



Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
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                   THE
             PEARL STORY BOOK

         _Stories and Legends of
  Winter, Christmas, and New Year's Day_


               COMPILED BY

              ADA M. SKINNER
                   AND
            ELEANOR L. SKINNER

  _Editors of "The Emerald Story Book,"
  "The Topaz Story Book," "The Turquoise
  Story Book," "Children's Plays," Etc._


               [Decoration]


                 NEW YORK
            DUFFIELD & COMPANY
                   1919


            Copyright 1910 by
            DUFFIELD & COMPANY


  [Illustration: {Three shepherds look up at the sky, amazed}
      _Drawn by Maxfield Parrish_]




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


The editors' thanks are due to the following authors and publishers
for the use of valuable material in this book:

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."

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.




CONTENTS


    INTRODUCTION


    WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS

                                                                  PAGE

    Winter (selection)              _James Russell Lowell_           2

    The Ice King (Indian legend)    _Eleanor L. Skinner_             3

    A Song of the Snow (poem)       _Madison Cawein_                 9

    King Frost and King Winter
        (adapted)                   _Margaret T. Canby_             11

    The Snowstorm (poem)            _Ralph Waldo Emerson_           18

    The First Winter (Iroquois
        legend)                     _W. W. Canfield_                20

    Snow Song (poem)                _Frank Dempster Sherman_        24

    The Snow Maiden (Russian
        legend. Translated from
        the French)                 _Eleanor L. Skinner_            25

    The Frost King (poem)           _Mary Mapes Dodge_              30

    King Winter's Harvest           _Selected_                      32

    Old King Winter (poem)          _Anna E. Skinner_               36

    Sheltering Wings                _Harriet Louise Jerome_         37

    Snowflakes (selection)          _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_    41

    The Snow-Image                  _Nathaniel Hawthorne_           42


    WINTER WOODS

    The First Snow-Fall             _James Russell Lowell_          62

    The Voice of the Pine Trees
        (Japanese legend)           _Frank Hadland Davis_           63

    The Pine Tree Maiden (Indian
        legend)                     _Ada M. Skinner_                68

    The Holly                       _Janet Harvey Kelman_           73

    The Fable of the Three
        Elms (poem)                 _Margaret E. Sangster, Jr._     79

    The Pine and the Willow         _Mine Morishima_                82

    Why the Wild Rabbits Are
        White in Winter
        (Algonquin legend retold)   _Eleanor L. Skinner_            86

    The Yew                         _Janet Harvey Kelman_           93

    How the Pine Tree Did
        Some Good                   _Samuel W. Duffield_            95

    A Wonderful Weaver (poem)       _George Cooper_                105

    The Pine and the Flax           _Albrekt Segerstedt_           107

    The Fir Tree (poem)             _Edith M. Thomas_              110

    Why Bruin Has a Stumpy Tail
        (Norwegian legend)          _Eleanor L. Skinner_           111

    Pines and Firs                  _Mrs. Dyson_                   116

    Who Loves the Trees Best?
        (poem)                      _Selected_                     131


    CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE

    A Christmas Song                _Phillips Brooks_              134

    The Shepherd Maiden's Gift
        (Eastern legend)            _Eleanor L. Skinner_           135

    Christmas Gifts                 _Laura E. Richards_            141

    Silver Bells (poem)             _Hamish Hendry_                146

    The Animals' Christmas Tree     _John P. Peters_               147

    A Christmas Carol               _Christina Rossetti_           162

    Holly                           _Ada M. Marzials_              164

    The Willow Man (poem)           _Juliana Horatia Ewing_        175

    The Ivy Green (selection)       _Charles Dickens_              178

    Legend of St. Nicholas          _Amy Steedman_                 179

    Christmas Bells (selection)     _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_   197

    A Night With Santa Claus        _Anna R. Annan_                198

    A Child's Thought About
        Santa Claus (poem)          _Sydney Dayre_                 208

    Charity in a Cottage            _Jean Ingelow_                 210

    The Waits (poem)                _Margaret Deland_              223

    Where Love Is There God
        Is Also (adapted)           _Leo Tolstoi_                  225

    God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen    _Dinah Mulock Craik_           234


    THE GLAD NEW YEAR

    The Glad New Year (poem)        _Mary Mapes Dodge_             236

    The Bad Little Goblin's
        New Year                    _Mary Stewart_                 237

    Selection                       _Robert Herrick_               248

    The Queen of the Year (poem)    _Edna Dean Proctor_            249

    The New Year's Bell             _Andrea Hofer Proudfoot_       250

    The New Year                    _Selected_                     256

    The Child and the Year (poem)   _Celia Thaxter_                257

    A Masque of the Days            _Charles Lamb_                 258

    Ring Out, Wild Bells (poem)     _Alfred Tennyson_              262


    MIDWINTER

    The Bells (selection)           _Edgar Allen Poe_              264

    A January Thaw                  _Dallas Lore Sharp_            265

    The Snow Man                    _Hans Christian Andersen_      276

    The Happy Prince                _Oscar Wilde_                  284

    The Legend of King Wenceslaus
        (adapted)                   _John Mason Neale_             303

    Midwinter (poem)                _John Townsend Trowbridge_     310


    WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET

    Old Winter (poem)               _Thomas Noel_                  314

    The Snowball That Didn't Melt   _Jay T. Stocking_              315

    Gau-wi-di-ne and Go-hay
        (Iroquois legend retold)    _Eleanor L. Skinner_           330

    Naming the Winds (Indian
        legend retold)              _Ada M. Skinner_               339

    North Wind's Frolic
        (translated)                _Montgomery Maze_              343

    The Months: A Pageant
        (adapted)                   _Christina Rossetti_           346

    Prince Winter                   _Carl Ewald_                   366

    How Spring and Winter
        Met (poem)                  _Edith M. Thomas_              376




INTRODUCTION


"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."

Silence! The story-teller turns his eyes from the glowing fire to the
faces of his eager audience. He is ready to begin.

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.

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."




WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS




WINTER


    Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
    From the snow five thousand summers old;
    On open wold and hill-top bleak
    It had gathered all the cold,
    And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek.
    It carried a shiver everywhere
    From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
    The little brook heard it and built a roof
    'Neath which he could house him winter-proof;
    All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
    He groined his arches and matched his beams;
    Slender and clear were his crystal spars
    As the lashes of light that trim the stars:
    He sculptured every summer delight
    In his halls and chambers out of sight.

                        James Russell Lowell.




THE ICE KING

(Indian Legend)


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.

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.

"When will the Ice King leave us?" they asked each other. "We shall
all perish if he continues his cruel reign."

At last signs of spring encouraged the 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.

"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?"

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!"

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.

"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.

And when the mighty task was finished the white figure of the Ice King
stood before the Indian brave.

"You have ruined my lodge," said the giant.

"The winter season is past," answered the brave. "Begone!"

"After several moons I shall return to stay," threatened the Ice King.
Then he stalked away toward the North.

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.

"I shall prepare for his return and do battle with him again,"
declared the Indian conqueror.

This promise comforted the people somewhat, but still they thought of
the coming winter with dread.

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.

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.

"The Ice King has come," said the Indians. "If he keeps his threat to
stay among us we shall surely perish."

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."

"I've come to stay," answered the giant.

The Indian shivered with cold at the sudden 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.

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.

"Spare me, O hunter," cried the Ice King.

But to the words of the giant the young Indian was deaf. He opened
another bag of oil and poured it on the logs.

"Have mercy, I beg you!" pleaded the Ice King. He rose and staggered
toward the door.

"You have conquered me," he said in a weak 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."

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.




A SONG OF THE SNOW


    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn,
    When the air is still and the clouds are gone,
    And the snow lies deep on hill and lawn,
        And the old clock ticks, "'Tis time! 'Tis time!"
    And the household rises with many a yawn
    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn!
            Sing, Ho!

    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky
    When the last star closes its icy eye
    And deep in the road the snow-drifts lie,
        And the old clock ticks, "'Tis late! 'Tis late!"
    And the flame on the hearth leaps red--leaps high
    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky!
            Sing, Ho!

    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn
    When the snow makes ghostly the wayside thorn,
    And hills of pearl are the shocks of corn,
        And the old clock ticks, "Tick-tock; tick-tock;"
    And the goodman bustles about the barn
    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn!
            Sing, Ho!

    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day,
    When ermine capped are the stocks of hay,
    And the wood-smoke pillars the air with gray,
        And the old clock ticks, "To work! To work!"
    And the goodwife sings as she churns away
    Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day!
            Sing, Ho!

                        Madison Cawein.




KING FROST AND KING WINTER

Margaret T. Canby


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.

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 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.

"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.

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 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.

This work was kept up nearly all night and when morning came, the
magic forest of many- 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.

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."

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! 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.

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.

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.

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 _his_ 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.

The two groups of fairies met in the midst of the great wood. After
some words between 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."

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 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.

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.
(_Adapted._)




THE SNOWSTORM


    Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
    Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
    Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
    Hides hills and woods, and river, and the heaven,
    And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end,
    The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
    Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
    Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed
    In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

    Come, see the north wind's masonry.
    Out of an unseen quarry evermore
    Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
    Curves his white bastions with projected roof
    Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
    Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
    So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
    For number or proportion. Mockingly,
    On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
    A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn;
    Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
    Mauger the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
    A tapering turret overtops the work.
    And when his hours are numbered, and the world
    Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
    Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
    To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone--
    Built in an age, the mad wind's night work,
    The frolic architecture of the snow.

                        Ralph Waldo Emerson.




THE FIRST WINTER

(Iroquois Legend)


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.

They laughed at their old men who had feared for so many moons to
reproach the Great Spirit for his unfair treatment of the 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.

"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?"

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.

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.

In a few days the quick eyes of some of the red men saw in the morning
the face of the 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.

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 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.




SNOW SONG


    Over valley, over hill,
    Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,
    Driving all the white flock forth,
    From the far folds of the north.

    Blow, wind, blow,
    Weird melodies you play,
    Following your flocks that go
    Across the world today.

    Hither, thither, up and down,
    Every highway of the town,
    Huddling close the white flocks all
    Gather at the shepherd's call.

    Blow, wind, blow,
    Upon your pipes of joy,
    All your sheep the flakes of snow
    And you their shepherd boy.

                        Frank Dempster Sherman.




THE SNOW MAIDEN

(Russian Legend)


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.

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."

They went into the garden which lay back of their cottage.

"My husband," said Marie, "we have no children, what do you say to
our making for ourselves a child of snow?"

"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.

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."

"Thank you," said Ivan.

"God's blessing, indeed, is always good," nodded Marie.

"What are you making?" asked the stranger.

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.

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.

"Who are you?" he asked, filled with wonder at seeing a little girl
instead of a snow image.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

During the winter months the snow maiden had been very joyous and
happy, but when the mild, warm days of spring came she 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?"

"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.

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."

"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."

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.

"Let each one dance alone," called out one of the little girls.

"Snow White, watch us for a little while, and then you, too, will
know how to dance alone."

Away whirled the happy little children, dancing freely round and round
the bonfire. In a little while Snow White joined them.

When the gay little people were out of breath and the dancing grew
slower and slower, some one called out, "Where is Snow White?"

"Snow White, where are you?" shouted the other children, but nowhere
could they find their little companion.

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.




THE FROST KING


    Oho! have you seen the Frost King,
        A-marching up the hill?
    His hoary face is stern and pale,
        His touch is icy chill.
    He sends the birdlings to the South,
        He bids the brooks be still;
    Yet not in wrath or cruelty
        He marches up the hill.

    He will often rest at noontime,
        To see the sunbeams play;
    And flash his spears of icicles,
        Or let them melt away.
    He'll toss the snowflakes in the air,
        Nor let them go nor stay;
    Then hold his breath while swift they fall,
        That coasting boys may play.

    He'll touch the brooks and rivers wide,
        That skating crowds may shout;
    He'll make the people far and near
        Remember he's about.
    He'll send his nimble, frosty Jack--
        Without a shade of doubt--
    To do all kinds of merry pranks,
        And call the children out;

    He'll sit upon the whitened fields,
        And reach his icy hand
    O'er houses where the sudden cold
        Folks cannot understand.
    The very moon, that ventures forth
        From clouds so soft and grand,
    Will stare to see the stiffened look
        That settles o'er the land.

    And so the Frost King o'er the hills,
        And o'er the startled plain,
    Will come and go from year to year
        Till Earth grows young again--
    Till Time himself shall cease to be,
        Till gone are hill and plain:
    Whenever Winter comes to stay,
        The hoary King shall reign.

                        Mary Mapes Dodge.




KING WINTER'S HARVEST


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.

"Tell me, Snow Fairies," said King Winter, "what have you been doing
of late; have you made anybody happy by your work?"

"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 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."

"Well done," said King Winter, "now away to your work again."

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.

"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?"

"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.

"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 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."

"But the sunbeams are away most of the time now," said Jack Frost.
"Can anything grow without them?"

"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."

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." 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.

"Then the ice-men can play that they are we," said a Frost Fairy,
"scattering cold all about to make people glad."




OLD KING WINTER


    Old King Winter's on his throne
      In robes of ermine white;
    The crown of jewels on his head
      Now glitters bright with light.

    The little flakes of snow and hail,
      And tiny pearls of sleet,
    Are with the wild winds dancing
      All round his magic feet.

    His beard is white, his cheeks are red,
      His heart is filled with cheer;
    His season's best some people say;
      The _best_ of all the year.

                        Anna E. Skinner.




SHELTERING WINGS

Harriet Louise Jerome


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.

A dozen or more doves were gathered close under the cornice of the
piazza of a certain 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.

"Dear doves," chirped the sparrows, "won't you let us nestle near you?
Your bodies look so large and warm."

"But your coats are frosted with cold. We cannot let you come near us,
for we are almost frozen now," murmured the doves sadly.

"But we are perishing."

"So are we."

"It looks so warm near your broad wings, gentle doves. Oh, let us
come! We are so little, and so very, very cold!"

"Come," cooed a dove at last, and a trembling little sparrow fluttered
close and nestled under the broad white wing.

"Come," cooed another dove, and another little sparrow found comfort.

"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.

"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?"

"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."

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.

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.

"Oh, papa," she cried in surprise, "a poor frozen dove has fallen on
our porch!"

When he stepped out to pick up the fallen dove the father saw the
others under the 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.

"Look, papa!" cried the child. "Each dove that has come to life was
holding a poor little sparrow close to her heart."

They gently raised the wings of the doves that could not be revived.
Not one had a sparrow beneath it.

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.




SNOWFLAKES


    Out of the Bosom of the Air,
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
    Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
        Silent, and soft, and slow,
        Descends the snow.

                        Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.




THE SNOW-IMAGE

Nathaniel Hawthorne


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.

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.

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.

"Yes, Violet--yes, my little Peony," said their kind mother; "you may
go out and play in the new snow."

Forth sallied the two children, with a 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.

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.

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.

"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?"

"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."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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!"

"Here they are, Violet!" answered the little boy. "Take care you do
not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!"

"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!'"

"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!"

"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?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Peony. "And I will hug her and she shall sit down
close by me and drink some of my warm milk."

"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!"

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- cloud! And the colour does not go away! Is not that
beautiful?"

"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!"

"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!"

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 scarlet cheek.
"Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!" cried Peony.

"There! she has kissed you," added Violet, "and now her lips are very
red. And she blushed a little, too!"

"Oh, what a cold kiss!" cried Peony.

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:

"Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is
running about the garden with us!"

"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!"

"Dear mamma!" cried Violet, "pray look out and see what a sweet
playmate we have!"

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.

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.

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!

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 of the
neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child
had run across the street to play with them.

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.

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.

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.

And as for her dress, which was entirely of 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.

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.

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.

She called Violet and whispered to her.

"Violet, my darling, what is this child's name?" asked she. "Does she
live near us?"

"Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laughing to think that her
mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, "this is our
little snow-sister whom we have just been making!"

"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?"

"Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, "tell me the truth,
without any jest. Who is this little girl?"

"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."

"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!"

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 fur cap drawn down
over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands.

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.

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.

"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!"

"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 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."

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!

"This is very strange!" said she.

"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?"

"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!"

"Pooh, nonsense, children!" cried their good honest father, who had a
plain, sensible way of looking at matters. "Do not tell me of 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."

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.

"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."

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.

She followed him, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and
sparkle were gone out of her figure; and, whereas just before she had
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.

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.

"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?"

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 hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression
quite away.

"After all, husband," said the mother, "after all, she does look
strangely like a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!"

A puff of the west wind blew against the snow-child, and again she
sparkled like a star.

"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."

This common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug,
right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.

"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."

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, 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!

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.

"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."

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.

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.

"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!"

"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!"

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 was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the
hearth-rug.

"And there you see all that is left of it!" added she, pointing to a
pool of water, in front of the stove.

"Yes, father," said Violet, looking reproachfully at him through her
tears, "there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!"

"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?"

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! (_Abridged._)




WINTER WOODS




THE FIRST SNOW-FALL


    The snow had begun in the gloaming,
      And busily all the night
    Had been heaping field and highway
      With a silence deep and white.

    Every pine and fir and hemlock
      Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
    And the poorest twig on the elm tree
      Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

                        James Russell Lowell.




THE VOICE OF THE PINE TREES

(Japanese Legend)


    "And all the while
    The voice of the breeze
    As it blows through the firs
    That grow old together
    Will yield us delight."

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."

One day while Matsue was sitting under the pine tree, she sang the
following song:

    "No one so callous but he heaves a sigh
    When o'er his head the withered cherry flowers
    Come fluttering down. Who knows?--the spring's soft showers
    May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

    "The dawn is near
    And the hoar-frost falls
    On the fir tree twigs;
    But its leaves dark green
    Suffer no change.
    Morning and evening
    Beneath its shade
    The leaves are swept away,
    Yet they never fail.
    True it is
    That these fir trees
    Shed not all their leaves;
    Their verdure remains fresh
    For ages long,
    As the Masaka's trailing vine;
    Even amongst evergreen trees--
    The emblem of unchangeableness--
    Exalted is their fame
    As a symbol to the end of time.
    The fame of the fir trees that
    Have grown old together."




THE PINE TREE MAIDEN

(Indian Legend)


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.

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.

"Leelinau goes to the forest to play with the Puckwudjinies. She
dances with the fairy folk and talks to them in their own language,"
said the Indian children when they saw the little girl's figure
hurrying toward the grove of pine trees.

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.

"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."

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.

To the surprise of all the people in the 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.

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.

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 the branches
overhead and a voice said: "Leelinau! Leelinau! thou art my beloved!
Wilt thou stay in the forest and be my bride?"

And she answered, "I will never leave my pine tree lover."

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.

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 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.

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."




THE HOLLY

Janet Harvey Kelman


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.

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,
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.

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.

This writing is the work of a tiny plant which makes its home on the
Holly stem and spreads in this strange way.

The bark of the young Holly shoots and boughs is pale green and quite
smooth.

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; 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.

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.

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.

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.

The Holly leaves hang on the tree several years, and after they fall
they lie a long time 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.

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 and seed flowers if the tree is to
produce any fruit.

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.

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.

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- leaves
lend much beauty when all the trees are bare in winter.

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.




THE FABLE OF THE THREE ELMS


    The North Wind spoke to three sturdy elms,
      And, "Now you are dead!" said he;
    "I have blown a blast till the snow whirled past,
      And withered your leaves, and see:
    You are brown and old and your boughs are cold!"
      And he sneered at the elm trees three.

    The first elm spoke in a hollow tone
      (For the snow lay deep and white,)
    "You think we are dead, North Wind?" he said,
      "Why we sleep--as you sleep at night.
    Beneath the snow lie my sturdy roots,
      They grip on the friendly earth,
    And I rest--till another year!" said he,
      And he shook with a noisy mirth.

    The second elm laughed a hearty laugh,
      And, "North Wind," he cried in glee,
    "Beneath my bark glows a living spark,
      The sap of a healthy tree;
    My boughs are bare and my leaves are gone,
      But--what have I to fear?
    For the winter time is my time of rest
      And I sleep till another year!"

    The third elm spoke and his voice was sweet,
      And kind as the summery sea;
    "Oh, Wind!" he said, "we are far from spring--
      The God in whose hand we be
    Looks down, with love, from the winter sky,
      And sends us His sun to cheer;
    If we had no snow there would be no spring--
      We rest till another year!"

    The three elms rocked in the stinging blast,
      And under the heavy snow
    Their roots were warm from the raging storm,
      And safe from the winds that blow.
    They smiled in their hearts and their leafless boughs
      Spread over the frosty way;
    For they knew that the God of forest trees
      Would watch through each winter day.

    The North Wind uttered a frosty sigh,
      As the snow blew far and free;
    And his weary eyes sought the winter skies,
      And, "Mighty is God!" said he.
    "To die or live are His gifts to give!"
      And he smiled at the elm trees three.

                        Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.




THE PINE AND THE WILLOW

(Japanese Tale)

Mine Morishima


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.

One dark winter morning the wind blew hard and the clouds showed that
a storm was coming soon.

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 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?"

"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."

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 fro and all the other trees bowed their heads.

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."

Then the Willow answered, "There are many ways to keep oneself from
harm, and I do not like to resist any one with force."

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.

But the Willow bent her branches and yielded to the wind, and so was
unhurt.

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.

After a time, spring came, and the Willow 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!"

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.

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."




WHY THE WILD RABBITS ARE WHITE IN WINTER

(Algonquin Legend)

Adapted from "Algonquin Indian Tales," by Egerton R. Young. Copyright,
1903, by Egerton R. Young. Reprinted by permission of the Abington
Press, Publishers.


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.

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 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.

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.

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.

But all the things they talked about were 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.

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.

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.

Thus it can be seen that the rabbit did not get much sympathy from his
enemies in the 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?

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.

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 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."

Away sped the rabbit along the route described by the moose, who had
lately found out where Manabozho was stopping.

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.

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.

"Tell me all your troubles, little brother," said Manabozho. "Also,
tell me about the council meeting."

The rabbit repeated his story and told all about the treatment he had
received at the council.

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."

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. 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?"

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.

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. (_Adapted._)




THE YEW

Janet Harvey Kelman


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 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.




HOW THE PINE TREE DID SOME GOOD

Samuel W. Duffield


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.

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.

Once in a while there went a large grey 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.

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, 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.

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."

"O pshaw!" said the rabbit, "I wouldn't concern myself much about
that. Some day you'll find out."

"But do tell me," persisted the Pine Tree, "of what good you think I
am."

"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 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."

"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."

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.

"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 must stand still forever. I wish
I were dead."

By and by the summer passed into autumn, and the autumn into winter,
and the snowflakes began to fall.

"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.

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.

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.

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 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.

"Heigh ho!" said the tree, "I never knew those things were fit to eat
before."

"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."

And he moved off to the other end of the valley and disappeared among
the rocks.

"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.

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.

"We'll stay here," said the father, looking across at the snow-covered
bed of the stream 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.

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 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.

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.

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 he was doing good at last, and he was content.

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.

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.

The Pine Tree had found out his mission. He had helped to save three
lives.

In the summer there came along a band of explorers, and one, the
botanist of the party, stopped beside our Pine Tree:

"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.

"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."




A WONDERFUL WEAVER


    There's a wonderful weaver
      High up in the air,
    And he weaves a white mantle
      For cold earth to wear.
    With the wind for his shuttle,
      The cloud for his loom,
    How he weaves, how he weaves,
      In the light, in the gloom.

    Oh, with finest of laces,
      He decks bush and tree;
    On the bare, flinty meadows
      A cover lays he.
    Then a quaint cap he places
      On pillar and post,
    And he changes the pump
      To a grim, silent ghost.

    But this wonderful weaver
      Grows weary at last;
    And the shuttle lies idle
      That once flew so fast.
    Then the sun peeps abroad
      On the work that is done;
    And he smiles: "I'll unravel
      It all, just for fun."

                        George Cooper.




THE PINE AND THE FLAX

Albrekt Segerstedt


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.

At the foot of the pine tree the fields of grain began.

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.

The flax stalk raised itself higher and higher, and near the close of
summer it bore a little blue helmet on his head.

"Thou art so beautiful!" said the tall pine.

The flax bowed itself low, but raised again so gracefully that it
looked like a billowy sea.

The pine and the flax often talked to each other and became great
friends.

"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."

But the pine would not desert the flax.

The thistle and other small plants talked to the flax.

"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."

"I shall trust the pine," replied the flax. "It is honourable and
faithful and I am fond of it."

So the pine and the flax remained friends.

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.

A large, beautiful ship was launched upon the water. On this the pine
tree was erected as a mast, and on the highest part waved a flag.

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.

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.

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.

The winds took a message back to the forest.

"Who would have believed it?" said the spruce and the birch.




THE FIR TREE


    O singing Wind
    Searching field and wood,
      Cans't thou find
    Aught that's sweet or good--
    Flowers, to kiss awake,
    Or dewy grass, to shake,
      Or feathered seed
      Aloft to speed?

      Replies the wind:
      "I cannot find
    Flowers, to kiss awake,
    Or dewy grass to shake,
      Or feathered seed
      Aloft to speed;
        Yet I meet
      Something sweet,
    When the scented fir,--
      Balsam-breathing fir--
      In my flight I stir."

                        Edith M. Thomas.




WHY BRUIN HAS A STUMPY TAIL

(Norwegian Legend)


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."

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 seen Master Reynard. The fox did not open his eyes nor move a
muscle.

"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.

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."

His wife hurried to the cart and said, "Where are the fish, my
husband, and where is my present?"

"Why, there in the cart," he replied.

"In the cart!" exclaimed his wife. "Why, there is nothing here;
neither fish nor present, so far as I can see."

The old man looked and to his great surprise and disappointment he
discovered that what his wife said was true.

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."

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."

"It did, indeed," answered the bear. "Could you not spare me one fish?
I should consider the gift a great favor."

"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."

"Go fishing, my friend," said Bruin, in astonishment. "That is
impossible. I know nothing about catching fish, I assure you."

"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 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."

"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.

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."

"What did you say, my friend?" asked the bear.

"Oh, I was making a wish," replied the fox.

All night long Bruin sat there, fishing patiently. Then he decided to
go home. How 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!"

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.




PINES AND FIRS

Mrs. Dyson


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!

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 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.

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.

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
_Abraham's tree_ or _Adam's tree_, 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."

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.

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.

Why do these mountain trees have such narrow leaves? Can you find out
a reason? 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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 _spruce_, like the spruce fir.

Some people think the name "spruce" means the _pruce_, 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.

The spruce fir is at home on the high mountains of Europe where it
often grows one 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.

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.

Perhaps when you are looking for the cones, you will find growing fast
to the branches 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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

_Fir_--_fire_: 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.

Those of you who like pretty things have often fingered admiringly
some bright, shining necklace of amber beads. The pieces of 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.

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 _deal_? A _deal_ 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 _deal_--that is, a portion
of the wood. It has been easy to leave out the article and call the
wood _deal_.

Our white deal comes from the firs, chiefly from the Norway spruce.
The darker- deal is the gift of the Scotch pine.

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 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.

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.

These long straight lines in the plank that we call the _grain_ show
the rings of wood made by the pine tree year by year.

How astonished you would be if suddenly out of that plank a great
insect were to creep and spread out its wings. This sometimes
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 _giant sirex_, 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.

We often see young fir trees in a very strange place, bearing
wonderful fruit of gold and silver shining lights, and glittering
toys.

              "The fir tree stood
                In a beautiful room;
              A hundred tapers
                Dispelled the gloom.

    All decked with gold and silver was he,
    And lilies and roses so fair to see.
    Hurrah for the fir tree, the Christmas tree;
    A prince in all the forests is he!

              The little children
                With merry shout
              Came crowding, clustering
                Round about.

    Brighter and rounder grew their eyes,
    And they gazed at the fir in glad surprise.
    Hurrah for the fir tree, the Christmas tree;
    A prince in all the forests is he!"




WHO LOVES THE TREES BEST?


    Who loves trees best?
    "I," said the spring,
    "Their leaves so beautiful
    To them I bring."

    Who loves the trees best?
    "I," summer said,
    "I give them blossoms,
    White, yellow, red."

    Who loves the trees best?
    "I," said the fall,
    "I give luscious fruits,
    Bright tints to all!"

    Who loves the trees best?
    "I love them best,"
    Harsh winter answered,
    "I give them rest."




CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE




A CHRISTMAS SONG


    Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!
    Christmas in lands of fir tree and pine;
    Christmas in lands of palm tree and vine,
    Christmas where snow peaks stand solemn and white;
    Christmas where cornfields lie sunny and bright;
    Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!

    Christmas where children are hopeful and gay;
    Christmas where old men are patient and grey;
    Christmas where peace like a dove in its flight,
    Broods over brave men in the thick of the fight;
    Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night.

                        Phillips Brooks.




THE SHEPHERD MAIDEN'S GIFT

(Eastern Legend)


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.

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.

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.

"What has happened?" she whispered.

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:

"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."

And suddenly there was with the angel many, many others. Together they
lifted up their voices in praise and sang,

    "Glory to God in the highest,
    Peace on earth
    Good will toward men."

When the sweet music died away, the maiden rose to her feet and joined
the shepherds.

"I saw the angel, Father, and heard the singing," she whispered.

"Christ, the Lord, is born," answered her father.

"Let us hasten to Bethlehem and see the Heavenly Child who fulfills
the promise of God," said one of the shepherds.

"Shall we leave our flocks?" asked another. But the question was not
answered.

"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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

Finally, she saw the shepherds pass in the gate of the city of
Bethlehem.

"I came to see the Christ-child," she said to a group of people who
stood whispering together. They looked at her in astonishment.

"I am following the shepherds," she added.

"They have gone to the inn," was the answer.

When she reached the inn she was directed to a cave near, which served
as a stable.

There through the entrance she saw the shepherds lay their humble
presents at Mary's feet and then kneel in solemn adoration.

"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."

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:

"Lo, here at thy feet is a gift for the Christ-child."

Then she saw growing near her, slender stems covered with delicate
green leaves and bearing lovely flowers.

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 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.




CHRISTMAS GIFTS

Laura E. Richards


"Mother," said Jack, "may I have some money to buy Christmas presents
with?"

"Dear," said his mother, "I have no money. We are very poor, and I can
hardly buy enough food for us all."

Jack hung his head; if he had not been ten the tears would have come
to his eyes, but he was ten.

"All the other boys give presents!" he said.

"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."

"Who was He," asked Jack; "and what did He give?"

"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 house. He
never had a penny of His own, yet he gave twelve good gifts every day.
Would you like to try His way?"

"Yes!" cried Jack.

So his mother told him this and that; and soon after Jack started out,
dressed in his best suit, to give his presents.

First, he went to Aunt Jane's house. She was old and lame, and she did
not like boys.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Merry Christmas!" said Jack. "May I stay for an hour and help you?"

"Humph!" said Aunt Jane. "Want to keep you out of mischief, do they?
Well, you may bring in some wood."

"Shall I split some kindling, too?" asked Jack.

"If you know how," said Aunt Jane. "I can't have you cutting your foot
and messing my clean shed all up."

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.

"What else can I do?" he asked. "There are twenty minutes more."

"Humph!" said Aunt Jane. "You might feed the pig."

Jack fed the pig, who thanked him in his own way.

"Ten minutes more!" he said. "What shall I do now?"

"Humph!" said Aunt Jane. "You may sit down and tell me why you came."

"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."

"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
_your_ present, and I thank you for mine. Come again, will you?"

"Indeed I will," said Jack, "and thank you for the pie!"

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 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.

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.

"Oh!" cried Jack. "You have had two!"

"Two what?" asked Willy.

"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."

"Oh, dear!" said Willy. "I thank you very much, Jack. I have had a
perfectly great time; but I have nothing to give you."

Jack laughed. "Why, don't you see?" he cried; "you have given me just
the same thing. I have had a great time, too."

"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."

"My darling," said his mother, "you have given me the best gift of
all--yourself!"




SILVER BELLS


    Across the snow the Silver Bells
      Come near and yet more near;
    Each Day and Night, each Night and Day
      They tinkle soft and clear.

    'Tis Father Christmas on his way
      Across the winter Snows;
    While on his sleigh the Silver Bells
      Keep chiming as he goes.

    I listen for them in the Night,
      I listen all the Day,
    I think these merry Silver Bells
      Are long, long on the way!

                        Hamish Hendry.




THE ANIMALS' CHRISTMAS TREE

John P. Peters


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 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.

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.

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 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.

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 had heard men say that the
Christmas spirit was the great thing, and that that was what made
everyone happy.

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?

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 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.

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 cream cheese for her creeping about
beneath the branches.

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.

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 flutter in and out among the twigs,
and the sheep to give white wool to lie like snow among the boughs.

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.

Well, I cannot tell you everything that each 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.

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 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."

"Ugh!" said the black leopard, so sleek and so clean.

"Faugh!" said the gazelle, with his dainty sense of smell.

"Neigh!" said the horse, so daintily groomed.

"What!" roared the lion, "what's that you want?"

"A pail of swill," grunted the pig. "Each one has chosen what he
wants, and I have a right to choose what I want."

"But," roared the lion, "each one has chosen something beautiful to
make the tree a joy to all."

"Grunt, grunt," said the pig. "The parrots and macaws are going to
have oranges and bananas, and the robins and the cedar birds red
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."

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!"

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.

"Ha, ha!" barked the fox; "then I want a turkey!" And the turkeys
gobbled in fear.

"And I," said the tiger, "want a yearling calf." And the cows and the
calves lowed in horror.

"And I," said the owl, the clerk, "I want a plump dove."

"And I," said the hawk, "will take a rabbit."

"And I," said the leopard, "want a deer or a gazelle."

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.

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 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."

"But," said the lion, "what will you have? If you give yourself, then
you will have no Christmas present."

"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."

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!"

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."

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:

"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?"

"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!"

Then the lion roared again: "Have all chosen?" and all answered,
"Yes."

"Then," said the lion, "it is my choice."

And all said: "It is."

"I love fat and tender pigs. I choose a pig for my Christmas gift,"
roared the lion.

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 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!"

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?"

"Yes," said the owl.

"Then," said the lion, "record that the lion wants no pig."

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, and
all their kind, took back their votes.

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.




A CHRISTMAS CAROL


    The Shepherds had an Angel,
      The Wise Men had a star,
    But what have I, a little child,
      To guide me home from far,
    Where glad stars sing together
      And singing angels are?

    Those Shepherds through the lonely night
      Sat watching by their sheep,
    Until they saw the heavenly host
      Who neither tire nor sleep,
    All singing "Glory, glory,"
      In festival they keep.

    The Wise Men left their country
      To journey morn by morn,
    With gold and frankincense and myrrh,
      Because the Lord was born:
    God sent a star to guide them
      And sent a dream to warn.

    My life is like their journey,
      Their star is like God's book;
    I must be like those good Wise Men
      With heavenward heart and look:
    But shall I give no gifts to God?--
      What precious gifts they took!

                        Christina Rossetti.




HOLLY

Ada M. Marzials


    Highty-tighty, Paradighty,
    Clothed all in green.
    The King could not read it
    No more could the Queen.
    They sent for a Wise Man out of the East,
    Who said it had horns but was not a beast.

                        (_Old Riddle._)

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 _their_ days in urging the warriors to further deeds
of valour.

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 was hateful, but as she was only the
Youngest Princess nobody paid any heed to her.

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.

"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.

"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 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."

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.

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.

The day was bright and cold, and there was snow on the ground. The
King and Queen were wrapped in thick fur cloaks. The Princesses were
all assembled, too, even the Youngest, who was dressed in ermine and
looked as pale as death.

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.

The Council sat and waited in the big bare Hall.

At last the great doors were flung open, there was a blast of
trumpets, and the messenger appeared.

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 carried something green,
horny and prickly, with little red dots on it.

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.

As he passed the Youngest Princess she blushed deeply, but he did not
seem to notice her.

When he reached the throne he bowed low before the King and Queen, and
laid the prickly object on the table before them.

"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."

The King stared, so did the Queen.

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 _this_!

Amid dead silence the King took the token up in his hands in order to
examine it more carefully.

He dropped it hastily, for it pricked him, and little drops of blood
were seen starting from his hand.

"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."

She picked up the token and examined it carefully.

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.

"Paradighty!" exclaimed the Queen in her own language. "It is
certainly a beast. See, it has horns!" and she pointed to the spikes.

"But I certainly cannot read the riddle--if riddle it be."

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.

"'Tis a token of love," said she.

The messenger turned his shining eyes full upon her.

"The Princess has read the riddle of the token aright," said he, and
he stepped forward as though to kiss her hand.

"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 _you_," 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."

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 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.

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.

Slowly and painfully the Wise Men began to arrive.

They were all dressed alike, in black flowing robes, and on their
heads they wore long pointed black caps covered with weird devices.

The very old Wise Man from the East wore a red pointed cap, but in all
other respects was dressed just like the others.

They assembled round a large circular table at one end of the Hall. In
the middle of the table was placed the token.

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.

The Wise Men examined the token in silence.

"'Tis a curious beast," said one of them at last.

"Of a new and quite unheard-of species," said another.

"It has neither legs nor tail," said a third.

"Yet it has a number of globular red eyes," said a fourth.

"And it certainly has horns," said a fifth.

And so said they all, until it came to the turn of the very old Wise
Man from the East.

He looked long at the token.

"It has horns," said he at last, "but it is not a beast."

"Not a beast!" said they, one to the other.

"But what is it then?"

"It is a token of love," said he.

"Highty-tighty," interrupted the King. "Read us then the full meaning
of the token."

"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."

"Paradighty!" said the Queen in her own language. "Why did we not
think of that before! Fetch him back again at once!"

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.

"Read us the token!" commanded the King.

The youth bowed low. "The Princess read it aright yesterday. It is a
token of love."

"Explain yourself!" said the King. "How can a beast with horns be a
token of love?"

The youth drew himself up to his full height.

"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."

The King and the Warriors, the Wise Men, the Queen and Princesses all
listened to his words in silence.

When he had ended there was a long pause.

"And in what particular way does your message affect us?" said the
King at last.

"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."

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.




THE WILLOW MAN


    There once was a Willow, and he was very old,
    And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold;
    But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow,
    There grew upon his hoary head a crop of Mistletoe.

    All wrinkled and furrowed was this old Willow's skin
    His taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin;
    Two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see,
    And sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree.

    A Dame who dwelt a-near was the only one who knew
    That every year upon his head the Christmas berries grew;
    And when the Dame cut them, she said--it was her whim--
    "A merry Christmas to you, Sir," _and left a bit for him_.

    "Oh, Granny dear, tell us," the children cried, "where we
    May find the shining mistletoe that grows upon the tree?"
    At length the Dame told them, but cautioned them to mind
    To greet the willow civilly, _and leave a bit behind_.

    "Who cares," said the children, "for this old Willow-man?
    We'll take the Mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can."
    With rage the ancient Willow shakes in every limb,
    For they have taken all, and _have not left a bit for him_.

    Then bright gleamed the holly, the Christmas berries shone
    But in the wintry wind, without the Willow-man did moan:
    "Ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic Mistletoe
    A hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow."

    A year soon passed by, and the children came once more,
    But not a sprig of Mistletoe the aged Willow bore.
    Each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee,
    And chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient Willow-tree.

    O children, who gather the spoils of wood and wold,
    From selfish greed and wilful waste your little hands withhold.
    Though fair things be common, this moral bear in mind,
    "Pick thankfully and modestly, _and leave a bit behind_."

                        Juliana Horatia Ewing.




THE IVY GREEN


    Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
      That creepeth o'er ruins old!
    Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
      In his cell so lone and cold.
    The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed
      To pleasure his dainty whim;
    And the mouldering dust that years have made,
      Is a merry meal for him.
        Creeping where no life is seen,
        A rare old plant is the ivy green.

                        Charles Dickens.




LEGEND OF SAINT NICHOLAS

Amy Steedman


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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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, and he thought more of
them than all the other riches he possessed.

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.

At last a day came when there was not even bread enough to eat, and
the daughters said to their father:

"Let us go into the streets and beg, or do anything to get a little
money, that we may not starve."

But the father answered:

"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."

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 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.

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?)

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.

"My child," he cried, as he showed his eldest daughter the shining
gold, "God has 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."

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.

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.

The father now began to think that, after 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.

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.

"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.

But Nicholas bade him stand up and give thanks to God instead, warning
him to tell no one the story of the golden bars.

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.

Soon afterwards Nicholas made up his 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 as if it were his own, and did all he could to help
them.

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.

"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."

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.

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 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.

Here is one of the stories which all children who love Saint Nicholas
will like to hear.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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 the gardener always looked
after him there, so they told him he might go. They forgot that the
gardener was not there just then.

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.

"What are you doing here?" asked the child, "and why do you sit so
still?"

"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."

"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."

But the demon pretended he was too weak to walk, and begged the boy to
bring some food out to him.

Then the child ran back to the banquet hall in a great hurry and said
to his father:

"O father, there is a poor pilgrim from Rome sitting outside our gate,
and he is so hungry, may I take him some of my birthday feast?"

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.

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.

"Do you often play in the garden?" he asked.

"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."

"Will he make you one to-day?" asked the demon quickly.

"He is not here to-day," answered the child, "for this is a holiday
for every one and I am quite alone."

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 the beautiful garden and the
fountain he had heard about.

So the child climbed up and with great difficulty drew back the bolts.
The great gates swung open and the demon walked in.

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.

"What strange kind of feet you have," said the child as they walked
along; "they look as if they belonged to an animal."

"Yes, they are curious," said the demon, "but it is just the way they
are made."

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.

Just then they came to the fountain, and with a sudden movement the
demon threw 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.

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.

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 up, and in a short time was as well
as ever.

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.

"Art thou searching for the way home?" the old man asked. "Dost thou
wish to leave this beautiful garden and go back to thy father and
mother?"

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




CHRISTMAS BELLS


    I heard the bells on Christmas Day
    Their old, familiar carols play,
        And wild and sweet
        The words repeat
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

                        Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.




A NIGHT WITH SANTA CLAUS

Anna R. Annan


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.

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.

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 Santa
himself. Nothing of the sort happened, however, and he soon found
himself before the gay windows of a toy shop.

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.

"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."

"Try me wunst!" said the shrill little voice.

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.

Brighter and brighter grew the windows, more and more full of toys. At
last our boy stood, with open eyes and mouth, before a 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?"

To whom, you ask. Why, to an image of Santa Claus, the size of life,
holding a Christmas tree filled with wonderful fruit.

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?"

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.

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 firemen drawing their hose carts; no end of
wheelbarrows and velocipedes!

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.

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.

Why didn't Santa Claus come?

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.

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 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.

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?

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.

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.

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 to the
first page, and looked at it very closely.

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

"Robby Morgan!" said Santa Claus.

In his excitement that small lad nearly upset the cart, but Santa did
not notice it.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven"--Rob's breath came very
short--"whites!"

He almost clapped his hands.

"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."

Rob groaned in anguish of spirit.

"But, bless him! he's a fine little fellow, and perhaps he will do
better next year if I give him the horse."

That was too much for our boy. With a "Hurrah!" he jumped up and
turned a somersault right at Santa Claus's feet.

"Stars and stripes!" cried Santa. "What's this?"

"Come along, I'll show you the one!" cried Rob.

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.

"Well, he beats all the boys that ever I saw! What shall I do with the
little spy?"

"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."

"Yes, I guess you will stick tight--in the chimney, my little man."

"I mean to your back," half sobbed Rob.

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.

"To Tommy Turner's, and, oh, you know, that boy in the awful old
jacket that likes popguns," was the breathless reply.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Rob thought, "Now I guess he'll have to give it up." But no, he softly
pushed the door open and stepped in.

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. Santa Claus
gently opened the other little fist and put the popgun into it.

"Give him my drum," whispered Rob, and Santa Claus, without a word,
placed it near the rumpled head.

How swiftly they flew under the bright stars! How sweetly rang the
bells!

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.

A kiss, and he was gone.

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.




A CHILD'S THOUGHTS ABOUT SANTA CLAUS


    What do you think my grandmother said,
      Telling Christmas stories to me
    To-night, when I went and coaxed and coaxed
      With my head and arms upon her knee?

    She thinks--she really told me so--
      That good Mr. Santa Claus, long ago,
    Was as old and grey as he is to-day,
      Going around with his loaded sleigh.

    She thinks he's driven through frost and snow
      For a hundred, yes, a thousand times or so,
    With jingling bells and a bag of toys--
      Ho, ho! for good girls and boys,
        With a carol gay,
        Crying, "Clear the way,
    For a rollicking, merry Christmas day!"
    Grandmother knows almost everything--
      All that I ask her she can tell;
    Rivers and towns in geography,
      And the hardest words she can always spell.
        But the wisest ones, sometimes, they say,
        Mistake--and even grandmother may.

    If Santa Claus never had been a boy
      How would he always know so well
    What all the boys are longing for
      On Christmas day? Can grandmother tell?

    Why does he take the shiny rings,
      The baby houses, the dolls with curls,
    The little lockets and other such things
      Never to boys, but always to girls?

    Why does he take the skates and all
      The bats and balls, and arrows and bows,
    And trumpets and drums, and guns--hurrah!
      To the boys? I wonder if grandmother knows?

    But there's one thing that doesn't seem right--
      If Santa Claus was a boy at play
    And hung up his stocking on Christmas night,
      Who filled it for him on Christmas day?

                        Sydney Dayre.




CHARITY IN A COTTAGE

Jean Ingelow


The charity of the rich is much to be commended; but how beautiful is
the charity of the poor!

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.

Now hear my story.

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 extremity stand two mud cottages, old, and out of repair.

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.

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.

"Trampers!" said the old woman, sententiously, "tramping folks be not
wanted here." So saying she went back to the fire without deigning to
answer the door.

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.

The old woman, surprised at his audacity, went to the casement and
with all the pride of possession, opened it and inquired his business.

"Good woman," the stranger began, "I only want a seat at your fire."

"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."

The stranger turned very hastily from her door and waded through the
deep snow 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.

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.

"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."

The woman gave him a sudden earnest look and then sighed.

"Come in," she said; "thou art so nigh the size of my Jem, I thought
at first it was him come home from sea."

The youth stepped across the threshold, trembling with cold and wet;
and no wonder, for his clothes were completely encased in wet mud,
and the water dripped from them with every step he took on the sanded
floor.

"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."

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?"

"Shooting wild ducks," said the boy.

"Oh," said the hostess, "thou art one of the keeper's boys, then, I
reckon?"

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.

"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 will put a little warmth in thee to eat and drink." So saying, she
placed before him her own share of the supper.

"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."

"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.

"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.

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:

"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."

"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.

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!

She glanced from the clothes to the owner. 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:

"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!"

"It's very cold sport that, sir," said the woman.

The young gentleman assented most readily, and asked if he might stir
the fire.

"And welcome, sir," said the woman.

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.

He then told her of his attempt to get shelter in the other cottage.

"Sir," said the woman, "if you had said you were a gentleman----"

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."

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.

In the grey dawn the labourer returned, with a servant leading a
horse, and bringing a fresh suit of clothes.

The young man took his leave with many 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."

"Misses," said her husband, as they stood in the doorway looking after
their guest, "who dost think that be?"

"I don't know," answered the misses.

"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!"

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.

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.

"Oh, to think that good luck should have 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!"

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.

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---- 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."

This is how she generally concludes the little history, never failing
to add that the young lord kissed her baby.

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 here, for the sake of Him that had
not where to lay His head."

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!

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."

"The most excellent gift is charity."




THE WAITS


    At the break of Christmas Day,
      Through the frosty starlight ringing,
    Faint and sweet and far away,
      Comes the sound of children, singing,
        Chanting, singing,
          "Cease to mourn,
          For Christ is born,
    Peace and joy to all men bringing!"

    Careless that the chill winds blow,
      Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,
    Noiseless footfalls in the snow
      Bring the happy voices nearer;
        Hear them singing,
          "Winter's drear,
          But Christ is here,
    Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!"

    "Merry Christmas!" hear them say,
      As the East is growing lighter;
    "May the joy of Christmas Day
      Make your whole year gladder, brighter!"
        Join their singing,
          "To each home
          Our Christ has come,
    All love's treasures with Him bringing!"

                        Margaret Deland.




WHERE LOVE IS THERE GOD IS ALSO

Leo Tolstoi


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.

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.

He started from his sleep. "Who is here?" He looked around but there
was no one.

Again he fell into a doze. Suddenly he plainly heard, "Martuin, ah,
Martuin! Look to-morrow on the street. I am coming."

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 window so that he could
see the face as well as the boots.

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.

"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.

"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."

He laid down his awl, made the tea, and tapped on the window. "Come in
and warm yourself," he said.

"May Christ reward you for this! My bones ache," said Stephanwitch.

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.

"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.

Martuin filled two cups and handed one to Stephanwitch who drank it
eagerly, turned it upside down, and began to express his thanks.

"Have some more?" said Martuin, refilling the cup.

"Are you expecting anyone?" asked Stephanwitch. "I see you keep
turning to look on the street."

"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."

Stephanwitch shook his head but said nothing.

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 like us. Come, brother, have
some more tea."

But Stephanwitch rose. "Thanks to you, Martuin, for treating me kindly
and warming me, soul and body."

"You are welcome, brother, come again."

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.

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.

Martuin went to the door and called out, "Why are you standing there
in the cold? Come into my room where it is warm."

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.

"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.

"Eat, eat," he said. "I will mind the little one. Tell me, why are you
out in this bitter cold?"

"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."

Martuin sighed. "Have you no warm clothes?"

"Ah, this is the time to wear them, but yesterday I sold my last warm
shawl for food."

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."

"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 death, but He,
the Christ-child, led you to look through the window."

"Indeed He did," said Martuin, smiling.

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.

Martuin ran out in the cold. "Let him go, Babushka; forgive him for
Christ's sake."

"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."

"Let him go, Babushka, let him go for Christ's sake. He will never do
it again."

The old woman let him loose. The boy tried to run, but Martuin kept
him back.

"Ask Babushka's forgiveness," he said, "and never do it again. I saw
you take the apple."

With tears in his eyes the boy began to ask forgiveness.

"There, that's all right," said Martuin; "take the apple. I will pay
for it."

"You ruin the good-for-nothings," said the old woman. "He should be
well punished. He deserves it."

"Perhaps," answered Martuin, "but God forgives us though we deserve it
not."

"Well, well," said the old woman, appeased, "after all it was but a
childish trick." She started to lift the bag upon her shoulder.

"Let me take it," said the boy. "It is on my way."

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.

After sewing a little while it grew too dark 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?"

"Who?" cried Martuin.

"It is I," replied the voice, and Stephanwitch stepped forth from the
dark corner, smiled, and faded away like a little cloud.

"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.

"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:

"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.
(_Adapted._)




GOD REST YE, MERRY GENTLEMEN


    God rest ye, merry gentlemen,
      Let nothing you dismay,
    For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,
      Was born upon this day,
    To save us all from Satan's pow'r
      When we were gone astray.
    O tidings of comfort and joy!
      For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,
    Was born on Christmas Day.

    Now to the Lord sing praises,
      All you within this place,
    And with true love and brotherhood
      Each other now embrace;
    This holy tide of Christmas
      All others doth deface.
    O tidings of comfort and joy!
      For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,
    Was born on Christmas Day.

                        Dinah Mulock Craik.




THE GLAD NEW YEAR




THE GLAD NEW YEAR


    It's coming, boys,
      It's almost here.
    It's coming, girls,
      The grand New Year.

    A year to be glad in,
      Not to be sad in;
    A year to live in,
      To gain and give in.

    A year for trying,
      And not for sighing;
    A year for striving
      And healthy thriving.

    It's coming, boys,
      It's almost here.
    It's coming, girls,
      The grand New Year.

                        Mary Mapes Dodge.




THE BAD LITTLE GOBLIN'S NEW YEAR

Mary Stewart


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 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.

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.

Blackie jumped for joy. The mother bunnies would have liked to reach
him with their sharp claws, but he was too quick for them.

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!

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!

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. 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.

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!

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 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.

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 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.

"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 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.

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!

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 friendly goblin in the house
by the way lost things were always turning up.

"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?

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! They knew all about the magic. They guessed that
a little black goblin was also jumping with delight behind the
curtain!

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!

Instead, he was the shiniest, most dancing golden flame that you ever
saw! For a few 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.

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 New
Year!" they called to each other, and to the twinkling flame goblin.

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!

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.

"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!'"




    Let others looke for Pearle and Gold,
    Tissues, or Tabbies manifold;
    One only lock of that sweet Hay
    Whereon the blessed Babie lay,
    Or one poore Swadling-clout, shall be
    The richest New-Yeere's Gift to me.

                        Robert Herrick.




THE QUEEN OF THE YEAR


    When suns are low and nights are long
      And winds bring wild alarms,
    Through the darkness comes the Queen of the Year
      In all her peerless charms,--
    December, fair and holly-crowned,
      With the Christ-child in her arms.

    The maiden months are a stately train,
      Veiled in the spotless snow,
    Or decked with the bloom of Paradise
      What time the roses blow,
    Or wreathed with the vine and the yellow wheat
      When the noons of harvest glow.

    But, oh, the joy of the rolling year,
      The queen with peerless charms,
    Is she who comes through the waning light
      To keep the world from harms,--
    December, fair and holly-crowned,
      With the Christ-child in her arms.

                        Edna Dean Proctor.




THE NEW YEAR'S BELL

Andrea Hofer Proudfoot


A-ring-a-ring, ring! A-ring-a-ring, ring!

"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!"

Tangled-haired little Carl sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and after a
few winks opened them wide.

"Is it the wind, brother Hans, that sings so?"

"No, no! It is the great bell; don't you hear it ring? It is ringing
for the New Year."

"Is father drawing the rope?" asked the little one.

"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."

And the two little fellows crept out of their warm nest onto the cold
floor, and over to the window in the gable.

"Oh, see, there is father's lantern in the steeple window!" cried
Carl.

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.

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.

"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 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."

And the old bell seemed to speak louder and clearer to the little
ones, as they eagerly listened for what it was telling.

"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."

"Does the great bell know it, brother?"

"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."

"Will we go and say good-bye to the dear old bell, brother Hans?"
whispered little Carl.

"Yes, brother mine; when it is day we will go, for it has rung so many
times for us."

They crept out of the cold into their snug bed again, and the great
strokes poured from the tower window long after the little curly
heads were full of dreams.

"Wake up, brother Hans! there is the sun."

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.

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!"

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.

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.

Hans had wooden shoes, so he left them at the foot of the ladder. It
is so much easier to climb a ladder with bare feet. Besides, he
hardly felt the cold he was such a quick and lively little boy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"What did the little Christ-child promise, brother?"

"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."

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.

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.

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.

"Dear Mother, we have been in the tower to thank the great bell for
bringing the New Year," cried Hans.

"Did the Christ-child send it, Mother?" asked little Carl.

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."




THE NEW YEAR


    Snow-wrapped and holly-decked it comes,
      To richest and to poorest homes.
    Twelve jeweled months all set with days
      Of priceless opportunities.
    A silver moon, a golden sun,
    With diamond stars when day is done;
      Over all a sapphire sky
    Where pearly clouds go floating by.

                        (_Selected._)




THE CHILD AND THE YEAR


    Said the child to the youthful year:
      "What hast thou in store for me,
    O giver of beautiful gifts! what cheer,
      What joy dost thou bring with thee?"

    "My seasons four shall bring
      Their treasures: the winter's snows,
    The autumn's store, and the flowers of spring,
      And the summer's perfect rose.

    "All these and more shall be thine,
      Dear child--but the last and best
    Thyself must earn by a strife divine,
      If thou wouldst be truly blest."

                        Celia Thaxter.




A MASQUE OF THE DAYS

Charles Lamb


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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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:

    "On the bat's back do I fly,"

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.




RING OUT, WILD BELLS


    Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
      The flying cloud, the frosty light:
      The year is dying in the night;
    Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

    Ring out the old, ring in the new,
      Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
      The year is going, let him go;
    Ring out the false, ring in the true.

                        Alfred Tennyson.




MIDWINTER




THE BELLS


        Hear the sledges with the bells--
                Silver bells!
    What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
          How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
            In the icy air of night!
          While the stars, that oversprinkle
          All the heavens, seem to twinkle
            With a crystalline delight;
          Keeping time, time, time,
          In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
        From the bells, bells, bells--
                Bells, bells, bells--
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

                        Edgar Allen Poe.




A JANUARY THAW

Dallas Lore Sharp


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.

"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."

"Going to chop them down with the axe or 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."

"Hurry," they answered, dropping my hip-boots on the floor. "Here are
your scuffs."

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.

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
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!

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.

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.

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 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."

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.

"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 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.

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.

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 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.

They, too, were grey and black, grey as the swamp beeches, black as
the spotted bark of the birches. And how tiny! But----

    "Here was this atom in full breath
    Hurling defiance at vast death--
    This scrap of valour just for play
    Fronts the north wind in waistcoat grey."

And this, also, is what Emerson says he sings,

    "Good day, good sir!
    Fine afternoon, old passenger!
    Happy to meet you in these places
    Where January brings few faces."

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!

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.

"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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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!

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.

My eye was keen for signs, and soon I saw 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.

"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.

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
season as we could possibly have been in June.

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.

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--

    "For well the soul, if stout within,
    Can arm impregnably the skin;
    And polar frost my form defied
    Made of the air that blows outside."

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.




THE SNOW MAN

Hans Christian Andersen


"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."

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.

He had been born amid the joyous shouts of the boys, and welcomed by
the sound of sledge bells and the slashing of whips.

The sun went down, and the full moon rose, round, large, clear, and
beautiful in the blue air.

"There it comes again from the other side," said the Snow Man. He
intended to say the sun is showing himself again.

"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."

"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."

"I don't understand you, comrade," said the Snow Man.

"That thing up yonder is to teach me to run?" He meant the moon. "Yes,
it comes creeping from the other side."

"You know nothing at all," retorted the Yard Dog. "But then you've
only just been 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."

"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."

"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 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!"

"Does a stove look so beautiful?" asked the Snow Man. "Is it at all
like me?"

"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."

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 meant, and could not account for it, but all people who are
not men know the feeling.

"And why did you leave her?" asked the Snow Man, for it seemed to him
that the stove must be of the female sex.

"How could you quit such a comfortable place?"

"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."

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.

"What a strange crackling within me!" he 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."

"You'll never get in there," said the Yard Dog; "and if you approach
the stove you'll melt away--away!"

"I am as good as gone," replied the Snow Man. "I think I am breaking
up."

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.

"I can endure it no longer," said he. "How beautiful it looks when it
stretches out its tongue!"

The night was long; but it did not appear long to the Snow Man, who
stood there lost in his own charming reflections, crackling with the
cold.

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.

But he did not enjoy it; and, indeed, how could he enjoy himself when
he was stove-sick?

"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."

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.

One morning he broke down. And, behold, where he had stood, something
like a broomstick remained sticking up out of the ground. It was the
pole around which the boys had built him up.

"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!"

And soon they had got over the winter.

"Away! away!" barked the hoarse Yard Dog. And nobody thought any more
of the Snow Man.




THE HAPPY PRINCE

Oscar Wilde


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.

"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.

"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of
her little boy who was crying for the moon.

"The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."

"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,"
muttered a disappointed man, as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

"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.

"How do you know?" said Mathematical Master. "You have never seen
one."

"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.

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.

"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 wings, and making silver ripples.
This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

"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.

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.

"I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love traveling,
and my wife, consequently, should love traveling, also."

"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed
shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids.
Good-bye!" and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city.
"Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made
preparations."

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.

"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."

Then another drop fell.

"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.

But before he had opened his wings a third drop fell, and he looked
up, and saw--Ah! what did he see?

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.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I am the Happy Prince."

"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite
drenched me."

"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
and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead,
yet I cannot choose but weep."

"What, is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too
polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

"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."

"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying
up and down the 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."

"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."

"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."

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."

"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.

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.

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."

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 wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting
better," and he sank into a delicious slumber.

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."

"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.

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.

"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 stranger!"
so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any
commissions for Egypt?" he cried. "I am just starting."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not
stay with me one night longer?"

"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."

"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 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."

"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really
had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"

"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.

"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."

"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."

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 up he found the beautiful
sapphire lying on the withered violets.

"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.

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.

"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not
stay with me one night longer?"

"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 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."

"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."

"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I
cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."

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 glass," cried the little girl; and
she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he
said, "so I will stay with you always."

"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to
Egypt."

"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the
Prince's feet.

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
leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

"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."

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.

"How hungry we are!" they said.

"You must not lie here," shouted the watchman, and they wandered out
into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

"I am covered with fine gold!" said the Prince, "you must take it off,
leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that
gold can make them happy."

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.

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.

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.

But at last he knew he was going to die. He had just strength to fly
up to the Prince's shoulder once more.

"Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured. "Will you let me kiss your
hand?"

"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."

"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?"

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.

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.

"How shabby, indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed
with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.

"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is
golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than
a beggar!"

"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.

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.

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."

"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarreled.

"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 dust-heap where the dead
swallow was also lying.

"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.

"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."




THE LEGEND OF KING WENCESLAUS

(A Legend of Mercy)


    "Good King Wenceslaus looked out
      On the Feast of Saint Stephen,
    When the snow lay round about,
      Deep and crisp and even."

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Well, who is he?"

"Sire," said Otto, "it is Rudolph, the swineherd,--he that lives down
by the Brunweis. 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."

"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.

    "Bring me flesh and bring me wine,
      Bring me pine logs hither;
    Thou and I will see him dine,
      When we bear them hither."

"Is your Majesty going forth?" asked Otto in surprise.

"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."

"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."

"Nevertheless, I go," said the king. "Go with me, if you will, Otto;
if not, stay. I can carry the food myself."

"God forbid, Sire, that I should let you go alone. But I pray you be
persuaded."

"Not in this," said King Wenceslaus. "Meet me then where I said, and
not a word to any one besides."

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.

    "Page and Monarch forth they went,
      Forth they went together;
    Through the rude wind's wild lament,
      And the bitter weather."

The king had put on no extra clothing to 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.

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?

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:

"My liege, I cannot go on. The wind freezes my very blood. Pray you,
let us return."

"Seems it so much?" asked the king. "Follow me on still. Only tread in
my footsteps and you will proceed more easily."

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.

    "In the master's steps he trod,
      Where the snow lay dinted;
    Heat was in the very sod
      Which the saint had printed."

And so great was the fire of love that kindled in the heart of the
king that, as the servant 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.




MIDWINTER


    The speckled sky is dim with snow,
    The light flakes falter and fall slow;
    Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
    Silently drops a silvery veil;
    And all the valley is shut in
    By flickering curtains grey and thin.

    But cheerily the chickadee
    Singeth to me on fence and tree;
    The snow sails round him as he sings,
    White as the down of angels' wings.

    I watch the snowflakes as they fall
    On bank and briar and broken wall;
    Over the orchard, waste and brown,
    All noiselessly they settle down,
    Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
    Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

    On turf and curb and bower-roof
    The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof;
    It paves with pearl the garden walk;
    And lovingly round tattered stalk
    And shivering stem, its magic weaves
    A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

    The hooded beehive small and low,
    Stands like a maiden in the snow;
    And the old door-slab is half hid
    Under an alabaster lid.

    All day it snows; the sheeted post
    Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
    All day the blasted oak has stood
    A muffled wizard of the wood;
    Garland and airy cap adorn
    The sumach and the wayside thorn,
    And clustering spangles lodge and shine
    In the dark tresses of the pine.

    The ragged bramble dwarfed and old,
    Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
    In surplice white the cedar stands,
    And blesses him with priestly hands.

    Still cheerily the chickadee
    Singeth to me on fence and tree:
    But in my inmost ear is heard
    The music of a holier bird;
    And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
    As snowflakes on my soul alight,
    Clothing with love my lonely heart,
    Healing with peace each bruised part,
    Till all my being seems to be
    Transfigured by their purity.

                        John Townsend Trowbridge.




WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET




OLD WINTER


    Old Winter sad, in snow yclad
      Is making a doleful din;
    But let him howl till he crack his jowl,
      We will not let him in.

    Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift
      His hoary, haggard form,
    And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand
      Outstretching to the storm.

    And let his weird and sleety beard
      Stream loose upon the blast,
    And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime
      From his bald head falling fast.

    Let his baleful breath shed blight and death
      On herb and flower and tree;
    And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds
      Bind fast, but what care we?

                        Thomas Noel.




THE SNOWBALL THAT DIDN'T MELT

Jay T. Stocking


    "Biff!
    Flick!
    Swat!
    Smack!
    Biff, biff!
    Flick, flick!
    Swat, swat!
    Smack, smack!"

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--

    "Biff!
    Flick!
    Swat!
    Smack!"

And this--

    "Biff, biff!
    Flick, flick!
    Swat, swat!
    Smack, smack!"

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.

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.

Then the snowballs fell to talking,--_if it is true_ that snowballs
talk.

"I wonder what they are going to do with us," said the top one. "I
know what I'd _like_ 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."

"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!"

"Oh! What's the fun in teasing a poor old man?" said another. "I'll
tell you what _I'd_ like. _I'd_ like to hit the minister right in the
middle of the back and see what he would do."

"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."

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 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.

It was a long time after this, when there came a day which meant much
for at least one of that heap of snowballs.

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.

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 seemed to be in or around a shrub or bush, with a tall
slender stem and a branching top.

"What's that?" asked several of the balls at once.

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.

    "Snowball, Snowball, come up here!
    My head is hot, my throat feels queer:
    I'm going to faint, I surely fear.
    Won't some cool snowball come up here?"

"Who are you?" asked Snowball Number One, who sat at the tiptop of the
pile. "Where are you and what is your name?"

    "I'm Life-of-the-Bush,
    In the bush I dwell;
    I know not my name,
    And so I can't tell."

"I can't see you," said Number One, as he looked intently up at the
branches.

    "You can't?" said the Bush,
    "Then you must be blind.
    I'm right up here,--
    But never mind."

The voice trailed off weakly; then they heard it again:

    "I'm going to faint, I really fear.
    Won't some kind snowball come up here?"

"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.

"I'll tell you how," said Life-of-the-Bush, stopping his rhyme and
talking plainly and simply and sensibly. "Just roll down the <DW72> 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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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
keep Life-of-the-Bush from fainting and he would try.

He turned a quick somersault off the pile down to the ground.

At just that moment something disturbed the whole pile and every ball
in it tumbled down and out into the sun.

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.

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 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.

Life-of-the-Bush thanked the snowball a thousand times and gave him
the freedom of her beautiful house.

"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."

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  it grey.

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 homesick, to get out of doors
again.

"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."

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.

Then one evening--it was the last of May, or early
June--Life-of-the-Bush called him.

"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."

"But how shall I go?" queried the snowball.

"Right out through the end of one of my branches," said
Life-of-the-Bush.

"But I shall fall off," said the snowball.

"I'll tie you on with a stout string, so that not even the wind can
blow you off."

"But it's hot outside. I shall melt."

"O, no. I've changed you so the hottest sun cannot melt you."

"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.

"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.

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.

So he made himself very small, ran along 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.

    There were lilacs and lilies of shades manifold
    There were daisies, and daffodils, yellow as gold.
    There were <DW29>s, and peonies, red, white and pink,
    And every such flower of which you can think.

    You ought to have heard the "Ah's!" and the "Oh's!"
    Of all the fine people in all their fine clothes.
    You ought to have seen that wonderful sight,
    For no rhyme of mine can describe it half right.

People went from bush to bush and from flower to flower. They could
not for the life of them tell which blossom they thought most
beautiful and original.

The judges wandered about uncertainly with the ribbons in their
pockets not knowing to what plant or bush to tie them.

The snowball grew very much interested, not to say excited, to see
what blossom would finally win the prize.

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.

"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 _he_ 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.

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.

"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. _Perhaps he was
melting!_ But he wasn't, for he heard a girl say just then, as she
passed, "How white and cool it looks!"

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.

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 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.

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.

Number One, who ran right out into the sun, was the only snowball that
didn't melt.




GAU-WI-DI-NE AND GO-HAY, WINTER AND SPRING

(Iroquois Legend)


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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

"I wonder what warm thing is coming, the snow seems vanishing and
sinking lower in the earth." But the old man cared not, and 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.

Again came the rapping, but swifter and louder, and a pleading voice
begged to come in.

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 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.

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.

"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.

"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 comes from your lips soft and
warm; it will melt my lodge. You have no place here.

"Your hair so soft and fine, streaming back like the night shades,
will weave my lodge into tangles. You have no place here.

"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!"

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.

"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 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!

"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."

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] deep and hard in the pipe.

    [A] Indian tobacco.

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 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!

"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.

"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 may not fall in the path
of the Sun. See! It is now sending down its arrows broad and strong!"

The old man saw and trembled. He seemed fading smaller, and grown too
weak to speak, could only whisper, "Young warrior, who are you?"

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."

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 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.

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.

Gau-wi-di-ne had passed his time, and Go-hay reigned over the earth!




NAMING THE WINDS

(Indian Legend)


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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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, the Moose,
stood stamping his hoofs at the gate.

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."

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!




NORTH WIND'S FROLIC


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.

North Wind, however, was a boisterous fellow, forever causing disorder
even in their play.

One summer day North Wind said that he was going out of the castle for
a frolic.

"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."

"Woo--oo--oo----," was all the King heard in answer, and away
blustered North Wind out of the castle to the garden near by.

The roses and lilies were just in bloom, and the ripe peaches hung on
the trees ready to be picked.

"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.

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.

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.

"I will summon North Wind," said his father. "He shall answer for all
this."

When North Wind appeared, the King repeated what the people had said.
"Is this true, North Wind?" he asked.

North Wind could not deny it, for the devastated garden and fields lay
before every one's eyes.

"Why did you do it?" asked the King.

"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."

"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."




THE MONTHS: A PAGEANT

Christina Rossetti


  _Boys_

    January
    March
    July
    August
    October
    December

  _Girls_

    February
    April
    May
    June
    September
    November

    Robin Redbreast; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and Nestlings;
    various Flowers, Fruits, etc.

SCENE:--_A Cottage with its grounds._

(_A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the hearth;
a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing. JANUARY
discovered seated by the fire._)

JANUARY

    Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,
    Dim the day until the cold dark night.

(_Stirs the fire_)

    Crackle, sparkle, <DW19>; embers glow:
    Some one may be plodding through the snow
    Longing for a light,
    For the light that you and I can show.
    If no one else should come,
    Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb,
    And never troublesome:
    Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb?

    Here's butter for my hunch of bread,
      And sugar for your crumb;
    Here's room upon the hearthrug,
      If you'll only come.

    In your scarlet waistcoat,
      With your keen bright eye,
    Where are you loitering?
      Wings were made to fly!

    Make haste to breakfast,
      Come and fetch your crumb,
    For I'm as glad to see you
      As you are glad to come.

(_Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the
lattice, which JANUARY 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.
JANUARY hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to FEBRUARY, who
appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand._)

    Good-morrow, sister.

FEBRUARY

                Brother, joy to you!
    I've brought some snowdrops; only just a few,
    But quite enough to prove the world awake,
    Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew
    And for the pale sun's sake.

(_She hands a few of her snowdrops to JANUARY, who retires into the
background. While FEBRUARY 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._)

    O you, you little wonder, come--come in,
    You wonderful, you woolly soft white lamb:
    You panting mother ewe, come too,
    And lead that tottering twin
    Safe in:
    Bring all your bleating kith and kin,
    Except the horny ram.

(_FEBRUARY opens a second door in the background, and the little flock
files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight._)

    The lambkin tottering in its walk
      With just a fleece to wear;
    The snowdrop drooping on its stalk
          So slender,--
    Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,
    Braving the cold for our delight,
          Both white
          Both tender.

(_A rattling of doors and windows; branches seen without, tossing
violently to and fro._)

    How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!
    Here brother March comes whirling on his way
    With winds that eddy and sing:--

(_She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses
MARCH hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones._)

    Come, show me what you bring;
    For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,
    And must away.

MARCH

(_Stopping short on the threshold_)

      I blow an arouse
      Through the world's wide house
    To quicken the torpid earth;
      Grappling I fling
      Each feeble thing,
    But bring strong life to the birth.
      I wrestle and frown,
      And topple down;
    I wrench, I rend, I uproot;
      Yet the violet
      Is born where I set
    The sole of my flying foot.

(_Hands violet and anemones to FEBRUARY, who retires into the
background._)

      And in my wake
      Frail wind-flowers quake,
    And the catkins promise fruit.
      I drive ocean ashore
      With rush and roar,
    And he cannot say me nay:
      My harpstrings all
      Are the forests tall,
    Making music when I play.

(_Before MARCH has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching
accompanied by a twittering of birds. APRIL comes along singing, and
stands outside and out of sight to finish her song._)

APRIL

(_Outside_)

      Pretty little three
      Sparrows in a tree,
        Light upon the wing;
        Though you cannot sing
        You can chirp of Spring:
      Chirp of Spring to me,
      Sparrows, from your tree.

      Never mind the showers,
      Chirp about the flowers
        While you build a nest:
        Straws from east and west,
        Feathers from your breast,
      Make the snuggest bowers
    In a world of flowers.

(_Appearing at the open door_)

    Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,
    Of all the flying months you're the most flying.

MARCH

    You're hope and sweetness, April.

APRIL

    I've a rainbow in my showers
    And a lapful of flowers,
    And these dear nestlings aged three hours;
      And here's their mother sitting;
      Their father's merely flitting
    To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

(_As she speaks APRIL shows MARCH her apron full of flowers and nest
full of birds. MARCH wanders away into the grounds. APRIL, without
entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them.
MAY arrives unperceived by APRIL, and gives her a kiss. APRIL starts
and looks round._)

    Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye.

MAY

    That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh:
    Your sorrow's half in fun,
    Begun and done
    And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.
    I've gathered flowers all as I came along,
    At every step a flower
    Fed by your last bright shower,--

(_She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with APRIL, who
strolls away through the garden._)

    And gathering flowers I listened to the song
    Of every bird in bower.

    Here are my buds of lily and rose,
      And here's my namesake blossom may;
        And from a watery spot
        See here forget-me-not,
        With all that blows
          To-day.

(_JUNE appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly
towards MAY, who, seeing her, exclaims:_)

    Surely you're come too early, sister June.

JUNE

    Indeed I feel as if I came too soon
    To round your young May moon
    And set the world a-gasping at my noon.
    Yet come I must. So here are strawberries
    Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;
    And here are full-blown roses by the score,
    More roses, and yet more.

(_MAY, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds. JUNE
seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum._)

    Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee,
      Or lulled by noontide's silence deep,
    I need but nestle down beneath my tree
      And drop asleep.

(_JUNE falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of JULY, who,
behind the scenes, is heard, half singing, half calling._)

JULY

(_Behind the scenes_)

    Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,
    Which will you take? yellow, blue, speckled!

    Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,
    Each in its way has not a fellow.

(_Enter JULY, a basket of many- 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 JUNE, and tickles
her with the grass. She wakes._)

JUNE

    What, here already?

JULY

                    Nay, my tryst is kept;
    The longest day slipped by you while you slept.
    I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

(_Hands her the plate_)

    Not flowers but peaches, gathered where the bees,
    As downy, bask and boom
    In sunshine and in gloom of trees.
    But get you in, a storm is at my heels;
    The whirlwind whistles and wheels,
    Lightning flashes and thunder peals,
    Flying and following hard upon my heels.

(_JUNE takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbour_)

    The roar of a storm sweeps up
      From the east to the lurid west,
    The darkening sky, like a cup,
      Is filled with rain to the brink;
    The sky is purple and fire,
      Blackness and noise and unrest;
    The earth, parched with desire
      Opens her mouth to drink.
    Have done with thunder and fire,
      O sky with the rainbow crest;
    O earth, have done with desire,
      Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

(_Enter AUGUST, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of
grain._)

    Hail, brother August, flushed and warm
    And scathless from my storm,
    Your hands are full of corn, I see,
    As full as hands can be:
    And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm
    In their recovered calm,
    And that they owe to me.

(_JULY retires into a shrubbery_)

AUGUST

    Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,
      Barley bows a graceful head,
    Short and small shoots up canary,
      Each of these is some one's bread;
    Bread for man or bread for beast,
        Or, at very least,
        A bird's savoury feast.

(_AUGUST descries SEPTEMBER toiling across the lawn_)

    My harvest home is ended; and I spy
    September drawing nigh,
    With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
    And the first sigh
    Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

(_SEPTEMBER arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with
fruit_)

SEPTEMBER

    Unload me, brother. I have brought a few
    Plums and these pears for you,
    A dozen kinds of apples, one or two
    Melons, some figs all bursting through
    Their skins, and pearled with dew
    These damsons violet-blue.

(_While SEPTEMBER is speaking, AUGUST lifts the basket to the ground,
selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk,
eating a pear as he goes._)

        My song is half a sigh
        Because my green leaves die;
    Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying;
        And well may Autumn sigh,
        And well may I
    Who watch the sere leaves flying.

(_OCTOBER 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._)

OCTOBER

    Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over,
    Even if the year has done with corn and clover,
    With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it's true
    Some leaves remain and some flowers too.
    For me and you.
    Now see my crops:

(_Offering his produce to SEPTEMBER_)

    I've brought you nuts and hops;
    And when the leaf drops, why, the walnut drops.

(_OCTOBER wreathes the hop-bine about SEPTEMBER'S 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._)

    Crack your first nut and light your first fire,
      Roast your first chestnut crisp on the bar;
    Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher,
      Logs are cheery as sun or as star,
      Logs we can find wherever we are.
    Spring one soft day will open the leaves,
      Spring one bright day will lure back the flowers;
    Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,
      Never fancy I've tears in my showers:
      Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours!

(_Sees NOVEMBER approaching_)

    Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim
    And grim
    With dismal ways.
    What cheer, November?

NOVEMBER

(_Entering and shutting the door_)

    Nought have I to bring,
    Tramping a-chill and shivering,
    Except these pine cones for a blaze,--
    Except a fog which follows,
    And stuffs up all the hollows,--
    Except a hoar frost here and there,--
    Except some shooting stars
    Which dart their luminous cars
    Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

(_OCTOBER, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background,
while NOVEMBER throws her pine cones on the fire, and sits down
listlessly._)

    The earth lies asleep, grown tired
      Of all that's high or deep;
    There's nought desired and nought required
        Save a sleep.
    I rock the cradle of the earth,
      I lull her with a sigh;
    And know that she will wake to mirth
        By and by.

(_Through the window DECEMBER is seen running and leaping in the
direction of the door. He knocks._)

    Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last:

(_Calls out without rising._)

    Come in, December.

(_He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry,
etc._)

              Come, and shut the door,
    For now it's snowing fast;
    It snows, and will snow more and more;
    Don't let it drift in on the floor.
    But you, you're all aglow; how can you be
    Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold?

DECEMBER

    Nay, no closed doors for me,
    But open doors and open hearts and glee
    To welcome young and old.

        Dimmest and brightest month am I;
    My short days end, my lengthening days begin;
    What matters more or less sun in the sky,
        When all is sun within?

(_He begins making a wreath as he sings_)

        Ivy and privet dark as night,
    I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,
    And holly for a beauty and delight,
        And milky mistletoe.

        While high above them all I set
    Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale;
    Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet
        May keep, so sweet and frail;

        May keep each merry singing bird,
    Of all her happy birds that singing build:
    For I've a carol which some shepherds heard
        Once in a wintry field.

(_While DECEMBER 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._)

(_Abridged._)




PRINCE WINTER

Carl Ewald


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.

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.

But all that lived in the land was struck with terror when it looked
into his cold eyes.

The trees shook in their thick bark, and the bushes struck their
branches together in consternation. The mouse became quite
snow-blind, when she peeped outside the door; the stag looked
mournfully over the white meadow.

"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."

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.

"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."

"We bow before Your Highness!" said the chaffinch.

"We have so longed for you," said the tit, and he put his head on one
side.

And the sparrow said the same as the others, in a tone of deep
respect.

But the Prince of Winter laughed at them disdainfully.

"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.

"I have my own birds and now you shall see them."

He clapped his hands and sang:

    "Wee snow-birds, white snow-birds,
    White snow-birds, wee snow-birds,
    Through fields skim along!
    To jubilant Spring I grudge music of no birds,
    To Summer, no song.

    "Come, Winter's mute messengers,
      Swift birds and slow birds,
    White snow-birds, wee snow-birds,
    Till the valley be soft as down for your nestling
    Of numberless ice-eggs by frosty rims spanned!
    Now rushing, now resting,
    White snow-birds, wee snow-birds,
      Skim soft thro' the land!"

And Winter's birds came.

Suddenly, it darkened, and the air became full of little black specks,
which descended and turned into great white snow-flakes.

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.

"I know how to crush you," said the Prince of Winter.

And, when evening came, he told the wind 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.

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.

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.

The Prince of Winter looked at them angrily.

"If I could but break you!" he said. "You stand in the midst of my
kingdom keeping 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!"

But the trees stood strong under Winter's wrath and waved their long
branches.

"You have taken from us what you can," they said. "Farther than that
you cannot go. We will wait calmly for better times."

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.

"Am I the master or not?" he shouted. He tore at his beard with both
hands.

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 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.

He stamped on the ground and shouted in his loud, hoarse voice:

    "Roar forth, mine anger, roar, and rouse,
    What breathes below earth's girder!
        By thousands slay them!"

He shouted it over the land.

The ice broke and split into long cracks. It sounded like thunder from
the bottom of the river.

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.

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.

"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."

He bade the sun come out and he came.

He rode over a bright blue sky, and all that was still alive in the
valley raised itself towards him for warmth.

"Call Spring back to the valleys! Give us Summer again!"

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.

"That's how I like to see the land," said Winter.

The Prince of Winter sat on his mountain throne again and surveyed his
kingdom and was glad. His great cold eyes stared, while he growled in
his beard.

    Proud of speed and hard of hand,
      A cruel lord to follow,
    Winter locks up sea and land,
      Blocks up every hollow.

    Summer coaxes, sweet and bland,
      Flowers in soft vigour,
    At Winter's harsh and grim command
      They die of ruthless rigour.

    Short and cold is Winter's Day,
      Long and worse night's hours,
    Few birds languish in his pay
      And yet fewer flowers.

The days wore on and Winter reigned over the land.

The little brown mice had eaten their last nut; the hedgehog was
hungry and the crows were nearly giving in.

Then suddenly there came the sound of singing.

    Play up! Play soon,
    Keep time! Keep time!
    Ye wavelets blue and tender,
    Keep time! Keep time!
    Burst ice and rime
    In equinoctial splendor.

Up leaped Winter and stared with his hands over his brows.

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.




HOW SPRING AND WINTER MET


    The Winter and the Spring were met:
    The Winter threw a fleecy net,
    And caught the young Spring over night.
    He put to sleep the budding tree
    Within a cloister dim and white;
    And the little golden crocus flower,
    That comes too early for the bee,
    He hid away from sunrise hour.
    The brook was conscious of his power
    And lost its trick of babbling words.

    But Spring awoke, despite his craft,
    And out of windows looked and laughed.

    At first he set to sing all birds,
    With twittering voices small and clear,
    And bade them say they felt no grief
    To find the snow and mildewed leaf
    Heaped up in nests they built last year.
    Then found a crystal alcove high
    The bluebird carolled to the sky.
    The robin whistled cheer, good cheer!
    The sparrow rung his matin bells,
    And far away in reedy dells
    The quail a friendly greeting sent.
    Then was the stifled pine not loth
    To shuffle off the dull white sloth;
    Then leaped the brook by icy stair,
    And snapped his fetters as he went;
    The sun shone out most full and fair,
    And Winter rose and struck his tent.

                        Edith M. Thomas.




Transcriber's Note

On pp. 13-14 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.

Poe is referred to in this text as Edgar Allen Poe, rather than the
more usual Edgar Allan Poe. This is preserved as printed.

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.

Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.

Hyphenation and capitalisation has been made consistent within
individual pieces in the book.

The following amendments have been made:

    First page of Acknowledgments--Edinburg amended to
    Edinburgh--"To T. C. and E. C. Jack of Edinburgh ..."

    Second page of Acknowledgments--Procter amended to
    Proctor--"... James Russell Lowell, Edna Dean Proctor, ..."

    Second page of Contents--Horatio amended to Horatia--"...
    _Juliana Horatia Ewing_ ..."

    Third page of Contents--Spring and Winter reversed--"How
    Spring and Winter Met ..."

    Page 19--Parain amended to Parian--"... On coop or kennel he
    hangs Parian wreaths; ..."

    Page 52--truely amended to truly--"I have told you truly who
    she is."

    Page 75--place amended to placed--"... they are placed
    alternately on each side ..."

    Page 279--stone amended to stove--"I went under the stove
    and could lie down ..."

    Page 360--hop-vine amended to hop-bine--"... and a long ripe
    hop-bine trailing after him ..."

The frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page.
The caption in {brackets} has been added by the transcriber for the
convenience of the reader.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pearl Story Book, by Various

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