay dinted;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heat was in the very sod<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Which the saint had printed.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>And so great was the fire of love that kindled
in the heart of the king that, as the servant
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>309]</a></span>
trod in his steps, he gained life and heat.
Otto felt not the wind; he heeded not the
frost; for the master’s footprints glowed as
with holy fire and zealously he followed the
king on his errand of mercy.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>310]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk5chap06" id="bk5chap06"></a>MIDWINTER</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The speckled sky is dim with snow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The light flakes falter and fall slow;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Silently drops a silvery veil;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all the valley is shut in<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By flickering curtains grey and thin.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But cheerily the chickadee<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Singeth to me on fence and tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The snow sails round him as he sings,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">White as the down of angels’ wings.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I watch the snowflakes as they fall<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On bank and briar and broken wall;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Over the orchard, waste and brown,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All noiselessly they settle down,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tipping the apple-boughs, and each<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Light quivering twig of plum and peach.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>311]</a></span>
<span class="i0">On turf and curb and bower-roof<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It paves with pearl the garden walk;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lovingly round tattered stalk<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And shivering stem, its magic weaves<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A mantle fair as lily-leaves.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The hooded beehive small and low,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stands like a maiden in the snow;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the old door-slab is half hid<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Under an alabaster lid.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All day it snows; the sheeted post<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All day the blasted oak has stood<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A muffled wizard of the wood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Garland and airy cap adorn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sumach and the wayside thorn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And clustering spangles lodge and shine<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the dark tresses of the pine.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The ragged bramble dwarfed and old,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In surplice white the cedar stands,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And blesses him with priestly hands.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>312]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Still cheerily the chickadee<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Singeth to me on fence and tree:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in my inmost ear is heard<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The music of a holier bird;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And heavenly thoughts as soft and white<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As snowflakes on my soul alight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Clothing with love my lonely heart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Healing with peace each bruiséd part,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till all my being seems to be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Transfigured by their purity.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">John Townsend Trowbridge.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313"><!-- no visible page number --></a></span></p>
<h2 class="padtop"><a name="book6" id="book6"></a>WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>314]</a></span></p>
<h3 class="padtop"><a name="bk6chap01" id="bk6chap01"></a>OLD WINTER</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Old Winter sad, in snow yclad<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Is making a doleful din;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But let him howl till he crack his jowl,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">We will not let him in.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His hoary, haggard form,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Outstretching to the storm.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And let his weird and sleety beard<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Stream loose upon the blast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime<br /></span>
<span class="i1">From his bald head falling fast.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Let his baleful breath shed blight and death<br /></span>
<span class="i1">On herb and flower and tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Bind fast, but what care we?<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Thomas Noel.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>315]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap02" id="bk6chap02"></a>THE SNOWBALL THAT DIDN’T MELT</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Jay T. Stocking</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Biff!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flick!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Swat!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Smack!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Biff, biff!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flick, flick!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Swat, swat!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Smack, smack!”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>It was a fine day in midwinter. The sun was
just warm and bright enough to make the
snow pack easily. The boys in the neighbourhood
were having the liveliest kind of a snowball
fight. So that is why there was this—</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Biff!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flick!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>316]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Swat!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Smack!”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>And this—</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Biff, biff!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flick, flick!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Swat, swat!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Smack, smack!”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Everything ends some time. So this snowball
fight did. One side or the other won,—I
have forgotten which. The boys at the little
brown-shingled house, where the fight took
place, became very busy making balls for the
next day’s battle. You could hear the “pat—pat,
pat—pat,” as they rounded and packed
the snowballs in their cold, red hands.</p>
<p>When they became quite satisfied that they
had enough on hand for a lively battle they
piled the balls up in a neat pyramid just under
the edge of the veranda and went off to look
for something new to do.</p>
<p>Then the snowballs fell to talking,—<em>if it is
true</em> that snowballs talk.</p>
<p>“I wonder what they are going to do with
us,” said the top one. “I know what I’d <em>like</em>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>317]</a></span>
to do. I’d like to hit the nose of that rough,
freckle-faced boy who hit the nose of the boy
who made me.”</p>
<p>“I know what I’d like,” said the second.
“I’d like to go right through the window of
Old Grampy’s house. Wouldn’t he sputter!”</p>
<p>“Oh! What’s the fun in teasing a poor old
man?” said another. “I’ll tell you what <em>I’d</em>
like. <em>I’d</em> like to hit the minister right in the
middle of the back and see what he would
do.”</p>
<p>“Hit the minister in the back!” said a lively-looking
chap down in the middle of the pile.
“Be a sport! I’d like to knock the policeman’s
hat off and see him chase the boy that
threw me. That would be fun.”</p>
<p>It was, you see, a very bold and mischievous
lot of balls, if one may judge from their big
talk. And so it was probably well for the
peace of the neighbourhood that the evening
had scarcely fallen when, through a sudden
change in the weather, snow, too, began to
fall. All night long the snow fell, thicker and
faster, thicker and faster. The wind rose and
piled it in stacks. The house was banked to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>318]</a></span>
the windows, the veranda was heaped up high.
The snowballs were buried deep,—so deep
that the boys forgot them. It was spring before
the thick covering of snow was melted
enough so that they could see the light of day.</p>
<p>It was a long time after this, when there
came a day which meant much for at least
one of that heap of snowballs.</p>
<p>The sun was bright and hot; the grass was
beginning to show green. The snow had all
gone except in a few places on the cold side of
the houses and under veranda edges. The
snowballs were still piled neatly in the pyramid
but they looked as if they might tumble
down almost any minute. Although it was
cool in their shady spot, every one of them was
perspiring and several of them looked thin
and pale. I fancy they had felt the heat, for
all their lives they had been accustomed to a
cooler climate.</p>
<p>As they were busy mopping their brows
and sighing for cooler weather they heard a
sound, between a sigh and a faint moan. They
heard it again and again. It was above their
heads, out on the lawn, and not far away. It
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>319]</a></span>
seemed to be in or around a shrub or bush,
with a tall slender stem and a branching top.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” asked several of the balls at
once.</p>
<p>They stopped talking, and sighing, and
listened. And as they did so, they could hear
words very distinctly, though they were not
nearly so loud as a whisper.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Snowball, Snowball, come up here!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My head is hot, my throat feels queer:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’m going to faint, I surely fear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Won’t some cool snowball come up here?”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“Who are you?” asked Snowball Number
One, who sat at the tiptop of the pile. “Where
are you and what is your name?”</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I’m Life-of-the-Bush,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the bush I dwell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know not my name,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so I can’t tell.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“I can’t see you,” said Number One, as he
looked intently up at the branches.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>320]</a></span>
<span class="i0">“You can’t?” said the Bush,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Then you must be blind.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’m right up here,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But never mind.”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>The voice trailed off weakly; then they
heard it again:</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I’m going to faint, I really fear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Won’t some kind snowball come up here?”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“But you are up so high. How can one get
there? We have neither a ladder nor wings
and we do not know how to climb.” Number
One did most of the talking; he was nearest
the bush.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you how,” said Life-of-the-Bush,
stopping his rhyme and talking plainly and
simply and sensibly. “Just roll down the
slope on the lawn to the foot of this bush.
Make yourself as small as small can be, creep
down into the ground, and take an elevator,
which is always running, and you will come
directly up to me.” The talking ceased, and
the snowballs began to look at each other
rather uneasily.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>321]</a></span>
“I can’t go,” said Number Two, who was
in the second row from the top. “I always
tan terribly in the sun. It’s a long way down
to the foot of the bush, and I should be brown
as a berry before I got half way.”</p>
<p>“I can’t go, either,” said Number Three,
by his side. “I don’t tan, but I freckle, and
freckles look dreadful on my fair complexion.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I can’t go,” said Number Four,
from his place in the corner of the third row.
“But I feel the heat terribly. My clothes are
all sticking to me now.”</p>
<p>“It’s simply out of the question for me,”
said a big fat snowball down near the ground.
“I know I’d melt before I got there. There
isn’t much left of me now.”</p>
<p>Number One was one of the fairest snowballs
of the bunch, but he was not afraid of
freckles or tan. He was also one of the smallest
of the lot. He looked down to the foot of
the bush. It seemed a long way. The sun
was certainly burning hot. He was not at all
sure that he would live long enough in that
sun to reach the bush. But some one should
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>322]</a></span>
keep Life-of-the-Bush from fainting and he
would try.</p>
<p>He turned a quick somersault off the pile
down to the ground.</p>
<p>At just that moment something disturbed
the whole pile and every ball in it tumbled
down and out into the sun.</p>
<p>As soon as Number One touched the
ground, he began to roll over, and over, and
over, as fast as ever he could. It didn’t take
him more than a minute to reach the foot of
the bush. He remembered what Life-of-the-Bush
had said, made himself just as small as
small could be, crept down into the ground
close to the stem and took the elevator, which
seemed to be running all the time.</p>
<p>It took quite a while to go up, but finally
the elevator paused just long enough for him
to get out. He found himself in a cool, rambling
house, that seemed to be almost all long,
narrow halls. They ran this way and that
way and every—which—way. At one end of
each hall, where the buds were opening, there
were windows with green shades. Everything
was very clean and sweet. Right in the middle
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>323]</a></span>
of the house he found Life-of-the-Bush.
He gave her a drink of water, which he had
carried in his water-proof pocket and not only
kept her from fainting but made her as lively
and well and happy as ever.</p>
<p>Life-of-the-Bush thanked the snowball a
thousand times and gave him the freedom of
her beautiful house.</p>
<p>“Now that you are here,” she said, “perhaps
you will stay a while and help me build
my house a little bigger. I must build leaves,
and buds and branches and bark. I need your
help.”</p>
<p>The snowball stayed and helped. He
found it very exciting work. He worked all
day and all night, ran here and there, and
never stopped for meals. He packed buds
and unfolded them; he pushed out the leaves
and built out the ends of branches; he made
bark, pressed it till it was hard and coloured
it grey.</p>
<p>Day after day he worked at his tasks as if
they gave him the greatest joy in the world.
But now and then Life-of-the-Bush saw him
gazing out of the window, as if he were a bit
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>324]</a></span>
homesick, to get out of doors again.</p>
<p>“Stay with me a little longer,” she said, “to
help me build my blossoms, and then I will
send you out of doors on a beautiful errand
to stay as long as your heart desires.”</p>
<p>So Snowball stayed and helped Life-of-the-Bush
build her blossoms. Basket after basket
of white stuff, as white as snowflakes but ever
so much smaller, he carried out to the ends of
the branches. Jar after jar of perfume he
carried, too, until the blossoms were quite
complete.</p>
<p>Then one evening—it was the last of
May, or early June—Life-of-the-Bush called
him.</p>
<p>“To-morrow,” she said, “there is to be a
great Garden Festival. A prize is to be given
for the most original and beautiful blossom.
All the flowers of the season will be here in
the garden. You have been a good friend and
a faithful helper. For reward, you may go to
the Festival and stay as long as your heart
desires.”</p>
<p>“But how shall I go?” queried the snowball.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>325]</a></span>
“Right out through the end of one of my
branches,” said Life-of-the-Bush.</p>
<p>“But I shall fall off,” said the snowball.</p>
<p>“I’ll tie you on with a stout string, so that
not even the wind can blow you off.”</p>
<p>“But it’s hot outside. I shall melt.”</p>
<p>“O, no. I’ve changed you so the hottest
sun cannot melt you.”</p>
<p>“But how can I get out through the end
of the branch?” asked the snowball, who could
not get it through his head that he could
really get out to the end of a branch and stay
there all day and not fall off or melt.</p>
<p>“Make yourself very small, just as small as
when you came up to me and you can go out
as easily as you run along these halls,” said
Life-of-the-Bush.</p>
<p>The snowball became quite excited. The
Festival was to begin very early in the morning.
Besides he wanted to see, if he could,
what had become of the other snowballs. So
he decided that he would go out on the branch
that night, while it was dark, and be there
for the whole day’s fun.</p>
<p>So he made himself very small, ran along
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>326]</a></span>
the hall, crept out through a tiny green door
and found himself tied securely to a swaying
branch. The air was cool and sweet. He
didn’t melt, as he half-feared he might, and
he didn’t fall off. He looked around. Yes,
this was the very bush he had seen before,
but it was greener now. Morning came and
the great Festival. The garden was full of
flowers and folks.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem itals">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There were lilacs and lilies of shades manifold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There were daisies, and daffodils, yellow as gold.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There were pansies, and peonies, red, white and pink,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And every such flower of which you can think.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You ought to have heard the “Ah’s!” and the “Oh’s!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of all the fine people in all their fine clothes.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You ought to have seen that wonderful sight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For no rhyme of mine can describe it half right.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>People went from bush to bush and from
flower to flower. They could not for the life
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>327]</a></span>
of them tell which blossom they thought
most beautiful and original.</p>
<p>The judges wandered about uncertainly
with the ribbons in their pockets not knowing
to what plant or bush to tie them.</p>
<p>The snowball grew very much interested,
not to say excited, to see what blossom would
finally win the prize.</p>
<p>He noticed that groups of people continually
stopped before the bush on which he
hung. Apparently they admired it. He soon
discovered that they were looking at him and
was quite embarrassed.</p>
<p>“Look!” he kept hearing them say. “See
this snowball,—and it doesn’t melt! Why,
it’s growing on the bush; it’s a blossom!”
That was the first that <em>he</em> knew that Life-of-the-Bush
had changed him from a snowball
into a flower snowball. Of course he became
very happy and twice as excited.</p>
<p>Indeed, he could hardly breathe from
excitement, when the judges came over, in a
group, to where he grew. They looked at
him and at the bush. Apparently they had
never seen blossoms of this kind before.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>328]</a></span>
“I never saw such a big, round, white
blossom before,” he heard one of them say,
as he drew a blue ribbon from his pocket and
tied it to the stem on which he hung. He
knew and soon, of course, everybody knew
that the “Snowball Bush” had won the prize.
His heart beat so fast that he thought he was
growing red in the face. <em>Perhaps he was
melting!</em> But he wasn’t, for he heard a girl
say just then, as she passed, “How white and
cool it looks!”</p>
<p>Snowball Number One had often wondered
what had happened to his friends, the
other snowballs. One reason why he had been
anxious to get out of the bush was to find out,
if he could, what had become of them all.
But the doings of the day had driven all
thought of them out of his busy head.</p>
<p>Now, as the people began to leave the garden,
and excitement grew less, he remembered
and looked about him. Here was the yard in
which the boys made him. There was the
very place under the edge of the veranda
where he had spent the winter and where they
had all stood that spring morning when
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>329]</a></span>
Life-of-the-Bush called to them. There was the
place, almost under him, where he knew they
had all tumbled down the moment he left
them. But not a trace of a snowball could be
seen.</p>
<p>Of course not! They had all disappeared
long ago, the very day, indeed, in which they
tumbled down. Before noon the hot sun had
melted them, every one, and carried them
away, tan and freckles and all, and no one
ever heard of them again.</p>
<p>Number One, who ran right out into the
sun, was the only snowball that didn’t melt.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>330]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap03" id="bk6chap03"></a>GAU-WI-DI-NE AND GO-HAY, WINTER AND SPRING</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Iroquois Legend)</p>
<p>The snow mountain lifted its head close to
the sky; the clouds wrapped around it their
floating drifts which held the winter’s hail
and snowfalls, and with scorn it defied the
sunlight which crept over its height, slow
and shivering on its way to the valleys.</p>
<p>Close at the foot of the mountain, an old
man had built him a lodge “for a time,” said
he, as he packed it around with great blocks
of ice. Within he stored piles of wood and
corn and dried meat and fish. No person,
animal, nor bird could enter this lodge, only
North Wind, the only friend the old man had.
Whenever strong and lusty North Wind
passed the lodge he would scream “ugh-e-e-e,
ugh-e-e-e,” as with a blast of his blusterings
he passed over the earth.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>331]</a></span>
But North Wind came only seldom to the
lodge. He was too busy searching the corners
of the earth and driving the snow and
the hail, but when he had wandered far and
was in need of advice, he would visit the
lodge to smoke and counsel with the old man
about the next snowfall, before journeying to
his home in the north sky; and they would sit
by the fire which blazed and glowed yet could
not warm them.</p>
<p>The old man’s bushy whiskers were heavy
with the icicles which clung to them, and
when the blazing fire flared its lights, illuminating
them with the warm hues of the summer
sunset, he would rave as he struck them
down, and glare with rage as they fell snapping
and crackling at his feet.</p>
<p>One night, as together they sat smoking and
dozing before the fire, a strange feeling of fear
came over them, the air seemed growing
warmer and the ice began to melt. Said
North Wind:</p>
<p>“I wonder what warm thing is coming, the
snow seems vanishing and sinking lower in
the earth.” But the old man cared not, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>332]</a></span>
was silent. He knew his lodge was strong,
and he chuckled with scorn as he bade North
Wind abandon his fears and depart for his
home. But North Wind went drifting the
fast-falling snow higher on the mountain
until it groaned under its heavy burden, and
scolding and blasting, his voice gradually
died away. Still the old man remained silent
and moved not, but, lost in thought, sat looking
into the fire, when there came a loud
knock at his door. “Some foolish breath of
North Wind is wandering,” thought he, and
he heeded it not.</p>
<p>Again came the rapping, but swifter and
louder, and a pleading voice begged to come
in.</p>
<p>Still the old man remained silent, and,
drawing nearer to the fire, quieted himself for
sleep; but the rapping continued, louder,
fiercer, and increased his anger. “Who dares
approach the door of my lodge?” he shrieked.
“You are not North Wind, who alone can
enter here. Begone! no refuge here for
trifling winds; go back to your home in the
sky.” But, as he spoke, the strong bar securing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>333]</a></span>
the door fell from its fastening, the door
swung open and a stalwart young warrior
stood before him shaking the snow from his
shoulders as he noiselessly closed the door.</p>
<p>Safe within the lodge, the warrior heeded
not the old man’s anger, but with a cheerful
greeting drew close to the fire, extending his
hands to its ruddy blaze, when a glow as of
summer illumined the lodge. But the kindly
greeting and the glowing light served only to
incense the old man, and rising in rage, he
ordered the warrior to depart.</p>
<p>“Go!” he exclaimed. “I know you not.
You have entered my lodge and you bring a
strange light. Why have you forced my lodge
door? You are young, and youth has no need
of my fire. When I enter my lodge, all the
earth sleeps. You are strong, with the glow
of sunshine on your face. Long ago I buried
the sunshine beneath the snowdrifts. Go! you
have no place here.</p>
<p>“Your eyes bear the gleam of the summer
stars. North Wind blew out the summer star-lights
moons ago. Your eyes dazzle my lodge,
your breath does not smoke in chill vapour, but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>334]</a></span>
comes from your lips soft and warm; it will
melt my lodge. You have no place here.</p>
<p>“Your hair so soft and fine, streaming back
like the night shades, will weave my lodge
into tangles. You have no place here.</p>
<p>“Your shoulders are bare and white as the
snowdrifts. You have no furs to cover them;
depart from my lodge. See, as you sit by my
fire, how it draws away from you. Depart,
I say, from my lodge!”</p>
<p>But the young warrior only smiled, and
asked that he might remain to fill his pipe;
and they sat down by the fire. Then the old
man became garrulous and began to boast of
his great powers.</p>
<p>“I am powerful and strong,” said he. “I
send North Wind to blow all over the earth
and its waters stop to listen to his voice as he
freezes them fast asleep. When I touch the
sky the snow hurries down and the hunters
hide by their lodge fires; the birds fly scared,
and the animals creep to their caves. When
I lay my hand on the land, I harden it still as
the rocks; nothing can forbid me nor loosen
my fetters. You, young warrior, though you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>335]</a></span>
shine like the Sun, you have no power. Go!
I give you a chance to escape me, but I could
blow my breath and fold around you a mist
which would turn you to ice forever!</p>
<p>“I am not a friend to the Sun, who grows
pale and cold and flees to the Southland when
I come; yet I see his glance in your face,
where no winter shadows hide. My North
Wind will soon return; he hates the summer
and will bind fast its hands. You fear me not,
and smile because you know me not. Young
man, listen. I am Gau-wi-di-ne, Winter!
Now fear me and depart. Pass from my
lodge and go out to the wind.”</p>
<p>But the young warrior moved not; he only
smiled as he refilled the pipe for the trembling
old man, saying, “Here, take your pipe;
it will soothe you and make you stronger for
a little while longer;” and he packed the
o-yan-kwa<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> deep and hard in the pipe.</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a>
Indian tobacco.</p>
</div>
<p>Said the warrior, “Now you must smoke for
me, smoke for Youth and Spring! I fear not
your boasting; you are aged and slow while I
am young and strong. I hear the voice of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>336]</a></span>
South Wind. Your North Wind hears, and
Spirit of the Winds is hurrying him back to
his home. Wrap you up warm while yet the
snowdrifts cover the earth path, and flee to
your lodge in the north sky. I am here now,
and you shall know me. I, too, am powerful!</p>
<p>“When I lift my hand, the sky opens wide
and I waken the sleeping Sun, which follows
me warm and glad. I touch the earth and it
grows soft and gentle, and breathes strong and
swift as my South Wind ploughs under the
snows to loosen your grasp. The trees in the
forest welcome my voice and send out their
buds to my hand. When my breezes blow my
long hair to the clouds, they send down gentle
showers that whisper to the grasses to grow.</p>
<p>“I came not to tarry long in my peace talk
with you, but to smoke with you and warn
you that the sun is waiting for me to open its
door. You and the North Wind have built
your lodge strong, but each wind, the North
and the East, and the West, and the South, has
its time for the earth. Now South Wind is
calling me; return you to your big lodge in
the sky. Travel quick on your way that you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>337]</a></span>
may not fall in the path of the Sun. See! It
is now sending down its arrows broad and
strong!”</p>
<p>The old man saw and trembled. He seemed
fading smaller, and grown too weak to speak,
could only whisper, “Young warrior, who are
you?”</p>
<p>In a voice that breathed soft as the breath
of wild blossoms, he answered: “I am Go-hay,
Spring! I have come to rule, and my
lodge now covers the earth! I have talked
to your mountain and it has heard; I have
called the South Wind and it is near; the Sun
is awake from its winter sleep and summons
me quick and loud. Your North Wind has
fled to his north sky; you are late in following.
You have lingered too long over your
peace pipe and its smoke now floats far away.
Haste while yet there is time that you may
lose not your trail.”</p>
<p>And Go-hay began singing the Sun song as
he opened the door of the lodge. Hovering
above it was a great bird, whose wings seemed
blown by a strong wind, and while Go-hay
continued to sing, it flew down to the lodge
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>338]</a></span>
and folding Gau-wi-di-ne to its breast, slowly
winged away to the north, and when the Sun
lifted its head in the east it beheld the bird
disappearing behind the far-away sky. The
Sun glanced down where Gau-wi-di-ne had
built his lodge, whose fire had burned but
could not warm, and a bed of young blossoms
lifted their heads to the touch of its beams.</p>
<p>Where the wood and the corn and the dried
meat and fish had been heaped, a young tree
was leafing, and a blue bird was trying its
wings for a nest. And the great ice mountain
had melted to a swift running river which
sped through the valley bearing its message of
the springtime.</p>
<p>Gau-wi-di-ne had passed his time, and Go-hay
reigned over the earth!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>339]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap04" id="bk6chap04"></a>NAMING THE WINDS</h3>
<p class="center smcap">(Indian Legend)</p>
<p>Ga-oh the great master of the winds decided
to choose his helpers from the animals of the
earth. He blew a strong blast that shook the
rocks and hills and when his reverberating
call had ceased its thunderous echoes he
opened the north gate wide across the sky and
called Ya-o-gah, the Bear.</p>
<p>Lumbering over the mountains as he pushed
them from his path, Ya-o-gah, the bulky bear,
who had battled the boisterous winds as he
came, took his place at Ga-oh’s gate and
waited the mission of his call. Said Ga-oh,
“Ya-o-gah, you are strong; you can freeze the
waters with your cold breath; in your broad
arms you can carry the wild tempests, and
clasp the whole earth when I bid you destroy.
I will place you in my far North, there to
watch the herd of my winter winds when I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>340]</a></span>
loose them in the sky. You shall be North
Wind. Enter your home.” And the bear
lowered his head for the leash with which
Ga-oh bound him, and submissively took his
place in the north sky.</p>
<p>In a gentler voice Ga-oh called Ne-o-ga,
the Fawn, and a soft breeze as of the summer
crept over the sky; the air grew fragrant with
the odour of flowers, and there were voices as
of babbling brooks telling the secrets of the
summer to the tune of birds, as Ne-o-ga came
proudly lifting her head.</p>
<p>Said Ga-oh, “You walk with the summer
sun, and know all its paths; you are gentle,
and kind as the sunbeam, and will rule my
flock of the summer winds in peace. You
shall be the South Wind. Bend your head
while I leash you to the sky, for you are swift,
and might return from me to the earth.” And
the gentle Fawn followed Ga-oh to his great
gate which opens the south sky.</p>
<p>Again Ga-oh trumpeted a shrill blast, and
all the sky seemed threatening; an ugly darkness
crept into the clouds that sent them whirling
in circles of confusion. A quarrelsome,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>341]</a></span>
shrieking voice snarled through the air, and
with a sound as of great claws tearing the
heavens into rifts, Da-jo-ji, the Panther,
sprang to the gate.</p>
<p>Said Ga-oh, “You are ugly, and fierce, and
can fight the strong storms; you can climb the
high mountains, and tear down the forests;
you can carry the whirlwind on your strong
back, and toss the great sea waves high in the
air, and snarl at the tempests if they stray
from my gate. You shall be the West Wind.
Go to the west sky, where even the Sun will
hurry to hide when you howl your warning to
the night.” And Da-jo-ji, dragging his leash
as he stealthily crept along, followed Ga-oh to
the furthermost west sky.</p>
<p>Yet Ga-oh rested not. The earth was flat,
and in each of its four corners he must have
an assistant. One corner yet remained, and
again Ga-oh’s strong blast shook the earth.
And there arose a moan like the calling of a
lost mate; the sky shivered in a cold rain; the
whole earth clouded in mist; a crackling
sound as of great horns crashing through the
forest trees dinned the air, and O-yan-do-ne,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>342]</a></span>
the Moose, stood stamping his hoofs at the
gate.</p>
<p>Said Ga-oh, as he strung a strong leash
around his neck, “Your breath blows the
mist, and can lead the cold rains; your horns
spread wide, and can push back the forests to
widen the path for my storms as with your
swift hoofs you race with my winds. You
shall be the East Wind, and blow your breath
to chill the young clouds as they float through
the sky.” Said Ga-oh as he led him to the east
sky, “Here you shall dwell forevermore.”</p>
<p>Thus, with his assistants, does Ga-oh control
his storms. And although he must ever
remain in his sky lodge, his will is supreme,
and his faithful assistants will obey!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>343]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap05" id="bk6chap05"></a>NORTH WIND’S FROLIC</h3>
<p>In a large, airy castle on the borders of a
country far away, lived the King of the Winds
with his four children, North Wind, South
Wind, East Wind, and West Wind. They
were a happy family, for the four children
were always making merry with the old Wind
King.</p>
<p>North Wind, however, was a boisterous
fellow, forever causing disorder even in their
play.</p>
<p>One summer day North Wind said that he
was going out of the castle for a frolic.</p>
<p>“Go,” called out the King, “but be careful,
North Wind, what you do. Your pranks are
all very well while you are in the castle here,
but out in the world they may do great harm.”</p>
<p>“Woo—oo—oo——,” was all the King heard
in answer, and away blustered North Wind
out of the castle to the garden near by.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>344]</a></span>
The roses and lilies were just in bloom, and
the ripe peaches hung on the trees ready to be
picked.</p>
<p>“Woo—oo—oo——,” cried the North Wind
in his loudest voice, and in a moment the rose
petals were scattered all over the ground, the
lilies were broken from their stems, and the
ripe peaches dropped down right into the
mud.</p>
<p>In the fields he caused even greater damage.
He broke the wheat stems, threw the
unripe apples about. He tore the leaves from
their branches and tossed them about in the
air in all directions. Indeed, one old tree he
completely uprooted.</p>
<p>The people could stand it no longer. They
went to the King of the Winds, who, in his
castle had control over the coming and going
of all the Winds, and told him what the
wicked North Wind had done and how the
garden and fields had suffered from the
misery he had caused them.</p>
<p>“I will summon North Wind,” said his
father. “He shall answer for all this.”</p>
<p>When North Wind appeared, the King
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>345]</a></span>
repeated what the people had said. “Is this
true, North Wind?” he asked.</p>
<p>North Wind could not deny it, for the
devastated garden and fields lay before every
one’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Why did you do it?” asked the King.</p>
<p>“Oh,” answered North Wind, “I didn’t
mean it wickedly. I wanted to play with the
roses and the lilies and the peaches—and all
the rest. I didn’t think I would do them any
harm.”</p>
<p>“I see,” said the King. “If you are such a
clumsy fellow, then I do not dare to let you
out for a frolic again. I must keep you a
prisoner in the castle the whole summer. In
the winter, when there are no more flowers
and fruit, you may go out and be as boisterous
as you like. I see you are fit only for the
time of ice and snow and not for flowers and
fruit.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>346]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap06" id="bk6chap06"></a>THE MONTHS: A PAGEANT</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Christina Rossetti</p>
<div class="centered">
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="List of characters">
<tr>
<td class="tdc"><i>Boys</i></td>
<td class="tdc"> </td>
<td class="tdc"><i>Girls</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">January</td>
<td class="tdlp"> </td>
<td class="tdl">February</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">March</td>
<td class="tdlp"> </td>
<td class="tdl">April</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">July</td>
<td class="tdlp"> </td>
<td class="tdl">May</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">August</td>
<td class="tdlp"> </td>
<td class="tdl">June</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">October</td>
<td class="tdlp"> </td>
<td class="tdl">September</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">December</td>
<td class="tdlp"> </td>
<td class="tdl">November</td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="hang">Robin Redbreast; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale
and Nestlings; various Flowers,
Fruits, etc.</p>
<p class="hang">SCENE:—<i>A Cottage with its grounds.</i></p>
<p class="hang">(<i>A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire
burning on the hearth; a table on which
the breakfast things have been left standing.
<span class="smcap">January</span> discovered seated by the
fire.</i>)</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>347]</a></span></p>
<p class="center smcap">January</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dim the day until the cold dark night.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Stirs the fire</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Crackle, sparkle, faggot; embers glow:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some one may be plodding through the snow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Longing for a light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For the light that you and I can show.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If no one else should come,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here Robin Redbreast’s welcome to a crumb,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And never troublesome:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Robin, why don’t you come and fetch your crumb?<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Here’s butter for my hunch of bread,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And sugar for your crumb;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here’s room upon the hearthrug,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">If you’ll only come.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In your scarlet waistcoat,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With your keen bright eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where are you loitering?<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Wings were made to fly!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>348]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Make haste to breakfast,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Come and fetch your crumb,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For I’m as glad to see you<br /></span>
<span class="i1">As you are glad to come.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping
with their beaks at the lattice, which <span class="smcap">January</span>
opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the
floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar
thrown to them. They have scarcely finished
their meal when a knock is heard at the door.
<span class="smcap">January</span> hangs a guard in front of the fire,
and opens to <span class="smcap">February</span>, who appears with a
bunch of snowdrops in her hand.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Good-morrow, sister.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">February</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i7">Brother, joy to you!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But quite enough to prove the world awake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And for the pale sun’s sake.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>349]</a></span>
(<i>She hands a few of her snowdrops to <span class="smcap">January</span>,
who retires into the background.
While <span class="smcap">February</span> stands arranging the remaining
snowdrops in a glass of water on the
window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are
heard outside. She opens the door, and sees
one foremost lamb with other sheep and lambs
bleating and crowding towards her.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O you, you little wonder, come—come in,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You wonderful, you woolly soft white lamb:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You panting mother ewe, come too,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lead that tottering twin<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Safe in:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring all your bleating kith and kin,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Except the horny ram.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">February</span> opens a second door in the background,
and the little flock files through into
a warm and sheltered compartment out of
sight.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The lambkin tottering in its walk<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With just a fleece to wear;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The snowdrop drooping on its stalk<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So slender,—<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>350]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Braving the cold for our delight,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Both white<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Both tender.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>A rattling of doors and windows; branches
seen without, tossing violently to and fro.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here brother March comes whirling on his way<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With winds that eddy and sing:—<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>She turns the handle of the door, which
bursts open, and discloses <span class="smcap">March</span> hastening
up, both hands full of violets and anemones.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, show me what you bring;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And must away.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">March</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Stopping short on the threshold</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i1">I blow an arouse<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Through the world’s wide house<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To quicken the torpid earth;<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>351]</a></span>
<span class="i1">Grappling I fling<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Each feeble thing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But bring strong life to the birth.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">I wrestle and frown,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And topple down;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I wrench, I rend, I uproot;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Yet the violet<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Is born where I set<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sole of my flying foot.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Hands violet and anemones to <span class="smcap">February</span>,
who retires into the background.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i1">And in my wake<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Frail wind-flowers quake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the catkins promise fruit.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">I drive ocean ashore<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With rush and roar,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he cannot say me nay:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">My harpstrings all<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Are the forests tall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Making music when I play.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Before <span class="smcap">March</span> has done speaking, a voice
is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering
of birds. <span class="smcap">April</span> comes along singing,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>352]</a></span>
and stands outside and out of sight to finish
her song.</i>)</p>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">April</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Outside</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Pretty little three<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sparrows in a tree,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Light upon the wing;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Though you cannot sing<br /></span>
<span class="i1">You can chirp of Spring:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chirp of Spring to me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sparrows, from your tree.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Never mind the showers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chirp about the flowers<br /></span>
<span class="i1">While you build a nest:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Straws from east and west,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Feathers from your breast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Make the snuggest bowers<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In a world of flowers.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Appearing at the open door</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of all the flying months you’re the most flying.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>353]</a></span></p>
<p class="center smcap">March</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You’re hope and sweetness, April.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">April</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve a rainbow in my showers<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And a lapful of flowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And these dear nestlings aged three hours;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And here’s their mother sitting;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Their father’s merely flitting<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>As she speaks <span class="smcap">April</span> shows <span class="smcap">March</span> her
apron full of flowers and nest full of birds.
<span class="smcap">March</span> wanders away into the grounds.
<span class="smcap">April</span>, without entering the cottage, hangs
over the hungry nestlings watching them.
<span class="smcap">May</span> arrives unperceived by <span class="smcap">April</span>, and gives
her a kiss. <span class="smcap">April</span> starts and looks round.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>354]</a></span></p>
<p class="center smcap">May</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">That’s just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your sorrow’s half in fun,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Begun and done<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve gathered flowers all as I came along,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At every step a flower<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fed by your last bright shower,—<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers
with <span class="smcap">April</span>, who strolls away through the
garden.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And gathering flowers I listened to the song<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of every bird in bower.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Here are my buds of lily and rose,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And here’s my namesake blossom may;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And from a watery spot<br /></span>
<span class="i2">See here forget-me-not,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With all that blows<br /></span>
<span class="i3">To-day.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>355]</a></span>
(<i><span class="smcap">June</span> appears at the further end of the
garden, coming slowly towards <span class="smcap">May</span>, who,
seeing her, exclaims:</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Surely you’re come too early, sister June.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">June</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Indeed I feel as if I came too soon<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To round your young May moon<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And set the world a-gasping at my noon.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet come I must. So here are strawberries<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And here are full-blown roses by the score,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">More roses, and yet more.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">May</span>, eating strawberries, withdraws
among the flower beds. <span class="smcap">June</span> seats herself
in the shadow of a laburnum.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Or if I’m lulled by note of bird and bee,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Or lulled by noontide’s silence deep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I need but nestle down beneath my tree<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And drop asleep.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>356]</a></span>
(<i><span class="smcap">June</span> falls asleep; and is not awakened by
the voice of <span class="smcap">July</span>, who, behind the scenes, is
heard, half singing, half calling.</i>)</p>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">July</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Behind the scenes</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which will you take? yellow, blue, speckled!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Each in its way has not a fellow.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Enter <span class="smcap">July</span>, a basket of many-coloured
irises slung upon his shoulders, a bunch of
ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full
of peaches balanced upon the other. He
steals up to <span class="smcap">June</span>, and tickles her with the
grass. She wakes.</i>)</p>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">June</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What, here already?<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>357]</a></span></p>
<p class="center smcap">July</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">Nay, my tryst is kept;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The longest day slipped by you while you slept.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Hands her the plate</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Not flowers but peaches, gathered where the bees,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As downy, bask and boom<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In sunshine and in gloom of trees.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But get you in, a storm is at my heels;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The whirlwind whistles and wheels,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lightning flashes and thunder peals,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flying and following hard upon my heels.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">June</span> takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbour</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The roar of a storm sweeps up<br /></span>
<span class="i1">From the east to the lurid west,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The darkening sky, like a cup,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Is filled with rain to the brink;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sky is purple and fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Blackness and noise and unrest;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The earth, parched with desire<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Opens her mouth to drink.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>358]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Have done with thunder and fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">O sky with the rainbow crest;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O earth, have done with desire,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Drink, and drink deep, and rest.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Enter <span class="smcap">August</span>, carrying a sheaf made up
of different kinds of grain.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hail, brother August, flushed and warm<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And scathless from my storm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your hands are full of corn, I see,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As full as hands can be:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In their recovered calm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And that they owe to me.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">July</span> retires into a shrubbery</i>)</p>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">August</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Barley bows a graceful head,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Short and small shoots up canary,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Each of these is some one’s bread;<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>359]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Bread for man or bread for beast,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or, at very least,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A bird’s savoury feast.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">August</span> descries <span class="smcap">September</span> toiling across
the lawn</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My harvest home is ended; and I spy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">September drawing nigh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the first sigh<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">September</span> arrives, carrying upon her head
a basket heaped high with fruit</i>)</p>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">September</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Unload me, brother. I have brought a few<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Plums and these pears for you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A dozen kinds of apples, one or two<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Melons, some figs all bursting through<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their skins, and pearled with dew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These damsons violet-blue.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>360]</a></span>
(<i>While <span class="smcap">September</span> is speaking, <span class="smcap">August</span>
lifts the basket to the ground, selects various
fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel
walk, eating a pear as he goes.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">My song is half a sigh<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Because my green leaves die;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And well may Autumn sigh,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And well may I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who watch the sere leaves flying.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">October</span> enters briskly, some leafy twigs
bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand,
and a long ripe hop-bine trailing after him
from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his buttonhole.</i>)</p>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">October</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Even if the year has done with corn and clover,<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>361]</a></span>
<span class="i0">With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it’s true<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some leaves remain and some flowers too.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For me and you.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now see my crops:<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Offering his produce to <span class="smcap">September</span></i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve brought you nuts and hops;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when the leaf drops, why, the walnut drops.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">October</span> wreathes the hop-bine about
<span class="smcap">September’s</span> neck, and gives her the nut
twigs. They enter the cottage together, but
without shutting the door. She steps into the
background; he advances to the hearth, removes
the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire,
and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Crack your first nut and light your first fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Roast your first chestnut crisp on the bar;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Logs are cheery as sun or as star,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Logs we can find wherever we are.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>362]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Spring one soft day will open the leaves,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Spring one bright day will lure back the flowers;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Never fancy I’ve tears in my showers:<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours!<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Sees <span class="smcap">November</span> approaching</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And grim<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With dismal ways.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What cheer, November?<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">November</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Entering and shutting the door</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nought have I to bring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tramping a-chill and shivering,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Except these pine cones for a blaze,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Except a fog which follows,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And stuffs up all the hollows,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Except a hoar frost here and there,—<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>363]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Except some shooting stars<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which dart their luminous cars<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i><span class="smcap">October</span>, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws
into the background, while <span class="smcap">November</span>
throws her pine cones on the fire, and sits
down listlessly.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The earth lies asleep, grown tired<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Of all that’s high or deep;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There’s nought desired and nought required<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Save a sleep.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I rock the cradle of the earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">I lull her with a sigh;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And know that she will wake to mirth<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By and by.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Through the window <span class="smcap">December</span> is seen
running and leaping in the direction of the
door. He knocks.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last:<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>Calls out without rising.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>364]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Come in, December.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>He opens the door and enters, loaded with
evergreens in berry, etc.</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">Come, and shut the door,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For now it’s snowing fast;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It snows, and will snow more and more;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Don’t let it drift in on the floor.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But you, you’re all aglow; how can you be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold?<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center smcap">December</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nay, no closed doors for me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But open doors and open hearts and glee<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To welcome young and old.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Dimmest and brightest month am I;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My short days end, my lengthening days begin;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What matters more or less sun in the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When all is sun within?<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>He begins making a wreath as he sings</i>)</p>
</div>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>365]</a></span>
<span class="i2">Ivy and privet dark as night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And holly for a beauty and delight,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And milky mistletoe.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">While high above them all I set<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet<br /></span>
<span class="i2">May keep, so sweet and frail;<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">May keep each merry singing bird,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of all her happy birds that singing build:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Once in a wintry field.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(<i>While <span class="smcap">December</span> concludes his song all
the other Months troop in from the garden,
or advance out of the background. The
Twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing
round to a stately measure as the curtain
falls.</i>) (<i>Abridged.</i>)</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>366]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap07" id="bk6chap07"></a>PRINCE WINTER</h3>
<p class="center smcap">Carl Ewald</p>
<p>The Prince of Winter sat on the mountains:
an old man with white hair and beard. His
naked breast was shaggy, shaggy his legs and
hands. He looked strong and wild with cold
stern eyes.</p>
<p>But he was not angry as when Spring drove
him from the valley and when Autumn did
not go quickly enough. He looked out over
the kingdom calmly for he knew that it was
his. And, when he found anything dead or
empty or desolate, he plucked at his great
white beard and gave a harsh and satisfied
laugh.</p>
<p>But all that lived in the land was struck
with terror when it looked into his cold eyes.</p>
<p>The trees shook in their thick bark, and
the bushes struck their branches together in
consternation. The mouse became quite
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>367]</a></span>
snow-blind, when she peeped outside the
door; the stag looked mournfully over the
white meadow.</p>
<p>“My muzzle can still break thro’ the ice,
when I drink,” he said. “I can still scrape the
snow to one side and find a tuft of grass. But,
if things go on like this for another week,
then it’s all up with me.”</p>
<p>The crow and the chaffinch and the sparrow
and the tit had quite lost their voices. They
thought of the other birds, who had departed
in time, and they who remained knew not
where to turn in their distress. At last they
set out in a row to carry their humble greeting
to the new lord of the land.</p>
<p>“Here come your birds, O mightiest of all
Princes!” said the crow and stood and marked
time in the white snow. “The others left the
country as soon as you announced your coming,
but we have remained to submit us to
your sway. Now be a gracious lord to us
and grant us food.”</p>
<p>“We bow before Your Highness!” said the
chaffinch.</p>
<p>“We have so longed for you,” said
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>368]</a></span>
the tit, and he put his head on one side.</p>
<p>And the sparrow said the same as the others,
in a tone of deep respect.</p>
<p>But the Prince of Winter laughed at them
disdainfully.</p>
<p>“Ha, you time-serving birds! In Summer’s
time you amused yourselves merrily, in Autumn’s,
you ate yourselves stout and fat; and
as soon as Spring strikes up you will dance to
his piping like the others. I hate you and
your screaming and squalling and the trees
you hop about in. You are all here to defy
me and I shall do for you if I can.” Then he
rose in all his strength.</p>
<p>“I have my own birds and now you shall
see them.”</p>
<p>He clapped his hands and sang:</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Wee snow-birds, white snow-birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">White snow-birds, wee snow-birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through fields skim along!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To jubilant Spring I grudge music of no birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To Summer, no song.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>369]</a></span>
<span class="i0">“Come, Winter’s mute messengers,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Swift birds and slow birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">White snow-birds, wee snow-birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till the valley be soft as down for your nestling<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of numberless ice-eggs by frosty rims spanned!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now rushing, now resting,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">White snow-birds, wee snow-birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Skim soft thro’ the land!”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>And Winter’s birds came.</p>
<p>Suddenly, it darkened, and the air became
full of little black specks, which descended
and turned into great white snow-flakes.</p>
<p>They fell over the ground in an endless multitude.
There was now not a blade of grass,
nor yet a stone to be seen: everything was
smooth and soft and white. Only the trees
stood out high in the air and the river flowed
black thro’ the meadow.</p>
<p>“I know how to crush you,” said the Prince
of Winter.</p>
<p>And, when evening came, he told the wind
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>370]</a></span>
to go down. Then the waves became small
and still, Winter stared at them with his cold
eyes, and the ice built its bridge from bank
to bank. In vain the waves tried to hum
Spring’s song. There was no strength in their
voices.</p>
<p>Next morning there was nothing left to the
river but a narrow channel; and, when one
more night had passed, the bridge was finished.
Again the Prince of Winter called for
his white birds; and soon the carpet was
drawn over the river till it was no longer possible
to see where land began or water ended.</p>
<p>But the trees stood boldly out of the deep
snow, the firs had kept all their leaves and
were so green that it was quite shocking to
behold. Wherever they stood, they were a
protection against the frost and a shelter
against the snow; and the chaffinch and the
other small birds found refuge under their
roofs.</p>
<p>The Prince of Winter looked at them
angrily.</p>
<p>“If I could but break you!” he said. “You
stand in the midst of my kingdom keeping
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>371]</a></span>
guard for Summer and you give shelter to the
birds who disturb the peace of my land. If
only I had snow enough to bury you!”</p>
<p>But the trees stood strong under Winter’s
wrath and waved their long branches.</p>
<p>“You have taken from us what you can,”
they said. “Farther than that you cannot go.
We will wait calmly for better times.”</p>
<p>When they had said this Winter suddenly
set eyes upon tiny little buds round about the
twigs. He saw the little brown mice trip out
for a run in the snow and disappear again into
their snug parlours before his eyes. He heard
the hedgehog snoring in the hedge; and the
crows kept on screaming in his ears. Through
his own ice he saw the noses of the frogs
stick up from the bottom of the pond.</p>
<p>“Am I the master or not?” he shouted. He
tore at his beard with both hands.</p>
<p>He heard the anemones breathe peacefully
and lightly in the mould; he heard thousands
of grubs bore deep into the wood of the trees
as cheerfully as though Summer were in the
land. He saw the bees crawl about in their
busy hive and share the honey they had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>372]</a></span>
collected in summer, and have a happy time. He
saw the bat in the hollow tree, the worm deep
in the ground; and, wherever he turned, he
saw millions of eggs and grubs and chrysalides,
well guarded and waiting confidently
for him to go away.</p>
<p>He stamped on the ground and shouted in
his loud, hoarse voice:</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Roar forth, mine anger, roar, and rouse,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What breathes below earth’s girder!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By thousands slay them!”<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>He shouted it over the land.</p>
<p>The ice broke and split into long cracks. It
sounded like thunder from the bottom of the
river.</p>
<p>Then the storm broke loose. The gale
roared so that you could hear the trees fall
crashing in the forest. The ice was split in
two and the huge floes heaped up into towering
icebergs. The snow fell and drifted over
meadow and hill; sky and earth were blended
into one. It was piercingly cold, and where
the snow had been blown away the ground was
hard as stone.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>373]</a></span>
The Prince of Winter stood in the valley
and looked upon all this with content. He
went into the forest, where the snow was
frozen to windward right up to the tips of the
smooth beech-trunks; but in the boughs of the
fir-trees it lay so thick that they were weighted
right down to the ground.</p>
<p>“You may be Summer’s servants,” he said,
“but still you have to resign yourselves to
wearing my livery. And now the sun shall
shine on you; and I will have a glorious
day.”</p>
<p>He bade the sun come out and he came.</p>
<p>He rode over a bright blue sky, and all that
was still alive in the valley raised itself
towards him for warmth.</p>
<p>“Call Spring back to the valleys! Give us
Summer again!”</p>
<p>The sun gleamed upon the hoar-frost but
could not melt it; he stared down at the snow,
but could not thaw it. The valley lay silent.</p>
<p>“That’s how I like to see the land,” said
Winter.</p>
<p>The Prince of Winter sat on his mountain
throne again and surveyed his kingdom and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>374]</a></span>
was glad. His great cold eyes stared, while
he growled in his beard.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Proud of speed and hard of hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">A cruel lord to follow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Winter locks up sea and land,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Blocks up every hollow.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Summer coaxes, sweet and bland,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Flowers in soft vigour,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At Winter’s harsh and grim command<br /></span>
<span class="i1">They die of ruthless rigour.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Short and cold is Winter’s Day,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Long and worse night’s hours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Few birds languish in his pay<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And yet fewer flowers.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>The days wore on and Winter reigned over
the land.</p>
<p>The little brown mice had eaten their last
nut; the hedgehog was hungry and the crows
were nearly giving in.</p>
<p>Then suddenly there came the sound of
singing.</p>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>375]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Play up! Play soon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Keep time! Keep time!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ye wavelets blue and tender,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Keep time! Keep time!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Burst ice and rime<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In equinoctial splendor.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Up leaped Winter and stared with his
hands over his brows.</p>
<p>Down below in the valley stood the Prince
of Spring, young and straight in his green
garb, with the lute slung over his shoulder.
His long hair waved in the wind and his face
was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling
and his eyes were dreamy and moist.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>376]</a></span></p>
<h3><a name="bk6chap08" id="bk6chap08"></a>HOW SPRING AND WINTER MET</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The Winter and the Spring were met:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Winter threw a fleecy net,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And caught the young Spring over night.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He put to sleep the budding tree<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within a cloister dim and white;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the little golden crocus flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That comes too early for the bee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He hid away from sunrise hour.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The brook was conscious of his power<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lost its trick of babbling words.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But Spring awoke, despite his craft,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And out of windows looked and laughed.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">At first he set to sing all birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With twittering voices small and clear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bade them say they felt no grief<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To find the snow and mildewed leaf<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heaped up in nests they built last year.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>377]</a></span>
<span class="i0">Then found a crystal alcove high<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The bluebird carolled to the sky.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The robin whistled cheer, good cheer!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sparrow rung his matin bells,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And far away in reedy dells<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The quail a friendly greeting sent.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then was the stifled pine not loth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To shuffle off the dull white sloth;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then leaped the brook by icy stair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And snapped his fetters as he went;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sun shone out most full and fair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Winter rose and struck his tent.<br /></span>
<span class="poet">Edith M. Thomas.<br /></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="bbox">
<p><b>Transcriber's Note</b></p>
<p>On pp. <a href="#Page_13">13-14</a> the text reads, "The king took up the sack nearest to him,
their surprise, when out rushed a great heap of brown leaves, which flew
all over the floor and half choked them with dust!" It appears there may
be some missing text between "nearest to him" and "their surprise"; there
does not appear to be any damage or obscured text in the original book, and
the line count matches that of other pages, so it may be that a line was omitted
during typesetting. The transcriber was unable to locate an alternative printing
of the story, so, as it is impossible to determine what that text may be, the
omission is preserved as printed.</p>
<p>Poe is referred to in this text as Edgar Allen Poe, rather than the more
usual Edgar Allan Poe. This is preserved as printed.</p>
<p>Although authors and translators are listed in the Table of Contents, their
names are not always included with their prose in the main text. This
convention is retained here to match the original book.</p>
<p>Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.</p>
<p>Hyphenation and capitalisation has been made consistent within individual
pieces in the book.</p>
<p>The following amendments have been made:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>First page of <a href="#acknowledgments">Acknowledgments</a>—Edinburg amended to
Edinburgh—"To T. C. and E. C. Jack of Edinburgh ..."</p>
<p>Second page of <a href="#acknowledgments">Acknowledgments</a>—Procter amended to Proctor—"... James Russell
Lowell, Edna Dean Proctor, ..."</p>
<p>Second page of <a href="#contents">Contents</a>—Horatio amended to Horatia—"... <i>Juliana Horatia
Ewing</i> ..."</p>
<p>Third page of <a href="#contents">Contents</a>—Spring and Winter reversed—"How Spring and
Winter Met ..."</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_19">19</a>—Parain amended to Parian—"... On coop or kennel he hangs Parian
wreaths; ..."</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_52">52</a>—truely amended to truly—"I have told you truly who she is."</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_75">75</a>—place amended to placed—"... they are placed alternately on each
side ..."</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_279">279</a>—stone amended to stove—"I went under the stove and could lie down ..."</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_360">360</a>—hop-vine amended to hop-bine—"... and a long ripe hop-bine trailing
after him ..."</p>
</div>
</div>
<pre>
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