Elementary Literature 4

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1. How Thor Found His Hammer

The frost-giants were always trying to get into Asgard. For more than half the year they held the world in their grasp. They locked up the streams in their rocky beds, hushing their music and the music of the birds as well. They left nothing but a wild waste under the cold sky. They hated the warm sunshine which stirs the wildflowers out of their sleep, and covers the mountains with verdure, and sets all the birds a-singing in the tree-tops. Above all, they hated Thor, whose flashing hammer drove them back into Jo’-tun-heim and guarded the summer sky. So long as Thor had his hammer Asgard was safe against the giants.

One morning Thor awoke from a long, deep sleep, and put out his hand for the hammer; but no hammer was there. Not a sign of it could be found anywhere, although Thor searched for it. Then a thought of the giants came suddenly to his mind; and his anger rose till his eyes flashed like great fires, and his red beard trembled with his wrath.

“Look now, Lo’-ke,” he shouted, “they have stolen my hammer by enchantment, and no one on earth or in heaven knows where they have hidden it.”

“We will get Frey’-ja’s falcon-guise and search for it,” answered Loke, who was always quick to get into trouble or to get out of it again. So they went to Freyja, and Thor said, “My hammer has been stolen by enchantment. Will you lend me the falcon- guise, that I may search for it?”

“Though it were silver, or even gold, you should have it and welcome,” answered Freyja. She was glad to help Thor find the wonderful hammer that kept them aU safe from the hands of the frost-giants.

So the falcon-guise was brought, and Loke put it on and flew swiftly out of Asgard to the home of the giants. His great wings made broad shadows over the ripe fields as he swept along. The reapers, looking up from their work, wondered what mighty bird was flying seaward. At last he reached Jotunheim. No sooner had he touched ground and taken off the falcon-guise than he came upon the giant Thrym, who was sit- ting on a hill twisting golden collars for his dogs and stroking the long manes of his horses.

“Welcome, Loke,” said the giant. “How fares it with the gods and the elveSj and what Ijas brought you to Jotunheim?”

“It fares ill with both gods and elves since you stole Thor’s hammer,” replied Loke, guessing quickly that Thrym was the thief; “and I have come to find where you have hidden it.”

Thrym laughed as only a giant can when he knows he has made trouble for somebody.

“You won’t find it,” he said at last. “I have buried it eight miles under ground, and no one shall take it away unless he gets Freyja for me as my wife.”

The giant looked as if he meant what he said, and Loke, seeing no other way of finding the hammer, put on his falcon-guise and flew back to Asgard. Thor was wait- ing to hear what news he brought, and both were soon at the great doors of Folkvang.

“Put on your bridal dress, Freyja,” said Thor, “and we will ride swiftly to Jotunheim.”

But Freyja had no idea of marrying a giant just to please Thor. “Do you think I am a weak, love-sick girl, to follow you to Jotunheim and marry Thrym?” she cried.

Finding they could do nothing with Freyja, Thor and Loke called, all the gods together to talk over the matter, and to decide what should be done to get back the hammer.

The gods were much alarmed, because they knew the frost-giants would come upon Asgard as soon as they knew the ham- mer was gone. They thought long and earnestly. Still they could find no way of getting hold of the hammer.

“We must have the hammer at once, or Asgard will be in danger,” they said. “If Freyja will not go^ let Thor be dressed up and go in her place. Let keys jingle from his waist and woman’s dress fall about his

feet. Put precious stones upon his breast, braid his hair like a woman’s, hang the necklace around his neck, and bind the bridal veil around his head.”

Thor frowned angrily. “If I dress like a woman,” he said, “you will jeer at me.”

“Don’t talk of jeers,” retorted Loke. *TJnless that hammer is brought back quickly the giants will rule in our places.”

Thor said no more, but allowed himself to be dressed like a bride, and soon drove off to Jotunheim. Loke went with him dis- guised as a servant-maid. There was never such a wedding journey before. They rode in Thor’s chariot and the goats drew them, plunging swiftly along the way. Thunder pealed through the moimtains and the frightened earth blazed and smoked as they passed. When Thrym saw the bridal party coming he was filled with delight.

“Stand up, you giants,” he shouted. “Place cushions upon the benches and bring in Freyja, my bride. My yards are full of golden- homed cows, great wealth and many treasures are mine, and Freyja is all I lack.”

It was evening when the bride came driving into the giant’s court in her blazing chariot. The feast was already spread. Her veil modestly covered her face. She was seated at the great table, and Thrym was beside himself with delight. It wasn’t every giant who could marry a goddess.

The bridal journey had been so strange that any one but a foolish giant would have hesitated to marry a wife who came in such a turmoil of fire and storm. Besides, her conduct at the table ought to have put Thrym on his guard, for never had a bride such an appetite before. The great tables groaned under the load of good things, but they were quickly relieved of their burden by the bride.

She ate a whole ox before the astonished giant had fairly begim to enjoy his meal. Then she devoured eight large salmon, one after the other, without stopping to take breath. Having eaten the part of the feast prepared for the men, she turned to the dainties made for herself and the women.

Thrym looked on with wondering eyes. At last, when she had added to these solid foods, three barrels of mead, his amazement got the better of his politeness. And he called out, “Did any one ever see such an appetite in a bride before, or know a maid who could drink so much mead?”

Then Loke, who was playing the part of a serving-maid feared that the giant might be suspicious. He whispered to him, “Freyja was so happy in the thought of coming here that she has eaten nothing for eight whole days.”

Thrym was so pleased at these words that he leaned forward and raised the veil as gently as a giant could, but he instantly dropped it and sprang back the whole length of the hall, before the bride’s terrible eyes.

“Why are Freyja’s eyes so sharp?” he called to Loke. “They bum me like fire.”

“Oh,” said the cunning serving-maid, “she has not slept for a week, so anxious has she been to come here. That is why her eyes are so fiery.”

Everybody looked at the bride and no- body envied Thrym. They thought it was too much like marrying a thunderstorm.

The giant’s sister came into the hall just then, and seeing the veiled form of the bride sitting there, went up to her and asked for a bridal gift. “If you would have my love and friendship give me those rings of gold upon your fingers.”

But the bride sat perfectly silent. No one had yet seen her face or heard her voice.

Thrym became very impatient. “Bring in the hammer,” he shouted, “that we may be wed in the name of Var.”

If the giant could have seen the bride’s eyes when she heard these words, he would have sent her home as quickly as possible, and looked elsewhere for a wife.

The hammer was brought and placed in the bride’s lap. Everybody looked to see the marriage ceremony, but the wedding was more strange and terrible than the bridal journey had been.

No sooner did the bride’s fingers close round the handle of the hammer than the veil was torn froin her face and there stood Thor. His terrible eyes blazed with wrath. The giants shuddered and shrank away from those flaming eyes, the sight of which they dreaded more than anything else in the world. But there was no chance of escape. Thor swung the hammer round his head and the great house rocked to and fro. There was a vivid flash of lightning, an aw- ful crash of thunder, and the burning roof and walls buried the whole company in one common ruin.

Thrym was punished for stealing the hammer, his wedding guests got crushing blows instead of bridal gifts, and Thor and Loke went back to Asgard, where the pres- ence of the hammer made the gods safe once more.

Adapted from Hamilton Wright Mabie

2. The Apples of Idun

Once upon a time O’-din, Loke and He’-ner started on a journey. They had often traveled together on all sorts of errands, for they had a great many things to look after. More than once they had fallen into trouble through the meddlesome Loke, who was never so happy as when he was doing wrong.

When the gods went on a journey they traveled fast and hard, for they were strong, active spirits. They loved nothing so much as hard work, hard blows, storm, peril, and struggle. There were no roads through the country over which they made their way; only high mountains to be climbed by rocky paths, deep valleys to be crossed and swift- rushing streams, as cold as ice. Not a bird flew through the air, not an animal spranig through the trees. It was as still as a desert.

The gods walked on and on, getting more tired and hungry at every step. The sun was sinking low over the pine-crested mountains, and the travelers had not yet eaten. Even Odin was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, when suddenly, entering a little valley, the hungry gods came upon a herd of cattle. It was the work of a minute to kill a great ox and to have the carcass swinging in a huge pot over a roaring fire.

But never were gods so unlucky before! En spite of their hunger the pot would not boil. They piled on the wood until the great flames crackled and licked the pot with their fiery tongues. But every time the cover was lifted, there was the meat just as raw as when it was put in. The travelers were not in very good humor. They talked about it, and wondered how it could be. Suddenly a voice called out from the oak overhead, “If you will give me my fill, I’ll make the pot boil.”

The gods looked at each other and then into the tree, and there they discovered a great eagle. They were glad enough to get their supper on any terms, so they told the eagle he might have what he wanted if he would only get the meat cooked.

The bird was as good as his word, and in less time than it takes to tell it supper was ready. Then the eagle flew down and picked out both shoulders and both legs. This was a pretty large share, and Loke^ who was always angry when anybody got more than he, seized a great pole and began to beat the bird. Whereupon a very strange thing happened: the pole stuck fast in the huge talons of the eagle at one end, and Loke stuck fast at the other end. Struggle as he might, he could not get loose; and as the great bird sailed away, Loke went pound- ing along on the ground, striking against rocks and branches until he was bruised half to death.

The eagle was no ordinary bird, as Loke soon found when he begged for mercy. The giant Thj-as’-se happened to be flying abroad in his eagle plumage, when the hun- gry travelers came under the oak and tried to cook the ox. It was into his hands that Loke had fallen, and he was not to get away until he had promised to pay roundly for his freedom.

If there was one thing which the gods prized above all their other treasures in Asgard, it was the beautiful fruit of I’-dun. This was kept by the goddess in a golden casket and given to the gods to keep them forever young and fair. Without these Apples, all their power could not have kept them from getting old like the meanest of mortals. Without these Apples of Idun, Asgard itself would have lost its charm. For what would heaven be without youth and beauty forever shining through it?

Thjasse told Loke that he could not go unless he would promise to bring him the Apples of Idun. Loke hesitated. The eagle dashed hither and thither, flinging him against the sides of the mountains and dragging him through the great boughs of the oaks. At last his courage gave out entirely, and he promised to steal the Apples out of Asgard and give them to the giant.

Loke was bruised and sore enough to be willing to keep his promise. But how were the Apples to be gotten? Idun guarded the golden fruit day and night. No one ever touched it but herself. A beauti- ful sight it was to see her fair hands spread it forth for the morning feasts in Asgard.

The other gods had no thought of Loke’s doing wrong, because they never did wrong themselves.

Not long after this Loke came carelessly up to Idun as she was gathering her Apples into the beautiful carven box which she carried.

“Good morning, goddess,” said he. “How fair and golden your Apples are!”

“Yes,” answered Idun, “the bloom of youth keeps them always beautiful.”

“I never saw anything like them,” con- tinued Loke slowly, as if he were talking about a matter of no importance, “until the other day.”

Idun looked up at once with the greatest interest and curiosity in her face. She was very proud of her Apples, and she knew that no earthly trees could bear such immortal fruit.

“Where have you seen any Apples like themf she asked.

“Oh, just outside the gates,” said Loke, carelessly. “If you care to see them Pll take you there. It will keep you but a moment. The tree is only a little way off.”

Idun was anxious to go at once.

“Better take your Apples with you to compare them with the others,” said the wily god. Idun gathered up the golden Apples and went out of Asgard, carrying with her all that made it heaven. No sooner was she beyond the gates than a mighty rushing sound was heard, like the coming of a tem- pest. Before she could think or act, the giant Thjasse, in his eagle plumage, was bearing her swiftly away to his icy home. He wanted to eat the Apples and be for- ever young like the gods. She refused to give them up, so he kept her a lonely prisoner.

Loke, after keeping his promise and giv- ing Idun into the hands of the giant, strayed back into Asgard as if nothing had hap- pened. The next morning, when the gods assembled for their feast, there was no Idun.

Day after day went by, and still the beau- tiful goddess did not come. Little by little the light of youth and beauty faded from the home of the gods. They became old and haggard. Their strong, young faces were lined with care and furrowed by age. Their raven locks passed from gray to white. Their flashing eyes became dim and hollow. Brag’-e, the god of poetry, could make no music, for his beautiful wife, Idun, was gone he knew not whither.

Finally, the gods could bear the loss of power and joy no longer. They made inquiry. They tracked Loke on that fair morning when he led Idun beyond the gates. They seized him and brought him into the council. He read in their haggard faces the hate in their hearts and his courage failed. He promised to bring Idun back to Asgard, if the goddess Frey^-ja would lend him her falcon-guise. No sooner said than done; and with eager gaze the gods watched him as he flew away, becoming at last only a dark speck against the sky.

After a long and weary flight, Loke was glad enough to find Thjasse gone to sea and Idim alone in his dreary house. He changed her instantly into a nut, and taking her in his talons, flew away as fast as his wings could carry him.

Loke had need of all Ms speed, for Thjasse came suddenly home and found Idun and her precious fruit gone. He guessed what had happened. He put on his eagle plumage and flew forth in a mighty rage. Like the rushing wings of a tempest, his mighty wings beat the air and bore him swiftly onward. From mountain peak to mountain peak he flew. Now he almost touched the murmuring pine forests. Now he swept high in mid-air with nothing above but the arching sky, and nothing beneath but the tossing sea.

At last Thjasse sees the falcon far ahead. His flight becomes like the flash of the light- ning for swiftness, and like the rushing of clouds for uproar. The haggard faces of the gods line the walls of Asgard and watch the race with eagerness.

Youth and endless life are staked upon the winning of Loke. He is weary enough and frightened enough, too, as the eagle sweeps not far behind him. But he makes a great effort to widen the distance between them. Little by little the eagle gains on the falcon. The gods grow white with fear. They rush off and preparie great fires upon the walls. With fainting, drooping wings, the falcon passes over and drops exhausted by the wall.

In an instant the fires have been lighted, and the great flames roar to heaven. The eagle sweeps across the fiery line a second later, and falls, maimed and burned, to the ground. A dozen fierce hands smite out his life. Thus the great giant Thjasse perishes among his foes.

Idim resumes her natural form, as Brage rushes to meet her. The gods crowd round her. She spreads the feast. The golden Apples gleam in the eyes of the gods. They eat; and once more their faces glow with the beauty of imdying youth, and their eyes flash with divine power. Idun stands like a star of beauty among the throng. The song of Brage is heard once more. Poetry and everlasting life are wedded again.

Adapted from Bam/Uton Wright Mabie

3. Winter Time

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise. And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled explore The colder countries round the door.

When to get out my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap, The cold wind bums my face and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

— Jtdbert Louis Stevenson 32

4. A Visit from the Sea

Par from the loud sea beaches, Where he goes fishing and crying;

Here in the inland garden, Why is the sea-gull flying?

Here are no fish to dive for;

Here is the com and lea; Here are the green trees rustling.

Hie away home to seal

Fresh is the river water

And quiet among the rushes; This is no home for the sea-gull,

But for the rooks and thrushes.

Pity the bird that has wandered!

Pity the sailor ashore! Hurry him home to the ocean,

Let him come here no more!

High on the sea-cliff ledges

The white gulls are trooping and crying; Here, among the rooks and roses,

Why is the sea-gull flying?

• — Robert Louis 8twento».

5. Armies in the Fire

The lamps now glitter down the street; Faintly sound the falling feet; And the blue even slowly falls About the garden trees and walls.

Now in the falling of the gloom The red fire paints the empty room; And warmly on the roof it looks, And flickers on the back of books.

Armies march by tower and spire Of cities blazing, in the fire; — Till as I gaze with staring eyes, The army fades, the luster dies.

Then once again the glow returns; Again the phantom city bums; And down the red-hot vaUey, lol The phantom armies marching go!

Blinking embers, tell me true, Where are those armies marching to If And what the burning city is That crumbles in your furnaces?

— Robert Louis Stevenson^ 34

6. A VulL fzBD. tin Ssa

IT frmn the lond sea beaches.

WlieTe he goes ftHnrnnr and erring:; !ere in the iTiland gardeiu

Wliy is the sea-gnil Sjins^’i

lere are no fish to dire for;

Here is the com and lea; lere are the green, trees mstling.

Hie away home to sea!

Fresh, is tiie iir«r water

And qniet among the rashes; This is no home for the sea-gull.

But for ihe rooks and thrushes.

Pity the bird liLat has wandered!

Pity ttie sailor ashore! Eurry him home to the ocean.

Let him come here no more!

High on the sea-cliff ledges

The white gulls are trooping and crying; Here, among the rooks and roses,

Why is the sea-guU flying?

—Robert Lam$ Stevetuon.

7. Autumn Fires

In the other gardens

And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail 1

Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers

The red fire blazes, The gray smoke towers

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all I Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

— Robert Louis Stevenson.

8. The Unseen Playmate

When children are playing alone on the

green, In comes the playmate that never was seen. When children are happy and lonely and

good.

The Friend of the Children comes out of

the wood.

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Nobody heard Mm and nobody saw; His is a picture you never could draw, But he^s sure to be present, abroad or at

home. When. children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs in the grass. He sings when you tinkle the musical glass; Whenever you are happy and cannot tell why. The Friend of the Children is sure to be by I

He loves to be little, he hates to be big, ‘Tis he that inhabits the cave that you dig; ‘Tis he, when you play with your soldiers

of tin That sides with the Frenchman and never

can win.

*Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed. Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble

your head; For wherever they are lying, in cupboard

or shelf, ‘Tis he that takes care of your playthings himself!

— Robert Louis Stevenson. 37

9. Pirate Story

Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, Three of us aoroad in the basket on the lea, Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring. And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.

Where shall we adventure to-day that we’re afloat. Wary of the weather and steering by a star? Shall it be Africa, a-steering of the boat, To Providence, or Babylon, or off to Malabar?

Hi I but here’s a squadron a-rowing on the sea — Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roarl Quick, and we’ll escape them, they’re as mad as they can be. The wicket is the harbor and the garden is the shore.

— Robert Louis Stevenson. 38

My Kingdom

Down by a shining water well I found a very little dell,

No higher than my head. The heather and the gorse about In summer bloom were coming out,

Some yellow and some red.

I called the little pool a sea, The little hills were big to m«;

For I am very small. I made a boat, I made a town, I searched the caverns up and down.

And named them one and all.

And all about was mine, I saidj The little sparrows overhead,

The little minnows, too. This was the world and I was king. For me the bees came by to sing,

For me the swallows flew.

I played there were no deeper seas. Nor any wider plains than these,

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Nor other king than me. At last I heard my mother call Out from the house at evenfall,

To call me home to tea.

And I must rise and leave my dell, And leave my dimpled water well,

And leave my heather blooms. Alas I and as my home I neared, How very big my nurse appeared,

How great and cool the rooms.

— Robert Louis Stevenson,

Keepsake Mill Over the borders, a sin without pardon. Breaking the branches and crawling below, Out through the break in the wall of the garden, Down by the banks of the river we go.

Here is the mill with the humming of,

thunder,

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Here is the weir with the wonder of foam, Here is the sluice with the race running under — Marvelous places, though handy to home!

Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller. Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;

Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller, Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.

Years may go by, and the wheel in the rivei Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,

Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for- ever, — Long after all of the boys are away.

Home from the Indies and home from the ocean. Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home; Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion. Turning and churning that river of foam.

-^Robert Louis Stevemson. 41

Summer Sun

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

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

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

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

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

—Robert Louis Steveim^ _ ‘ 42

The Dumb Soldier

When the grass was closely mowiij Walking on the lawn alone, In the turf a hole I found And hid a soldier underground.

Spring and daisies came apace; Grasses hide my hiding place; Grasses run like a green sea O’er the lawn up to my knee.

Under grass alone he lies, Looking up with leaden eyes, Scarlet coat and pointed gun, To the stars and to the sun.

When the grass is ripe like grain^ When the scythe is stoned again. When the lawn is shaven clear, Then my hole shall reappear.

I shall find him, never fear,

I shall find my grenadier;

But for all that’s gone and com^

I shall find my soldier dumb.

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He has lived, a little thing, In the grassy woods of spring; Done, if he could tell me true. Just as I should like to do.

He has seen the starry hours And the springing of the flowers; And the fairy things that pass In the forests of the grass.

In the silence he has heard Talking bee and ladybird, And the butterfly has flown O’er him as he lay alone.

Not a word will he disclose, Not a word of all he knows. I. must lay him on the shelf, And make up the tale myself.

— Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Moon

The moon has a face like the clock in the

hall: She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbor quays, And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.

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The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, The howling dog by the door of the house, The bat that lies in bed at noon, All love to be out by the light of the moon.

But all of the things that belong to the day Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; And flowers and children close their eyes Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.

— Robert Louis Stevenson.

Windy Nights

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high,

All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by.

Late at night when the fires are out.

Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud. And ships are tossed at sea.

By, on the highway, low and loud. By at the gallop goes he.

By at the gallop he goes, and then

By he comes back at the gallop again.

— Robert Louis Stevensor^ 45

Thor*s Wonderful Journey

Thor made many journeys and had many strange adventures, but one journey was more wonderful than all the others. The giants in old Norse times were not easy to conquer. It was when they hid themselves behind lies and appeared to be what they were not that they succeeded for a time. Thor’s strength was a noble thing, because he used it to help men, but his truthfulness and honesty were nobler still.

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One morning, just as the sun was begin- ning to shine through the mists that over- hung the world, the gates of Asgard opened. TTior’s chariot, drawn by the goats, rattled along the road. Thor and Loke were off for a journey; but Thor was always going somewhere, and nobody who saw him now thought that he was starting out to try his strength with the most powerful things in the whole earth. Nor did he know it.

All day long the chariot rolled across meadows and through valleys. The echoes shouted to each other from the mountains as the chariot passed by. At night it stopped at the house of a poor peasant, and Thor stepped down and stood in the doorway.

“Can you lodge two travelers over night?” he asked.

“Certainly/* said the peasant, “but we can give you nothing to eat, for we have nothing for ourselves.”

“Give yourselves no trouble about that,” answered Thor, cheerfully. “I can provide for aU.”

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He went back to Loke, who got out of the chariot. Then Thor killed both his goats, and in a minute they were ready for cooking. Soon the whole family, with their strange guests, sat down to a bountiful supper.

“The more you eat the better I shall like it,” said Thor, as they took their places at the table. “However, do not on any account break the bones. When you have done with them, throw them into the skins which I have spread out on the hearth.”

The peasant and his wife and their two children ate heartily, but Thj-alf -e broke one of the bones to get the marrow.

The next morning Thor was up with the sun, When he was dressed he took the ham- mer and held it over the goatskins. Imme- diately the bones flew into place. The skins covered them, and there were the two goats as full of life as when they started out the day before. But one of the goats limped; aud when Thor saw it he was so angry that he looked like a thundercloud. The peas- ants were frightened half out of their wits

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when they saw Thor’s rage, and they would have run away if they could.

The poor peasant and his wife besought Thor not to destroy them. Seeing them in such misery, Thor’s anger died out, and he said he would forgive them, but the children must be his servants. So, taking the two children, and leaving the goats for safe keeping, Thor and Loke set out again.

Thor had decided to go to Jotunheim, and all the morning they traveled eastward until they reached the shore of the sea. They crossed the wide waters quickly and climbed upon the further shore of Jotun- heim. Mists floated over the land. Great rocks rose along the coast like strong giants guarding their country. .Thor led the way, and they soon entered a deep forest through which they traveled until nightfall. Thjalfe, who was very fleet of foot, carried the sack of provisions.

As night came on they looked about for shelter. They came to an immense build- ing with a whole side opening into a great

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room, off which they found five smaller rooms. This was just what they wanted, although they could not imagine why any one had buUt a house in that lonely place. After supper, weary with the long journey^ they were soon in a deep sleep.

Three or four hours went by quietly enough, but about midnight they were sud- denly awakened by an awful uproar, which made the whole earth tremble. Thor called the others and told them to go into the far rooms. Half dead with fright, they did so, but Thor stretched himself, hammer in hand, at the wide entrance.

As soon as there was light enough to see about him, Thor went into the woods. He had gone but a little way when he came upon an enormous giant, fast asleep, and snoring so loudly that the very trees shook round him. Thor quickly buckled on his belt of strength, and had no sooner done so than the giant awoke and sprang to his feet. The whole earth shook under him, and he towered as far over Thor as a ^eat oak

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does over the fern that grows at its foot. Thor was never frightened, but he had never heard of such a giant before, and he looked at him with honest surprise.

“Who are youf he said, after looking up to the great face a minute.

“I am Skrym’-er,” answered the giant, “but I don’t need to ask your name. You are Thor. But what have you done with;

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my glove? I’m sure I laid it over there.** And, stretching out his great hand, the giant picked up his glove, which was nothing less than the building Thor and the others had spent the night in.

“Would you like to have me travel with you?” continued the giant.

“Certainly,” said Thor. Skrymer there- upon untied his sack and took out his break- fast. After eating, Skrymer proposed that they should put all their provisions into one bag. Thor consented, and they started off. The giant tramped on ahead, carrying the sack on his broad back.

All day long he walked steadily on, taking such strides that the others could hardly keep up with him. When night came, he stopped under a great oak.

“There,” said he, throwing down the sack, “take that and get some supper. I am going to sleep.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before he began to snore as loudly as the night before. Thor took the sack, but the

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harder lie tried to loosen the string the tighter it drew. “With all his strength he could not untie a single knot. Finding he could not get into the sack, and hearing the giant snore so peacefully at his side, Thor*s anger blazed out and, grasping the hammer, he struck the giant full on the head. Skrym- er opened his eyes drowsily.

“Did a leaf fall on my head?” he called out sleepily, without getting up. “Have you had your supper yet, and are you going to bed?”

In a minute he was snoring again. Thor went and lay down under another oak; but at midnight the giant began to snore so heavily that the forest resounded with the noise. Thor was beside himself with rage and, swinging his hammer, struck Skrymer such a tremendous blow that the hammer sank to the handle in his head. The giant opened his eyes and sat up.

“What is the matter now?” he called out, “did an acorn fall on my head? How arei you getting on, Thor?”

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“Oh, I am just awake,” said Thor, step- ping back quickly. “It is only midnight, and we may sleep awhile longer.”

Thor watched until the giant had fallen asleep again, and just at daybreak dealt him the most terrible blow that he had ever given with the hammer. It flashed through the air and buried itself out of sight in Skrym- er’s forehead. The giant sprang to his feet and began to stroke his beard.

“Are there any birds up there?” he asked, looking into the oak. “I thought a feather dropped on my head. Are you awake, Thor? It is full time to dress and you are near the end of your journey. The city of Ut’-gard is not far off. I heard you whispering together that I was a man of great stature, but you will find much larger men in Utgard. Take my advice, and when you get there don’t boast very much, for they will not take boasting from such little fellows as you are. You would do well to turn back and go home while you have a chance; but if you will go on, take the road to the eastward.

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^7 way takes me to the north.” And, swing- ing the sack of provisions over his shoulder, Skrymer plunged into the forest and was soon out of sight.

Thor and his companions pushed on as fast as they could until noon, when suddenly a great city rose before them on a vast plain. The walls were so high that they had to lean back as far as they could to see the top. A great gate stopped them at the entrance, but they crept between the bars.

After going a little distance, they came upon a palace. The doors were open, and they went in. They found themselves in a great hall with long seats on each side. Here sat rows of gigantic men larger than Skrymer. When they saw Utgard-Loke, who was the king of that country, they saluted him; but he sat for a long time without taking any notice of them. At last, smiling, he said, “If I am not mistaken, this little fellow is Thor. Perhaps, however, you are really larger than you seem to be. What feats of strength can you show usf

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No one is permitted to stay here unless he excels in some difficult thing.”

Hearing these words spoken in a very insulting tone, Loke answered, .loudly, “There is one feat in which no one can equal me, and I am ready to perform it at once. I can devour food faster than any one here.”

“Truly, that would be a feat if you could do it,” said the scornful king; and he called to a man named Lo’-ge to contend with Loke.

A great trough full of meat was placed in the center of the hall, and both began to eat. They reached the middle of the trough at exactly the same moment; but Loke had €aten only the meat, while Loge had devoured meat, bones, trough and all. There was nothing left on his side, and Loke had to confess himself beaten.

Then the king, looking at Thjalf e, asked, “What can you do, young man?”

“I will run a race with any one you select,” answered Thjalf e.

“If you can outrun anyone I can select, it will certainly be a splendid feat,” said

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Utgard-Loke; “but you must be very swift- footed to do it.”

There was a noble race ground just out- side the palace, and every one hurried out to see the race. The king called a slender young fellow named Hu’-ge, and told him to run with Thjalfe.

There was never such running since the world began. Thjalfe ran like the wind; but Huge reached the goal first, and turned about to meet Thjalfe as he came breathless to the post.

“You must use your legs better than that if you intend to win,” said the king, as Thjalfe walked back.

They ran a second time, but when Huge reached the goal and turned around, Thjalfe was a full bow-shot behind.

“Well run I” shouted Utgard-Loke; “well run I a third race shall decide it.”

A third time they were at the starting place, and again they were speeding down the course, while everybody strained his eyes to look at them. And a third time,

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Huge reached the goal and turned to find Thjalfe not half way.

“We have had racing enough!” cried the giants, and they all went back into the palace again.

And now it was Thor’s turn to show his wonderful strength.

“Your fame fills all the world, Thor,” called out Utgard-Loke, when they had seated themselves on the benches along the great hall; “give us some proof of your wonderful power.”

Thor never waited to be asked a second time.

“I will contend in drinking with any one you may select.”

“Well answered,” said the king. “Bring out the great horn.”

A giant went out, and speedily came back bearing a very deep horn, which the king said his men were compelled to empty as a punishment.

“A good drinker will empty that horn

at a single draught,” said Utgard-Loke, as

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it was filled and handed to Thor. “A few men need to drink twice, but only a milksop needs a third pull at it.”

Thor thought the horn not over large, although very long, and as he was very thirsty, he put it to his lips without further ado, and drank so long and deep that he thought it certainly must be empty. But when he set the horn down and looked into it, he was astonished to find that the liquor rose almost as high as when he set his lips to it.

“That was fairly well drunk,” said the king. “If anybody had told me Thor could do no better than that, I would not have be- lieved him. But, of course, you will finish it at a second draught.”

Thor said nothing, although he was very

angry; but, setting the horn to his lips a

second time, he drank longer and deeper

than before. When he had stopped to take

breath, and looked at it again, he had drunk

less than the first time.

“How now, Thor,” cried Utgard-Loke,

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“you have left more for the third draught than you can manage. If there are no other feats which you can perform better than this, you must not expect to be considered so great here as among the gods.”

Thor became very angry when he heard these words and, seizing the horn, he drank deep and fast, until he thought it certainly must be empty; but when he looked into it, the liquor had fallen so little that he could hardly see the difference. He handed it to the cupbearer and would drink no more.

“It is plain,” spoke up the king, “that you are not so strong as we thought you werej you cannot succeed in this strife. Will you. try something elsef

“I will try something else,” said Thor, who could not understand why he had failed to drain the horn. “But I am sure that even among the gods such drinks would not be counted small. What game do you propose now?”

“Oh, a very easy one,” replied the king, “which my youngsters here make nothing

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of; simply to lift a cat from the floor. I should not think of asking you to try it if I did not see that you are much less a man than I had always supposed.”

He had no sooner said this than a large grey cat ran out into the hall. Thor put his hand under it and tiied to lift it, but the cat arched its back as high as Thor stretched his hands, and do his best, he could only get one foot off the floor.

“It is just as I expected,” cried Utgard- Loke, in a loud voice. “The cat is very large, and Thor is a very little fellow.”

Thor’s eyes flashed fire. “Little as I am,” he shouted, “I challenge any of you to wrestle with me.”

Utgard-Loke looked up and down the benches as if he would call out some one from the two rows of giants. Then he shook his head, saying, “There is no one here who would not think it child’s play to wrestle with you; but let some one call in Ellie, my old nurse. She shall try her strength with you. She has brought many a stronger man

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than you to earth, and she may defeat you.” An old woman came creeping into the hall, bent, wrinkled, and toothless. Thor seized her; but the tighter his grasp became, the firmer she stood. Her strength seemed to grow as she put it forth, and at last, after ^ hard struggle, in which Thor strained

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every muscle to the breaking point, lie sank on one knee.

“That is enough,” said Utgard-Loke, and the old woman crept feebly out of the hall, leaving Thor stunned and bewildered in the midst of the silent giants. There were no more trials of strength, and Thor and his companions were generously feasted after their defeats.

The next morning, after they had eaten a breakfast, they started on their journey homeward. Utgard-Loke went with them as far as the gate of the city, where he stopped.

“How do you think your journey has turned out?” he asked Thor. “Have you met any men stronger than yourself?”

“I have brought shame upon myself,” answered Thor, frankly and honestly, after his nature. “It vexes me to think that you will hereafter speak of me as a weak fellow.”

“Now that you are out of the city, I will tell you the truth about these things,” said Utgard-Loke. “If I had known how mighty you are, I would never have allowed you to

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enter the gates. You may be very sure you will never get in a second time. I have beaten you by fraud, not by strength. I have tricked you from the start. In the for- est, I tied the sack with a tough iron wire in such a way you could not see the secret of the knot. Thrice you struck at me with your hammer. The first blow, though the lightest, would have killed me had it fallen on me; but each time I slipped a mountain between myself and the hammer, and the blows made three deep clefts in its stony sides.

“I have tricked you, too, in all the trials of strength and skill. Loke was very hungry, but he contended against fire itself, which goes like the wind and devours everything in its path. Thjalfe ran as man never ran before, but Huge, who raced with him, was no other than my thought, and what man is so swift as thought?

“The horn which you strove in vain to empty had its further end in the sea, and so mighty were your draughts that over the wide sea the waters have sunk to the ebb.

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Your strength was no less wonderful when you lifted the cat. When we saw one foot raised from the floor our hearts sank in ter- ror, for it was the Midgard-serpent, encir- cling the whole earth, which you really contended against. You held it aloft so near heaven that the world was hardly enclosed by its folds.

“Most marvelous of all was the wrestling with Ellie, who was none other than Old age itself, who sooner or later must bring all things to the ground. We must part, I hope never to meet again, for I can only defend myself against you by spells of magic such as these.”

Thor was so enraged when he heard these words that he swung his hammer high in the air, to crush the lying Utgard-Loke, but he had vanished. Thor turned to look for the city. He saw only a beautiful plain spreading its blossoming meadows to the far mountains: and he went thoughtfully back to Asgard.

— Adapted from HanUlton Wright Mabie. 65

Balder the Beautiful

Balder was the most godlike of all the gods, because he was the purest and the best. Wherever he went his coming was like the coming of sunshine, and all the beauty of summer was but the shining of his face. When men’s hearts were white like the light, and their lives clear as the day, it was be- cause Balder was looking down upon them with those soft, clear eyes that were open windows to the soul. He had always lived in such a glow of light that no darkness had ever touched him.

But, one morning, Balder’s face was sad and troubled. He walked slowly from room to room in his palace, and his eyes were heavy with sorrow.

In the night terrible dreams had broken

his sleep, and made it a long torture. The

air seemed to be full of awful changes for

him, and for all the gods. He knew in his

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soul that the shadow of the last great day was sweeping on.

He looked out and saw the worlds lying in light and beauty. The fields were yellow with waving grain. The deep fiords flashed back the sunbeams from their clear depths. Verdure clothed the loftiest moimtains. Balder knew that over all this, darkness and desolation would come, with the silence of reapers and birds, with the fading of leaf and flower. A great sorrow fell on his heart.

Balder could bear the burden no longer. He went out, called all the gods together,^ and told them the terrible dreams of the night. Every face was heavy with care. The death of Balder would be like the going out of the sun.

After a long, sad council, the gods re^ solved to protect him from harm by pledging all things to stand between him and any hurt. So Frig’-ga, his mother, went forth and made everything promise, on a solemn oath, not to injure her son. Fire, iron, all kinds, of metal, every sort of stone, trees, earth,.

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diseases, birds, beasts, snakes, — all pledged themselves that no harm should come near Balder. Everything promised, and Frigga thought she had driven away the cloud. But fate was stronger than her love, and one little shrub had not sworn.

All the other gods soon became merry again: for had not everything promised to protect their beloved Balder? They even made sport of that which troubled them. They found that nothing could hurt Balder, and that all things glanced aside from his shining form. So they persuaded him to stand as a target for their weapons. They hurled darts, spears, swords, and battle-axes at him, all of which went singing through the air and fell harmless at his feet. But Loke was jealous of Balder, and went about thinking how he could destroy him.

It happened that Frigga sat spinning in her house. The soft wind was blowing in at the windows and bringing the merry shouts of the gods at play. An old woman entered and approached her.

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“Do you know,” asked the newcomer, “what they are doing in Asgard? They are throwing all manner of dangerous weapons at Balder. He stands there like the sun for brightness, and against his glory, spears and battle-axes fall powerless to the ground. Nothing can harm him.”

“No,” answered Frigga joyfully; “noth- ing can bring him any hurt, for I have made everything in heaven and earth swear to protect him.”

“What!” said the old woman, “has every- thing sworn to guard Balder?”

“Yes,” said Frigga, “everything has sworn except one little shrub which is called Mistletoe. It grows on the eastern side of Val-hal’. I did not take an oath from that because I thought it too young and weak.”

When the old woman heard this, a strange light came into her eyes, and she walked off much faster than she had come in. No sooner had she’ passed beyond Frigga’s sight than this same feeble old

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woman suddenly grew erect, shook off her woman’s garments, and there stood Loke himself. In a moment he had reached the slope east of Valhal, had plucked a twig of the unsworn Mistletoe, and was back in the circle of the gods, who were still at their pastime with Balder. Ho’-der was standing silent and alone outside the noisy throng, for he was blind. Loke touched him.

“Why do you not throw something at Balderf

“Because I cannot see where Balder stands, and have nothing to throw if I could,” replied Hoder.

“If that is all,” said Loke, “come with me. I will give you something to throw, and direct your aim.”

Hoder, thinking no evil, went with Loke and did as he was told.

The little sprig of Mistletoe shot through the air, pierced the heart of Balder, and in a moment the beautiful god lay dead upon the field. A shadow rose out of the deep beyond the worlds and spread itself over

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heaven and earth, for the light of the uni- verse had gone out.

The gods could not speak for horror. They stood like statues for a moment. Then a hopeless wail burst from their lips. Tears fell like rain from eyes that had never wept

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before, for Balder, the joy of Asgard, liad gone and left them desolate. But Odin was saddest of all, because he knew the future. He knew that peace and light had fled from Asgard forever, and that the last day and the long night were hurrying on.

Then the gods began with sorrowful hearts to make ready for Balder’s funeral. When the once beautiful form had been arrayed in grave clothes, they carried it down to the deep sea, calm as a summer afternoon, wait- ing for its precious burden.

Clos^ to the water’s edge lay Balder’s Ringhom, the greatest ship that sailed the seas. But when the gods tried to launch it, they could not move it. The great vessel creaked and groaned, but no one could push it down to the water. Odin walked about it with a sad face, and the gentle ripple of the little waves, chasing each other over the rocks, seemed a mocking laugh to him.

“Send to Jotunheim for Hyr’-ro-ken,” he said at last; and a messenger was soon flying for that mighty giantess.

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In a little time Hyrroken came riding swiftly on a fierce wolf. Wlien tlie giantess had alighted, Odin ordered four warriors of mighty strength to hold the wolf, but he struggled so angrily that they had to throw him on the ground before they could con- trol him.

Then Hyrroken went to the prow of the ship and, with one mighty effort, sent it far into the sea. The rollers underneath burst into flame, and the whole earth trem- bled with the shock. The great ship floated on the sea as she had often done before when Balder, full of life and beauty, set all her sails and was borne joyfully across the tossing seas.

Slowly and solemnly the dead god was carried on board. As Nanna, his faithful wife, saw her husband borne for the last time from the earth, which he had made dear to her and beautiful to all men, her heart broke with sorrow; and they laid her beside Balder on the funeral pyre, which they had built on Einghom.

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Since the world began, no one had seen such a funeral. No bells tolled, no long pro- cession of mourners moved across the hills; but all the worlds lay under a deep shadow, and from every quarter came those who had loved or feared Balder.

There at the water’s edge stood Odin himself. The ravens flew about his head, and on his majestic face was a gloom that no sun would ever lighten again. There was Frigga, the desolate mother, whose son had already gone so far that he would never come back to her. There was Frey, stand- ing sad and stem in his chariot. There was Freyja, the goddess of love, from whose eyes fell a shining rain of tears. There, too, was Heim’-dal, on his horse, Goldtop.

And around all these glorious ones from Asgard crowded the children of Jotunheim, grim mountain-giants seamed with scars from Thorns hammer, and frost-giants who saw in the death of Balder the coming of that long winter in which they should reign through all the worlds.

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A deep hush fell on all created things. Every eye was fixed on the great ship riding near the shore, and on the funeral pyre rising from the deck, crowned with the forms of Balder and Nanna.

Suddenly a gleam of light flashed over the water. The pile had been kindled, and the flames, creeping slowly at first, climbed faster and faster until they met over the dead and rose skyward. A lurid light filled the heavens and shone on the sea. In the brightness of it, the gods looked pale and sad, and the circle of giants grew darker and more threatening. Thor struck the fast- burning pyre with his hammer, and Odin cast into it the wonderful ring Draup’-ner. Higher and higher leaped the flames. More and more desolate grew the scene. At last the flames began to sink, the funeral pyre was consumed. Balder had vanished for- ever, the summer was ended, and winter waited at the door.

— Adapted from Hamilton Wright Mabiec

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The Challenge of Thor

I am the God Thor, I am the War God, I am the Thunderer! Here in my Northland, My fastness and fortress, Reign I forever!

Here amid icebergs Itule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miolner, the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it!

These are the gauntlets Wherewith I wield it. And hurl it afar off; This is my girdle ; Whenever I brace it. Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest Stream through the heavens, In flashes of crimson, Is but my red beard Blown by the night wind, Affrighting the nations!

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Jove is my brother;

Mine eyes are the lightning;

The wheels of my chariot

Roll in the thimder,

The blows of my hammer

Ring in the earthquake I

Force rules the world still, Has ruled it, shall rule it; Meekness is weakness, Strength is triumphant. Over the whole earth Stm is it Thor’s-Day!

— Henry Wadsworth Longfdlow

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air. It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an^oak I found the arrow, still unbroke ; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

— Henry Wadsiaorih Long f MM’ 77

Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, “0 mists, make room for me.**

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

And hurried landward far away, Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

It said unto the forest, “Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird’s folded wingj And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”

And o’er the farms, “0 chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

It whispered to the fields of com, “Bow down, and hail the coming mom.**

It shouted through the belfry tower, “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

— Henry Wadsworth LongfeUow. 78

The Sermon of St. Francis

Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer^ As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the hearths desire.

Around Assisi’s convent gate The birds, God^s poor who cannot wait. From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food.

“0 brother birds,” St. Francis said, “Ye come to me and ask for bread. But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away.

“Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds.

With manna of celestial words;

Not mine, though mine they seem to beg,

Not mine, though they be spoken through

me.

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“0 doubly are ye bound to praise

The great Creator in your lays;

He giveth you your plumes of down,

Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown,

“He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high. And careth for you everywhere. Who for yourselves so little care I”

With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart.

He knew not if the brotherhood, His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear.

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

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The Wreck of the Hesperus

It was the schooner Hesperus

That saird the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter

To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day;

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth; And he watch’d how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,

Had saiPd the Spanish main, “I pray thee put into yonder port.

For I fear a hurricane.

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Last night the moon had a golden ring. And to-night no moon we seel” The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laugh’d he.

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Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the north-east; The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength; She shudder’d and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leap’d her cable’s length.

“Come hither 1 come hither! my little daugh= ter,

And do not tremble so, For I can weather the roughest gale,

That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapp’d her warm in his seaman’s coat

Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar.

And bound her to the mast.

“0 father 1 I hear the church bells ring,

say, what may it be?” “‘Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast I” —

And he steer’d for the open sea.

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“0 father 1 I hear the sound of guns,

say, what may it bef “Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry seal”

“0 father I I see a gleaming light,

say, what may it be?” But the father answer’d never a word, —

A frozen corpse was he.

Lash’d to the helm, all stiff and stark. With his face tum’d to the skies.

The lantern gleam’d through the gleaming snow On his fix’d and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasp’d her hands, and pray’d That saved she might be; And she ■ thought of Him who still’d the wave On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, JJke a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman^s Woe.

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And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

To the rocks and breakers right ahead

She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew

Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Look’d soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board;

Like a vessel of glass she strove and sank-= Hoi hoi the breakers roar’dl

At daybreak on the black sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair

Lash’d close to a drifting mast.

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The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea- weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow;

Oh I save us all from a death like this. On the reef of Norman’s Woe.

— Henry Wadsworth LongfeUow,

The Windmill

Behold I a giant am II Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour

The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;

In the fields of grain I see

The harvest that is to be. And I fling to the air my arms,

For I know it is all for me.

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r hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In bams, with their open doors,

And the wind, the wind in my sails Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place. With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow

I meet it face to face. As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands;

For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;

Church-going bells begin

Their low, melodious din; I cross my arms on my breast.

And all is peace within.

— Henry Wudsworth Longfellow. 86

Pandora, or The Paradise of Children

Long, long ago, when this old world was young, there was a child named Ep-i-me’- theus. That he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like him- self, was sent from a far country, to be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pan-do’-ra.

The first thing Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where Epimetheua dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which she put to him was, “Epimetheus, what have you in that box?”

“My dear Pandora,” answered Epime- theus, “that is a secret.”

“Who gave it to youf asked Pandora. “And where did it come from?”

“That is a secret, too,” replied Epime- theus.

“How provoking,” said Pandora, “I wish that great ugly box were out of the way.”

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“Oh, come, don’t think of it any more,” said Epimetheus..

“Where can the box have come from, and what in the world is in it?” Pandora kept saying to herself and to Epimetheus.

“Always talking about that box I” said Epimetheus. “I wish, Pandora, you would try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather figs, and eat them under the trees for supper. And I know a vine that has the sweetest grapes you ever tasted.”

“Always talking about grapes and figs I” cried Pandora.

“Well, then,” said Epimetheus, “come, let us run out and have a merry time.”

“I am tired of merry times, and I don’t care if I never have any more!” answered Pandora. “And, besides, I never do have any. This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time. I insist upon your telling me what is inside of it.”

“I do not know,” replied Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. “How, then, can I tell what is inside of it?”

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“You might open it,” said Pandora, “and then we could see for ourselves.”

“Pandora, what are you thinking of?” cried Epimetheus. And his face showed much horror at the idea of looking into the box, which had been entrusted to him. Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still, she could not help think- ing and talking about the box.

“Then you can tell me how it came here,” she said.

“It was left at the door,” replied Epi- metheus, “just before you came, by a person who looked very smiling and kindly. He was dressed in an odd kind of cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers. It looked almost as if it had wings.”

“What sort of staff was he carrying?” asked Pandora.

“Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw I” cried Epimetheus. “It was like two serpents twisting around a stick. At first I thought the serpents were alive.”

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“I know who it was,” said Pandora; “he brought me here as well as the box. He intended it for me. No doubt it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or something very nice for both of us to eat I”

“Perhaps so,” answered Epimetheus, turning away, “but, until he comes back and tells us so, we have no right to lift the lid of the box.”

“What a dull boy he is I” muttered Pan- dora, as Epimetheus left the cottage.

And for the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus went out without asking Pan- dora to go with him. He was tired of hearing about the box.

After he was gone. Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had called it ugly above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had said against it, it was a very handsome box. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, which was so smooth that Pandora could see her face in it. Around the edge there were figures of graceful men and

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women; and the prettiest children ever seen were playing among the flowers.

But the most beautiful face of all was in the centre of the lid. Pandora had looked at this face a great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked, and it looked as if it would say, “Do not be afraid. Pandora I What harm can there be in opening the box? Open it and see if you do not find something very pretty I”

The box was fastened by a knot of gold cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never was a knot with so many ins and outs. Pandora exam- ined it, just to see how it was made.

“It must have been a very skillful per- son who tied this knot,” said Pandora, “but I believe that I begin to see how it was done. Perhaps I could tie it up again after undoing it. There would be no harm in that, surely.”

So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into it as sharply as she

could. Just then she gave the knot a kind of twist, and the gold cord untied itself as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.

“This is the strangest thing I ever knew!” said Pandora. “What will Epime- theus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again f

She made one or two attempts to retie the knot, but it had untied itself so sud- denly that she could not remember how it was tied. When she tried to recall the shape of the knot, it seemed to have gone out of her mind. Nothing was to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was until Epimetheus should come in.

“But,” said Pandora, “when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into the box?”

And then a naughty thought came into her head. She would be suspected of having looked into the box, so she might just as well do it at once. Glancing at the

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face on the lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to see it grinning at her.

“That face looks mischievous,” thought Pandora. “I wonder if it smiled because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the world to run away.”

Just then she thought she heard some- thing stir in the box. She put her ear close and listened. There was quite a tumult of whispers in her ear:

“Let us out, dear Pandora, pray, let us outl We will be such nice playfellows for you! Only let us out!”

“What can it be?” thought Pandora. “Is there something alive in the box? Well! I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep, and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot be any harm in just one little peep!”

At last Epimetheus grew tired of play- ing alone, so he gathered some flowers and made them into a wreath to put on Pan- dora’s head. The flowers were very lovely, — ^roses, and lilies, and orange blossoms.

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Epimetheus entered the cottage softly. He meant to steal behind Pandora and fling the wreath of flowers over her head before- she could be aware of his coming. But there was no need of his walking so lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he pleased,

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— as heavily as a grown man, — as heavily as an elephant, — ^without Pandora’s hearing him. At the moment of his entering the cottage she put her hand to the lid and was on the point of opening the magic box when Epimethens saw her. If he had cried out. Pandora would have withdrawn her hand, and the mystery of the box might never have been known.

But Epimetheus himself was curious to know what was inside. Seeing that Pandora was resolved to find out the secret, he deter- mined that his playfellow should not be the only wise person in the cottage. If there was anything valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it for himself. Thus Epime- theus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly as much in fault as Pandora.

Pandora lifted the lid and looked inside. Just as she raised it the cottage grew very dark; for a black cloud had now swept over the sun and seemed to have buried it alive.

It seemed as if a sudden swarm of crea« tures brushed past her, taking flight out of

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the box. At the same instant she heard the voice of Epimetheus, as if he were in pain.

“Oh, I am stmigl” cried he. “I am stung I Naughty Pandora! why have you opened this wicked box?”

Pandora let the lid drop and looked about her to see what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room that she could hardly see what was in it. But she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or mosquitoes, or pinching-bugs were darting about.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the poor light, she saw a crowd of ugly shapes, with bats’ wings, and long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was it a great while before Pandora her- self began to scream, in no less pain than her playfellow. A little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her if Epimetheus had not run and brushed it away.

Then he opened the door and the window to get rid of the ugly swarm, and away flew the winged Troubles all abroad.

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Now I must tell you that these ugly things were the whole family of earthly trou- bles. There were evil Passions; there were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows; there were a great many kinds of Cares; there were Diseases; there were more kinds of Naughti- ness than it would be of any use to talk about. In short, everything that has since troubled mankind had been shut up in that box, and given to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, that the happy children of the world might not be annoyed by them.

And what was very strange, after a day or two, all the flowers and dewy blossoms now began to droop and shed their leaves. The children, who before seemed immortal in their childhood, now grew older day by day. They soon came to be youths and maidens, and men and women by and by, and then aged people.

Pandora and Epimetheus remained in their cottage after the ugly swarm had gone out. Both of them had been stung. They were in much pain, which seemed all the

9?

worse to* them, because it was the first pain that had ever been felt since the world began. Of course they were not used to it, and could have no idea what it meant.

Besides all this, they were in a bad humor with themselves and with each other. Epimetheus sat down in a comer with his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself on the floor and rested her head on the fatal box. She was crying bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Sud- denly there was a gentle tap on the inside of the lid.

“What can that be?” cried Pandora, lift- ing her head.

Again the tap I It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy’s hand, knocking lightly on the inside of ihe box.

“Who are youf asked Pandora. “Who are you, inside of this naughty boxf

A sweet little voice spoke, “Only lift the lid and you shall see.”

“No, no,” answered Pandora, again begin- ning to sob, “I have had enough of lifting the

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lidl You are inside of the box and there you shall stayl There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so fool- ish as to let you out!”

“Ah,” said the sweet little voice agaifi “you would much better let me out. I an? not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty Pandora 1 I am sure you will let me out.”

Pandoria’s heart had grown lighter at every word that came from the box, and Epimetheus, too, though still in the comer, had turned half around. He seemed to be in rather better spirits than before.

“Epimetheus,” cried Pandora, “have you heard this little voice?”

“Yes, to be sure I have,” answered he; “and what of it?”

“Shall I lift the lid again?” asked

Pandora.

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“Just as you please,” said Epimetheus. **Tou have done so mucli mischief already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other Trouble, in such a swarm can make little difference.”

“Ah, naughty boy I” cried the little voice inside the box in a laughing tone. “He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora, lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so bad as you think them!”

“Epimetheus,” exclaimed Pandora, “come what may I will open the box!”

“The lid seems very heavy,” cried Epime- theus, running across the room, “I will help you I”

So together the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a sunny and smiling little person who hovered about the room, throw- ing a light wherever she went. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid her finger on the spot where the Trouble had stung him. Imme-

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diately the pain of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the forehead, and her hurt was cured.

After these good deeds, the bright stranger fluttered over the children’s heads, and looked so sweetly at them that they both began to think it not so wrong to have opefied the box. Otherwise, their cheery guest would have been kept a prisoner too.

“Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?” asked Pandora.

“I am called Hope,” answered the sunny figure. “And because I am such a cheery little body, . I was packed into the box, to make amends to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which you have let loose. Never fearl we shall do well in spite of them all.”

“Your wings are colored like the rain- bowl” exclaimed Pandora. “How very beau- tiful they are!”

“Yes, they are like the rainbow,” said Hope. “I am made of tears as well as smiles.”

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“And will you stay with us,” asked Epime- theus, “forever and ever?”

“As long as you need me,” said Hope, “and that will be as long as you stay in the world. I promise never to desert you. There may be times when you will think that I have gone, but when you least expect it you shall seethe glimmer of my wings in your cottage.”

— Adapted from Nathaniel Hawthorne. 102

Baucis and Philemon or The Miraculous

Pitcher

One evening long ago old Phi-le’-mon and his old wife Bau’-eis sat at their cottage-door, watching the beautiful sunset. They talked about their garden and their cow and their bees, and their grapevine on the cottage- wall. But the rude shouts of children and the barking of dogs in the village near by grew louder and louder. At last it was hard for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

“Ah, wife,” cried Philemon, “I fear some poor traveler is seeking shelter among our neighbors. Instead of giving him food and lodging they have set their dogs after him.””

“Well-a-day!” answered old Baucis, “I do wish our neighbors were a little more kindly. Think of bringing up children in this wicked way! They even pat them on the head when they fling stones at strangers.”

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“These children will never come to any good,” said Philemon^ shaking his white head. “Some terrible thing will happen to all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. But as for you and me, let us give half of our bread to any poor stranger who may need it.”

“That’s right, husband,” said Baucis, “so we will.”

“I never heard the dogs bark so loudly before,” said the good old man.

“Nor knew the children to be so rude,** answered his good old wife.

They sat shaking their heads, while the noise grew nearer and nearer. Soon at the foot of the little hill, on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching. Close behind them came the fierce dogs snarl- ing at their heels. A little way off ran a crowd of children who sent up shrill cries and flung stones at the strangers with all their might. Once or twice the younger of the two men turned and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand.

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His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along.

Both of the travelers were humbly clad. They looked as if they had not money enough in their pockets to pay for a night’s lodging.

“Come, wife,” said Philemon to Baucis, “let us go and meet these poor people. No doubt they feel too heavy-hearted to climb the hill.”

“You go and meet them,” answered Bau- cis, “while I make haste within doors to get them something for supper.”

So she hastened into the cottage. Phile- mon went forward and extended his hand, saying, “Welcome, strangers 1 welcome!”

“Thank you,” replied the younger of the two. “This greeting is quite different from the one we met with in yonder village. Pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?”

“Ah,” said old Philemon, “I am here, I hope, to make amends for the rudeness of my neighbors.”

“Well said, old father,” cried the traveler, “if the truth must be told, my companion and

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myself need some amends. These children have bespattered us with mud balls, and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. I struck him across the nose with my staff. You may have heard him yelp.”

Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits. He did not seem weary with the long journey, nor hurt by the rough treatment. He was dressed in an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over his ears. Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak which he kept wrapped about him. Philemon also saw that he had on a queer pair of shoes. He was so light and active that his feet seemed to rise from the ground of their own accord.

“I used to be light-footed, too,” said Philemon, “but I always found my feet heavy at night-fall.”

“There is nothing like a good staff to help one along,” said the stranger, “and I happen to have a fine one, as you see.”

It was indeed the oddest looking staff

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tliat Philemon had ever seen. It was made of olive wood, and had something like a pair of wings near the top. Two snakes carved in the wood entwined themselves about the staff. They were so well made that old Phile- mon almost thought them alive and that he could see them wriggling and twisting.

“A curious piece of work, sure enough 1” said Philemon. “A staff with wings 1 It would be a fine kind of stick for a little boy to ride on.” By this time Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.

“Friends,” said the old man, “sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what she can find for supper. We are poor folks, but you are welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard.”

The yoimger stranger threw himself care- lessly on the bench, letting his staff fall as he did so. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord. Spreading its little wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.

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I’here it stood quite still, but the snakes continued to wriggle.

Before Philemon could ask any questions the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff. In a deep tone of voice he asked, “Was there not once a lake where yonder village now stands?”

“Not in my day, friend,” answered Phile- mon, “and I am an old man as you see. There were always the fields and meadows and the old trees and the little stream running through the valley. Neither my father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise so far as I know.”

While Baucis was getting supper the travelers talked to Philemon. The younger made so many witty remarks that the good old man burst out laughing, “You are the merriest fellow I have seen for many a day. Pray, my young friend, what may I call your name?”

“I am very himible as you see, so if you call me Mercury the name will fit very well,” replied the young man.

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“Mercury ?” repeated Philemon. “That is a very strange name, and your companion there? Has he as strange a namef

“You must ask the thunder to tell it to you,” replied Mercury. “No other voice is loud enough.”

Baucis had now prepared the supper. Coming to the door, she began to make excuses for the poor fare which she had to set before her guests.

“If we had known you Vere coming,” said she, **my good man and I would have gone without a morsel to give you a better supper. But I took the best part of to-day’s milk to make cheese, and our last loaf is half eaten. Ah, me, I never feel the sorrow of being poor so much as when a poor traveler knocks at my door.”

“All will be well. Do not trouble your- self, my good dame,” replied the elder stranger, kindly. “An honest, hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare. It will turn the coarsest food to nectar and

ambrosia.”

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“A welcome you shall have,” cried Baucis, “and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides.”

“Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!” ex- claimed Mercury, laughing. “You shall see how bravely I will play my part at it. I was never more hungry in my life.”

“Mercy on us I” whispered Baucis to her husband. “If the young man has such a ter-

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rible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough supper.” i

They all went into the cottage leaving the wonderful staff behind. What should it do but spread its wings and go hopping and fluttering up the doorsteps. Tap, tap, went the staff on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself beside its master’s chair.

“A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please,” said the master of the staff. “This day has been hot and I am very thirsty.”

“My dear people,” answered Baucis, “I am sorry and ashamed, but the truth is there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. O husband 1 husband! why did we not go without our supper?”

“It appears to me,” cried Mercury, “that matters are not so bad as you think. Here is more milk in the pitcher.”

So saying, he filled not only his own bowl but also his companion’s from the pitcher that was supposed to be empty. The good

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woman could scarcely believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards and had seen the bottom of the pitcher.

“I am old,” thought Baucis to herself, “and apt to be forgetful. I suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher must be empty now after filling the bowls twice over.”

“What excellent milkl” said the young man. “I must ask you for a little more.”

Now Baucis had seen plainly that the pitcher had been turned upside down and every drop of milk had been poured out. Of course, there could not be any left. However, she took up the pitcher to pour the milk into the bowls, but to her surprise the milk filled the bowl to the brim and overfiowed upon the table. The two snakes that were twisted about the staff stretched out their heads and began to lap up the spilt milk.

“And now a slice of your brown loaf,

Mother Baucis,” said the yoimg man, “and a

little of that honey.”

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Baucis cut him a slice of the bread, which was now light and moist. Tasting a crumb which had fallen upon the table, she found it delicious. She could hardly believe it was a loaf of her own baking. Yet, she was sure these men had brought no bread with them, what other loaf could it be?

But, oh, the honey 1 Its color was that of the purest gold. It had the odor of a thou- sand flowers. Never was such honey tasted, seen or smelt. The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it delightful. Had you closed your eyes you would have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with honeys suckle creeping all over it.

Good Mother Baucis could not help think- ing there was something out of the common in all that had been going on. So, after help- ing the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each plate, she sat down by Philemon and whispered to him what she had seen.

“Did you ever hear the like?” asked she,

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“No, I never did,” answered Philemon, with a smile. “I rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of dream. There was more milk in the pitcher than you thought. That is all.”

“Ah, husband,” said Baucis, “say what you will, these are very uncommon people.”

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“Well, well,” replied Philemon, still smil- ing, “perhaps they arei. I am very glad to see them making so comfortable a supper.”

Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate. Baucis thought that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each grape was almost bursting with ripe juice. It was a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have grown on their old vine.

“Very good grapes these,” said Mercury, as he swallowed one after another, without making his cluster less. “Pray, my good host, where did you gather them?”

“From my own vine,” answered Philemon. “You may see one of its branches twisting across the window yonder. But wife and I have never thought the grapes were very fine

ones.”

“I never tasted better,” said the guest. “Another cup of this delicious milk, if you please. I have supped better than a prince.”

This time old Philemon took up the pitcher. He slyly peeped into it and saw

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that it contained not a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white foun- tain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher and filled it to the brim with foaming milk.

“Who are ye, wonder-wojking strangers?” cried he,. even more bewildered than his wife had been.

“Your guests and your friends, my good Philemon,” replied the older traveler, in his mild deep voice. “May your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy stranger!”

The supper now being over, the strangers asked to be shown to their place of rest. The old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer to express the wonder which they felt. But the older traveler had inspired them with such awe that they dared not ask him any questions. However, Phile- mon drew the young man aside, and inquired how a fountain of milk could have got into an old pitcher.

Pointing to his staff. Mercury replied,

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“There is the whole mystery. If you can make it out, I’ll thank you to let me know. I can’t tell what to make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this, some- times getting me a supper, and quite as often stealing it away.”

He said no more, but looked so slyly into their faces that they fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his heels as its master left the room. When they were alone the good old couple spent some time in talking about the events of the evening and soon fell asleep.

The strangers arose with the sun to depart. Philemon urged them to stay a little longer, until Baucis could milk the cow and bake a cake upon the hearth. The guests, however, thought it better to make a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on. So they set out at once. They asked Philemon and Baucis to walk with them a short distance and show them the road they were to take. All four left the cottage, chatting together like old friends.

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“Ah, me!” exclaimed Philemon, “if our neighbors knew what a blessed thing it is to be kind to strangers, they would tie up their dogs and not allow their children to fling stones.”

“It is a sin and shame for them to behave so, that it is,” cried old Baucis. “I mean to go this very day and tell some of them what naughty people they are.”

The elder traveler looked so grave and stem that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared to speak another word. They gazed into his face as if they had been gazing into the sky.

“When men do not feel toward the hum- blest stranger as if he were a brother,” said the traveler, in tones that sounded like an organ, “they are unworthy to live longer.”

“And by the by, my dear old people,” cried the young man, “where is this same village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I do not see it hereabouts.”

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley. There at sunset, only the day ,

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before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, and the wide street with children playing on ito

But to their astonishment, there was no longer any sign of a village I Even the fertile valley had disappeared. Instead they beheld a broad, blue lake, which filled the great valley.

For an instant the lake was perfectly smooth. Then a little breeze sprang up and caused the water to dance and sparkle in the

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sunbeams, and to dash with a pleasant ripple against the shore.

“Alasl” cried these kind old people, “what has become of our poor neighbors’?”

“They exist no longer as men and women,” said the elder traveler, in his grand deep voice, which a roll of thunder seemed to echo. “There was no use nor beauty in such lives as theirs. They never softened or sweetened the lot of any one. Now the old lake has spread itself again to reflect the sky.”

“As for those foolish people,” said the young man, “they are all changed to fishes. They needed but little change, too, for they were a scaly set of rascals.”

“As for you, good Philemon,” continued the elder traveler, “and you, kind Baucis, you have been most kind to the homeless stranger; therefore the milk became a foun- tain of nectar and the brown loaf and the honey became ambrosia. Thus the gods have feasted at your board. You have done well, my dear friends. Ask what favor you will and it shall be granted.”

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Philemon and Baucis looked at one another. Then one uttered the desire of both their hearts. “Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die; for we have always loved one another I”

“Be it so!” replied the stranger with great kindness. “Now look towards your cottage!”

They did so. To their surprise they saw a tall palace of white marble with an open portal. It occupied the spot whei*e their humble home had so lately stood!

“There is your home,” said the stranger, smiling on them both. “Entertain your guests in yonder palace as freely as in your poor hovel.”

The old folks fell on their knees to thank them, but behold! both guests were gone.

So Philemon and Baucis lived in the mar- ble palace, and spent their time making everybody comfortable who passed that way. The milk pitcher was never empty. When- ever an honest guest took a drink from this pitcher he found it the sweetest milk that

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ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross guest happened to sip, he was certain to twist his face into a hard knot and call it a pitcher of sour milk.

Thus the old people lived in their palace a great while, and grew older and older. Indeed, they grew very old. At length there came a summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to appear to invite their guests to breakfast. The guests searched every- where, from top to bottom of the palace, and all to no purpose. But after a while, they saw in front of the door two stately trees, which nobody could remember having seen the day before. Yet there they stood with their roots deep in the soil and their leaves shading the palace. One was an oak and the other a linden-tree. Their boughs were entwined together, so that each tree seemed to live in the other.

While the guests were wondering how the trees could have grown to be so tall in a single night, a breeze sprang up and set their boughs astir. Then there was a deep murmur

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in the air, as if the two trees were speakingo “I am old Philemon 1” murmured the Oakc “I am old Baucis I” murmured the Linden^ tree.

But as the breeze grew loilder the trees both spoke at once, “Philemon I Baucis! Bau- cis! Philemon!” — as if one were both and both were one. The good old couple had renewed their youth. They were now to spend a quiet delightful hundred years or so, Philemon as an oak and Baucis as a Linden- tree. And, oh, what a welcome shade they flung around them. Whenever a traveler paused under the trees he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head. It seemed to say, “Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!”

Some kind person built a seat around their trunks. And here for many years the weary and the hungry and the thirsty used to rest themselves and drink milk from the miraculous pitcher.

— Adapted from Nathaniel Hawthorne^

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Piccola

Poor sweet Piccola I Did you hear What happened to Piccola, children dear? *Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants As fell to this little maid of France.

‘Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor Could hardly drive the wolf from the door, Striving with poverty’s patient pain. Only to live till summer again.

No gifts for Piccola! Sad were they When dawned the morning of Christmas- day: Their little darling no joy might stir, St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her.

But Piccola did not doubt at all.

That something beautiful must befall

Every child upon Christmas-day;

And so she slept till the dawn was gray.

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And, full of faith, when at last she woke, She stole to her shoe, as the morning broke; Such sounds of gladness filled all the air *Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there.

In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild; Never was seen such a joyful child. “See what the good saint brought I” she cried; And mother and father must peep inside.

Now such a story who ever heard? There was a little shivering bird! A sparrow, that in at the window flew, Had crept into Piccola’s wooden shoe I

“How good poor Piccola must have beenP* She cried, as happy as any queen; . While the starving sparrow she fed and

warmed, And danced with rapture, she was so

charmed.

Children, this story I tell you Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true. In the far-off land of France, they say, Still do they live to this very day.

— Celia Thaxtvr,, 125

“1

The Sandpiper

Across the narrow beacli we flit,

One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for itj The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As up and down the beach we flit, — One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky;

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly,

As fast we flit along the beach, — One little sandpiper and I. 126

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful ciyj

He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood flre will bum so bright X To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky^

For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

— Celia ThMxtep,

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The Scarecrow

The fanner looked at his cheny-tree, With thick buds clustered on every bough;

“I wish I could cheat the robins,” said he; “If somebody only would show me howl

“I’ll make a terrible scarecrow grim, With threatening arms and bristling headj

lAnd up in the tree I’ll fasten him To frighten them half to death,” he said«

He made a scarecrow tattered and torn— Oh, ’twas a horrible thing to seel

And very early, one summer mom, He set it up in his cherry-tree.

The blossoms were light as the light seafoam. The beautiful tree was a lovely sight,

But the scarecrow stood there so much at home AU the birds flew screaming away in fright.

The robins, who watched him every day, Heads held aslant, keen eyes so bright I

Beholding the monster, began to say, “Why should this monster our happiness blight?

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**He never moves round for the roughest weather,

He’s a harmless, comical, tough old fellow; Let’s all go into tnc tree together,

For he won’t budge till the fruit is mellow!”

So up they flew; and the sauciest pair Mid the shady branches peered and perked.

Selected a spot with the utmost care. And all day merrily sang and worked.

And where do you think they built their nest?

In the scarecrow’s pocket, if you please. That, half concealed on his ragged breast,

Made a charming covert of safety and ease!

By the time the cherries were ruby-red, A thriving family, hungry and brisk.

The whole long day on the ripe fruit fed; ‘Twas so convenient! They ran no risk!

Until the children were ready to fly, All undisturbed they lived in the tree;

For nobody thought to look at the Guy For a robin’s flourishing family!

—Celia Thaxter. 12S

Apollo and Daphne

One day A-pol’-lo saw Cupid playing with a bow and arrow. “What have you to do with such warlike weapons, saucy boy?” said Apollo. “Be content with your torch, and kindle your flames where you will, but do not meddle with my weapons.”

When Cupid heard this, he replied, “Your arrows may strike everything else, Apollo, but my arrow shall strike you.” So he took his stand on a rock and drew from his quiver two arrows. One was tipped with gold and one with lead. With the leaden arrow he struck Daph’-ne, the daugh- ter of the river god, and the golden arrow he shot into Apollo’s heart.

The next morning when Daphne had hurried up the hill to get the first glimpse of the sun-chariot, Apollo saw her. The golden arrow in his heart made him love Daphne, but the leaden arrow in her heart made her dislike Apollo. So, when Apollo

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followed her, she fled more swiftly than the wind.

“Stay,” he cried, “do not fly from me. I am not a foe. Jupiter is my father and

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I am the god of song and of the harp. My arrows fly true to the mark, but Cupid’s arrow has pierced my heart.”

The nymph paid no heed to him, but sped on till her strength failed her. Then she called to the river god, “Oh, father, help me! Open the earth for me or change my form that I may escape.”

No sooner had she spoken than her feet seemed rooted to the ground and rough bark enclosed her body. Her arms became branches and from her hands grew many leaves. Her father had changed her into a laurel tree.

Apollo came up with outstretched arms^ but there was nothing to greet him but a rugged tree trunk.

“Foolish youth that I am,” cried Apollo, “now I have lost you forever. But you shall be my favorite tree and I shall gather a wreath from your branches and shall wear it for my crown. And, moreover, poets, artists, and musicians shall wear wreaths of laurel.”

—A Greek Myth. 132

Phaeton

In the sunny plains of Greece dwelt Pha’-e-ton, the son of A-pol’-lo. Early in the morning when the sun appeared above the horizon his mother would tell him that his father was starting out for his early driven Phaeton was proud of his father’s beauty and power, and he boasted of them to his play- mates.

“Foolish fellow,” they said, “you are puffed up with pride. Give us some proof that Apollo is your father or keep silent.”

Phaeton went to his mother and said, “I must prove that I am the son of Apollo, therefore direct me to my father’s palace, that I may speak with him.”

“The sun rises in the land next to ours,” replied his mother. “Make haste if you would reach his palace before his chariot passes out of the morning gates.”

Phaeton traveled eastward till lie came to his father’s palace. There he saw Apollo, robed in purple and gold, sitting on his throne, which glittered with diamonds. On his right hand and on his left stood the Days and Hours, the Months and Years.

Aii-ro’-ra had already thrown open the gates of the east and the Hours came forth to harness the fiery horses.

Full of hope and pride. Phaeton advanced to his father’s throne. Apollo watched him as he drew near and asked the purpose of his visit.

The youth replied, “0 light of the world, I beg of you give me some proof that I may know that you are my father.”

Apollo looked at his son with pride and answered, “I will grant you whatever you wish, and I call to witness the Eiver Styx.”

“Oh, father,” cried Phaeton, “let me drive the golden chariot of the sun just one day.”

Apollo shook his head and begged Phaeton not to ask that. “You are mortal,” said he, “and you ask to do the work of a god.

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You have not the strength nor the wisdom for so great a work. The first part of the way is so steep that the horses can hardly climb. The middle part is so high that I can not look at the earth and sea beneath me without alarm. The last part of the road descends so rapidly that it requires most careful driv- ing. Nor will you find the horses easy to guide. I can scarcely govern them myself when they become unruly. I beg of you to recall your wish while you may. You ask me for a proof that I am your father. My care for you is a proof. Look around you,” he con- tinued, “and choose something that the earth or sea contains. My oath is given, but I beg of you to choose more wisely.”

Phaeton heeded not the words of Apollo, but sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and grasped the reins with delight.

“My son,” said Apollo, “if you will go, you must at least heed this advice — spare the whip and hold tight the reins. They go too fast of their own accord. Do not take the straight road, but turn off at the left. The

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marks of the wheels will guide you. Go not too high or you will bum the heavenly dwell- ings. Go not too low or you will set the earth on fire, and now I leave you to your fate.”

Meanwhile the horses filled the air with their snortings and stamped the ground with impatience. Then they darted forward through the rosy clouds and outran the morn- ing breeze. Missing the guiding hand of Apollo, they rushed headlong and left the traveled road.

Phaeton was alarmed and did. not know what to do.

When he looked down upon the earth he grew pale with terror and his knees shook. He turned his eyes from one direction to another. He forgot the names of the horses. He did not know whether to draw the reins tight or let them loose. Phaeton’s cour- age failed him and he let the reins fall from his hands. The horses dashed off into unknown regions of the sky and hurled the chariot up into high heaven, then down to earth.

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The moon saw her brother’s chariot run- ning beneath her own. The clouds began to smoke and the mountain tops took fire. The fields were parched with heat and the trees were all ablaze. Great cities perished, with their walls and towers. Fountains dried up and the sea shrank. Where water had been, now became dry plains. The mountains that lay beneath the waves lifted up their heads and became islands.

Thrice Neptune tried to raise his head above the surface of the water and thrice he was driven back by the heat. Earth looked up to heaven and with husky tone called on Jupiter.

“0 ruler of the gods,” she said, “is it your will that I perish with fire? Is it for this that I have supplied herbage for cattle, and fruit for men? And what has my brother Ocean done to deserve such a fate? I pray you take thought of us in this awful moment and save us.”

Then Jupiter called the gods to witness that all would be lost unless there was a

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spe,edy remedy. So he mounted the lofty tower and sent forth his mightiest thunder- bolt, and struck Phaeton from his seat. With his hair on fire, Phaeton fell headlong like a shooting star into the river. The horses were calmed by Jupiter’s voice and the car rolled back into the path. When evening came it entered the western gates and was taken back to the palace of Apollo.

When Phaeton’s mother heard of his death she mourned for him and would not be comforted. His sisters spent their days by the river bank, wringing their hands and weeping for him till the gods took pity on them and turned theni into poplar trees. His friend Cyc’nus plunged every day into the river, hoping to find Phaeton, until the gods changed him into a swan. The swan still sails over the water, plunging its head in now and then as if in search of something it loves.

To this very day the deserts and barren places of the earth tell the story of the day Phaeton drove Apollo’s chariot.

— A Cheek Myth. 139

Echo

Echo was a beautiful nymph. She was fond of the woods and hills and lived there free from care. But Echo had one fault. She was too fond of talking and would always have the last word.

One day Juno came down from her throne on Mount O-lym’-pus in search of Jupiter. She met Echo and asked, “Where is he, Echo?”

“Is he Echo? Oh, no, I am Echo,” replied the saucy nymph. ‘ “How dare you do that?” said Juno.

“Dare you do that?” mocked Echo. “Dare you do what?”

“I dare punish you,” replied Juno angrily. “From this day you shall live in lonely places and only have power to speak the last words you hear.”

One day after that Echo saw Nar-cis’-sus as he pursued the chase up the mountain.

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Echo longe(l to speak to him, but she could not. She must wait till he spoke first. She waited patiently till one day when he had wandered away from his friends he shouted, “Who’s heref

“Here,” replied Echo.

Narcissus looked aroimd and saw no one, but he called, “Cornel”

“Gomel” replied Echo.

Then Narcissus called, “Let us join each otherl”

“Join each otherl” repeated Echo, and she ran to him.

When he saw her he said, “I do not want you.”

“Not want you,” replied Echo.

But Narcissus hurried away and Echo went back to the woods, and there she hid herself among the caves and mountain cliffs. She grew so lonely that her form faded away with grief, and there was nothing left but her voice.

—A Greek Myth.

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Narcissus

One day Narcissus had been hunting in the forest till he was tired and thirsty. He came to a fountain where the water was as clear as crystal. The rocks sheltered it from the sun, the grass grew fresh around it, and not a leaf fell to disturb its surface.

The handsome youth stooped to drink and saw his image in the water. He did not know it as himself, but thought it was some beautiful water-nymph who lived in the fountains. He gazed with pleasure at the bright eyes and curly locks, the rounded cheeks and parting lips. He forgot his hunt. He forgot everything. He could only gaze at his own image.

All day long he begged the beautiful creature to come out of the water. More than once he plimged into the fountain to meet it, but the monaent he touched the water the image disappeared. Then he talked to it. “Beautiful nymph,” he would say, “why do you shun me? You smile at

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me, and when I stretch’ forth my arm, you do the same. Will you not come to mef* The lips parted but no sound came forth. Day after day, and night after night, he sat on the banks and gazed at the image. He saw the face in the water grow pale, and his own face grew white, and his yellow hair fell over his hollow cheeks. At last his breath floated away and there, instead of a beautiful youth, stood a flower, gazing with bent head into the crystal fountain. In his memory the flower bears his name.

— A Cheek Myth. 143

Arachne

In olden times there lived in Greece a maiden by the name of A-rach’-ne. She was young and pretty and would have been loved by everyone if it had not been for her foolish pride in her skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery. She had gained such skill in these arts that the nymphs would leave their groves and fountains to come and gaze at her work.

Not only was Arachne’s work beautiful, but it was a pleasure to watch her at her work. It was a pleasure to watch her form the crude wool into rolls, or separate it with her fingers till it looked like soft clouds, or twist the spindle, or embroider the web with her needle.

One would have thought she had been taught by A-the’-ne, who was the goddess of the arts of weaving and spinning. But Arachne did not wish to be thought a pupil of the goddess. She boasted that no one

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could do work equal to hers. She said, “Let Athene try her skill with me. I’m not afraid to match my skill with hers.”

Arachne boasted so often and so loudly that the goddess was displeased. So she left Mount Olympus and came down to earth to punish her. She took the guise of an old woman and came to Arachne’s home. She entered, seated herself, and began to talk to Arachne. The maiden soon began to boast of her skill and of her wish to have a test with the goddess.

Athene advised her to be more modest, to compete with her fellow-mortals, but not to challenge a goddess. “I have had much experience,” she said, “and I hope you will not despise my counsel. I also advise you,” she continued, “to ask forgiveness for what you have said. Athene is kind and perhaps will forgive you.”

Arachne looked at the old woman, tossed her head, and said, “I am not afraid of the goddes’s. Let her try her skill with me if she will.”

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“I will accept your challenge,” said A-thene, and she dropped her disguise.

The nymphs bent low when they saw Athene, and all the bystanders bowed their heads. But Arachne, in her foolish conceit, paid no reverence. A sudden color came to her face. Then she grew pale, but she stood by her boasted words.

Arachne and Athene both set up their looms and attached the web to the beam. They passed the slender shuttles in and out among the threads. Both worked with

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speed. Their skillful hands moved rapidly. The excitement of the contest made the labor light, and they worked in silence.

When the finishing touches were given, each turned to see the other’s work. Athene could not help admiring Arachne’s work. But when Arachne looked at Athene’s web, she stood with fixed eyes and was silent. She was forced to yield the victory to Athene and acknowledge her own failure. . She bitterly repented her folly, but she felt so much guilt and shame that she went away and hid herself.

When Athene saw her sorrow, she said, “You shall do the work you love in the way you are best fitted. You shall be the mother of a race of weavers.”

Then Athene touched Arachne and changed her into a spider”. Her form shrank and her head grew small. Her fingers clung to her sides and served for legs and in this form Arachne and all her descend- ants have gone on weaving and spinning ever since.

147 —A Greek Myth.

Proserpina, or The Pomegranate Seeds

Ce’-res had the care of the wheat, the com, the rye, the barley and other crops of every kind all over the earth. One day, as she got into her car drawn by a pair of winged dragons, her daughter Pro-ser-pi’-na , came running to her.

“Mother,” she said, “may I not run to the shore and play with the sea nymphs?”

Ceres was very fond of Proserpina and seldom let her go out alone, so she said, “Yes, but you must not stray away in the fields.”

Proserpina promised and, by the time the car was out of sight, she was on the shore, calling to the sea nymphs to come and play with her. They knew her voice and were not long in showing their glistening faces and sea-green hair above the water. They brought with them many beautiful shells to make a necklace, which they hung round Proserpina’s neck. Then Proserpina

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asked them to go with her to gather flowers.

“Oh, no,” cried the sea nymphs, “we dare not go with you upon the dry land. We must breathe the salt air of the ocean. See how careful we are to let the waves break over us every moment. If it were not for that, we should soon look like bunches of seaweed dried in the sun.”

“Wait for me here, then,” said Proser- pina, “and I will run and fill my apron with flowers. I wish to make you some wreaths that shall be as lovely as this necklace of shells.”

“We will wait,” answered the sea nymphs, “but while you are gone we may as well lie down on a bank of soft sponge under water. We will pop up our heads every few minutes to see if you are coming.”

Proserpina ran to a spot where she had seen a great many flowers. She filled her apron with them and started back. But, a little farther on, she saw a large shrub cov- ered with the most beautiful fiowers. She ran to it, and the nearer she came to it the

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more beautiful it looked. It bore a hun- dred flowers of the most brilliant colors.

“It is really the most beautiful shrub that ever sprang out of the earth,” said she. “I will pull it up by the roots and carry it home and plant it in my mother’s garden.”

Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand, Proserpina seized the large shrub with the other and pulled and pulled. Soon the earth began to stir and crack around the stem. She gave another pull and up came the shrub. Proserpina stood hold- ing the stem in her hand and gazing at the deep hole which its roots had left in the soil.

This hole kept spreading wider and wider, and growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to have no bottom. All the while there came a rumbling noise out of its depths. It grew louder and louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounded like the tramp of horses’ hoofs and the rattling of wheels. Soon she saw a team of four black horses tearing their way out of the earth with a golden chariot at their heels. They

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leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all. There they were, tossing their black manes and switching their black tails, close by the spot where Proserpina stood.

In the chariot sat a man richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming with diamonds. He looked sullen and kept rub-

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ting his eyes and shading them with his hand, as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be fond of its brightness. As soon as he saw Proserpina he beckoned her to come a little nearer.

“Don’t be afraid,” said he, with as cheer- ful a smile as he knew how to put on. “Come! “Will you ride a little way with me in my beautiful chariot?”

Proserpina was much alarmed. “Mother, Mother,” she cried, but Ceres was then a thousand miles off, making the corn grow in some distant country.

When Proserpina began to cry out, the stranger leaped to the ground, caught her in his arms, mounted the chariot and shouted to the four black horses to set off. They broke into so swift a gallop that it seemed more like flying through the air than run- ning along the earth. In a moment Proser- pina lost sight of the pleasant valley in which she had always dwelt. Still she screamed and scattered her apron full of flowers along the way.

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“Do not be so frightened,” said the stranger, trying to soften his rough voice. “I promise not to do you any harm. Wait till we come to my palace and I will give you a garden full of flowers all made of diamonds, pearls, and rubies. My name is Pluto. I am the king of diamonds and all other precious stones. All of the gold and silver that lies under the earth belongs to me and all the copper and iron, and all the coal mines be- long to me. Do you see this splendid crown upon my head? You may have it for a play- thing. We shall be very good friends and you will find me more agreeable when we get out of this troublesome sunshine.”

“Let me go home I” cried Proserpina. “Let me go home to my mother!”

“My home is better than your mother’s,” answered King Pluto. “It is a palace made of gold, with crystal windows, and diamond lamps. If you like, you may be my queen.”

“I don’t care for golden palaces and thrones,” sobbed Proserpina. “Oh, Mother! Mother! Carry me back to my mother!”

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But King Pluto only shouted to his horses to go faster.

“Proserpina,” said he, “I offer you my palace and my crown and all the riches that are under the earth. The one thing which my palace needs is a merry little- maid to cheer up the rooms with her smile, and this is what you must do for King Pluto.”

“I shall never smile again till you set me down at my mother’s door,” answered Proserpina. But she might just as well have talked to the wind, for Pluto urged on his horses and went faster than ever. The black horses rushed along so swiftly that they were soon beyond the limits of the sunshine.

“This twilight is good,” said King Pluto, “after that ugly glare of the sun. My pal- ace is lighted with diamond lamps. You will like it when we get there.”

“Is it much farther?” asked Proserpinao “And will you carry me back when I have seen it?”

“We will talk of that by and by,** answered Pluto. “Do you see that tall gate-

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way before us? When we pass that we are at home. And there lies my faithful mastiff. Cer’-be-rusl Come hither, my good dog I”

Pluto pulled at the reins and stopped the chariot right between the tall pillars of the gateway. The mastiff got up, stood on his hind legs, and put his fore paws on the chariot-wheel. He was a big ugly-looking monster. He had three separate heads, each of them fiercer than the two others, but King Pluto patted them all. He seemed fond of his three-headed dog. Cerberus was glad to see his master, and showed it by wagging his tail at a great rate. Proserpina saw that this tail was a live dragon with fiery eyes and big fangs.

“Will the dog bite me?” asked Proser- pina. “What an ugly creature he isl”

“Oh, never fear,” answered her compan- ion, “he never harms people imless they try to enter my kingdom without being sent for, or try to get away when I wish to keep them here. Down, Cerberus I Now, Proserpina, we wui drive on.”

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On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed pleased to find himself once more in his own kingdom. Not far from the gate- way they came to a bridge, which seemed to be built of iron. Pluto stopped the chariot and Proserpina looked at the stream which was gliding lazily beneath it.

“This is the river Le’-the,” said PlutOc “Only sip a little of it and you will cease to grieve for your mother. I will send for some in a golden goblet the moment we arrive.”

“Oh, no, no, no I” cried Proserpina, “I would rather be miserable remembering my mother than happy in forgetting her. Dear Mother I I never, never will forget her.”

“We shall see,” said King Pluto. “You do not know what fine times we shall have ir my palace. Here we are just at the por- tal.” He alighted from his chariot and, taking Proserpina in his arms, carried her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace.

Pluto now called his servant and told him

to prepare a banquet, and to set a golden

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goblet of the water of Lethe by Proserpina’s plate.

“I will neither drink that nor anything else,” said Proserpina, “nor will I taste the food, even if you keep me forever in your palace.”

“I should be sorry for that,” replied King Pluto, “but, when you see the nice things which my cook will make for you, yoilr appe- tite will quickly come again.”

Then he sent for the head cook and or- dered all sorts of good things to be set before Proserpina. He had a secret reason for this, for, when persons are carried off to the land of magic, if they once taste any food there, they can never get back to their friends.

Kow Ceres had been half hidden among the waving grain, while the four black horses were whirling along with the chariot in which Proserpina was carried away. She had mistaken the rumbling of the chariot- wheels for a peal of thunder and had thought that a shower was coming up. But, at the sound of Proserpina’s shriek, she started and

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looked about her, feeling almost certain that it was her daughter’s voice. She quickly left the field in which she had been so busy, and in less than an hour had alighted at the door of her home and found it empty.

She hastened to the seashore as fast as she could, and saw the wet faces of the poor sea nymphs peeping over the wave. All this while they had been waiting on the sponge bank. Once every half minute they had popped up their heads above the water to look for their playmate. When they saw Ceres they sat down on the crest of the wave and let it toss them ashore at her feet.

“Where is Proserpina?” cried Ceres. “Have you enticed her under the seaf

“Oh, no. Mother Ceres,” said the sea nymphs, tossing back their green ringlets, and looking her in the face. “We never should dream of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, but she left us a long while ago to gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the day, and we have seen nothing of her since.”

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Ceres hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood, but nobody knew what had become of Proserpina. A fisher- man had seen her footprints in the sand as he went along the beach. A peasant had seen her stooping to gather flowers. Several per- sons had heard the rattling of chariot wheels. And one old woman had heard a scream but thought it was some childish nonsense.

It was dark before Ceres found that she must seek her daughter elsewhere. So she lighted a torch and set forth, resolving never to come back until Proserpina was found. She began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and looking carefully at every object along the path. She had not gone far before she found one of the flowers which Proserpina had pulled up. “Hal” thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight, “here is mischief in this flower. The earth did not produce it by any help of mine.” So she put the flower into her bosom because she thought it might have fallen from her child’s hands.

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All night long, at the door of every cot- tage and farm house, Ceres knocked and asked if they had seen her child. At the portal of every palace she knocked, but no- body had seen Proserpina, nor could any one give Ceres the least hint where to seek her. Thus the night passed, and still she contin- ued her search, without sitting down to rest or stopping to take food.

In the woods and by the streams she met creatures who used to haunt the pleasant and solitary places. Sometimes she tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a great oak, and inmiediately its rude bark would open wide, and forth would step a beautiful maiden, who was the dryad of the oak. But not one of these leafy maidens had seen Proserpina. Then Ceres would come to a fountain gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would dabble with her hand in the water. A young woman with drip- ping hair would arise and stand gazing at Ceres. But when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink out

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of the fountain the nymph with weeping eyes would answer, “No,” in a voice Kke the murmur of the stream.

Often she met fauns, who looked like sun- burnt country people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their fore- heads, and the hind legs of goats, on which they ran about the woods and fields. They grew very sad when Ceres asked about Pro- serpina. Once, while crossing a sheep pas- ture, she saw Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, making music on a shepherd’s flute. He, too, had horns and hairy ears and goat’s feet. He invited her to taste some milk and honey out of a wooden bowl. But even Pan could not tell her what had become of Pro- serpina.

Thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for days and nights. Now and then she found a withered flower, which she picked up and put into her bosom. All day she traveled onward through the hot sun, and at night the flame of the torch would gleam along the pathway. She continued her

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search by its light without ever sitting down to rest, for she had resolved to leave no spot without a search.

“There is one person,” she exclaimed, “who must have seen my poor child, and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did I not think of him before? It is Phoe’- bus.” So she went along to find Phoebus. By and by, after a long journey, Ceres ar- rived at the sunniest spot in the whole world. There she beheld a beautiful young man with long curling ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams, and his garments were like summer clouds. As Ceres approached him, Phoebus smiled on her cheerfully.

“Phoebus,” exclaimed she, “I am in great trouble, and have come to you. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child, Pro- serpina?”

“I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself easy about hier. She is safe, and in good hands.”

“Oh, where is my dear child?” cried Ceres, clasping her hands and flinging her- self at his feet.

“Why,” said Phoebus, “as the little maiden was gathering flowers, she was sud- denly snatched up by King Pluto and car- ried off to his kingdom. His royal palace is built of the most costly materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious

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stones will be your daughter’s playthings. In spite of the lack of sunshine she will lead a very happy life.”

“Hush,” answered Ceres, “what are all the splendors you speak of without any one to love her? I must have her back again. Will you go with rae, Phoebus, to demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?”

“Pray excuse me,” replied Phoebus, “as I am not upon the best of tenns with King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his three-, headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway. I should be compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know, are forbidden things in Pluto’s kingdom.”

“Ah, Phoebus,” said Ceres, “you have a harp instead of a heart. Farewell.”

“Will you not stay a moment,” asked Phoebus, “and hear me turn the pretty and touching story of Proserpina into verses?”

But Ceres shook her head and hastened away. She had now found out what had become of her daughter, but she was not

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happier than before. Had Proserpina been above ground, Ceres could have found her. But, now that she was shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, there seemed no chance of her ever making her escape.

Poor Mother Ceres! So much did she suffer that she grew to look like an old per- son in a very short time. She no longer cared how she was dressed. She still wore the wreath of withered poppies, which she had put on the morning that Proserpina dis- appeared and she roamed about in a wild way. She gave herself no thought about seedtime nor harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their own crops. There was nothing now in which Ceres seemed to feel an interest. If she saw children gathering flowers she would stand and gaze at them with tears in her eyes. Then she would lead them to their homes and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight.

Farmers plowed and planted as usual, but pastures looked as brown in the month of

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June as they ever did in November. The old people shook their white heads and said that the earth had grown old like them- selves, and was no longer wearing the warm smile of smnmer. The poor starving cattle and sheep followed Ceres, lowing and bleat- ing, as if they expected help from her. Everybody that knew her power begged her to have mercy on the human race and to let the grains and grasses grow.

“But,” said Ceres, “if the earth is ever again green it must grow along the path my daughter treads coming back to me.”

At last Mercury was sent to King Pluto to beg him to undo the mischief he had done, by giving up Proserpina. Mercury made his way to the great gate, took a flying leap over the three-headed mastiff and asked to see the king. The servants knew him by his face and garb, for they had often seen his short cloak, his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky staff. Pluto heard his voice from the top of the stairs and called out to him to

come up.

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Proserpina had said tkat she would not taste a mouthful of food so long as she re- mained in the king’s palace. Still, as she went among those gilded halls it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with her. The palace was no longer the dismal place it had been before.

“Proserpina,” King Pluto used to say, “I wish you would like me a little better. We gloomy persons often have as warm hearts as those of a more cheerful nature. If you would only stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than a hundred such palaces as this.”

“Ah,” said Proserpina, “the best thing you can do is to let me go home. Then I might remember you sometimes and think that you were as kind as you knew how to be, and one day I might come back and pay you a visit.”

“No, no,” answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, “I will not trust you for that. You are too fond of living in the broad day- light and gathering flowers. Are not these

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gems, which I have ordered to be dug for you, prettier than violets f

“Not half so pretty,” said Proserpina. “Oh, my sweet violets, shall I never see you again?” And then she burst into tears. King Pluto stood and gazed at her. When Proserpina beheld this great king looking so grand and so lonesome, she felt pity for him and put her small soft hand into his.

“Well, I have not deserved this after keeping you a prisoner for so many months and starving you besides. Are you not ter- ribly hungry? Is there nothing which I can get for you to eat?”

“I shall never eat anything unless it be a slice of bread of my mother’s own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden,” said Pro- serpina.

When Pluto heard this he wondered that he had never thought of it before. So he sent one of his trusty servants with a large basket to get some of the finest fruits which could be found in the upper world.

This was during the time Ceres had for-

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bidden any fruits or vegetables to grow. After seeking all over the earth, King Pluto’s servant found only a single pomegranate and that was too dried up to be worth eating. Nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought this dry old pomegranate home to the palace and carried it up to Proserpina. Now it happened that just as the servant was bringing the pomegranate into the back door of the palace, Mercury had gone up the front steps.

As soon as Proserpina saw the pome- granate, she told the servant to take it away again. “I shall not touch it,” said she. “If I were ever so hungry, I should never think of eating such a dry pomegranate as that.”

“It is the only one in the world,”, said the servant, and he set it down and left the room. When he was gone Proserpina could not help coming close to the table and looking at this poor dried fruit. It was a very poor-looking pomegranate, and seemed to have no more juice in it than an oyster shell. But this was the first fruit she liad seen there and, unless

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she ate it up immediately, it would grow drier than it abeady was.

“At least, I may smell it,” thought Pro- serpina. So she took up the pomegranate and put it to her nose. Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had bit- ten it of their own accord. Just then the door opened and in came King Pluto, fol- lowed by Mer’-cu-ry, who had been begging him to let his prisoner go. Proserpina with- drew the pomegranate from her mouth.

“Proserpina,” said the king, “here is Mer- cury, who tells me that many misfortunes have befjallen the people in the upper world on account of my keeping you in my king- dom. I hoped you would take my crown for a plaything and stay with me, but I can see plainly enough that you think my palace a prison. An iron heart I would have if T were to keep you here any longer. It is now six months since you have tasted food. I give you your liberty. Go with Mercury. Hasten home to your mother.”

“Come quickly,” whispered Mercury in

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her ear, “or Ms majesty may change Ms royal mind.”

In a very short time they had passed the great gateway where the three-headed Cer- berus was barking and yelping and growling.

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They came up to the surface of the earth. As Proserpina hastened along, the path grew green behind and on either side of her. Wherever she set her foot, there was at once a flower. The violets grew up along the way- side. The grass and the grain began to sprout. The starved cattle started grazing, and ate all day, and got up at midnight to eat more. All the birds hopped about upon the blossoming trees and sang together in great joy.

Mother Ceres had returned to her de- serted home and was sitting on the doorsteps with her torch burning in her hand. She had been watching the flame for some mo- ments when, all at once, it flickered and went out. “What does this mean?” thought she. “It was an enchanted torch, and should have kept burning till my child came back.” Then lifting her eyes, she saw the brown fields turning green. “Does the earth dis- obey me?” exclaimed Ceres. “Does it pre- sume to be green when I have bidden it be

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barren until my daughter shall come back to me?”

“Open your arms, dear mother,” cried a well-known voice, “and take your little daughter into them.” And Prosperina came running and flung herself upon her mother’s bosom. Both of them had shed many tears, and now they shed many more, because of their joy.

When their hearts had grown a little more quiet, Ceres looked at Proserpina. “My child,” said she, “did you taste any food while you were in King Pluto’s palace?”

“Mother,” answered Proserpina, “I will tell you the whole truth. Until this very morning not a morsel of food had passed my lips, but to-day they brought me a pome- granate. It was all dried up and there was little left of it but seeds and skin; but I had seen no fruit for so long that I was tempted to bite it. The instant I tasted it. King Pluto and Mercury came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel but six of the pomegranate seeds remained in my mouth.”

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“My poor child,” exclaimed Ceres, “for each of those six pomegranate seeds you must spend one month of every year in King Pluto’s palace. Only six months with me and six months with the King of Darkness.”

“Poor King Pluto,” said Proserpina, “he was very good to me, and I really think I can bear to spend six months in his palace, if he will let me spend the other six with you. He certainly did wrong to carry me off; but then it was a dismal life for him to live in that great gloomy palace all alone. It has made a wonderful change in his spirits to have a little girl run up and down the stairs. There is some comfort in making him so happy. So, dearest mother, let us be thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year round.”

— Adapted from Nathaniel Hawthorne.

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Hiawatha’s Childhood

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea- Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis, Dark behind it rose the forest,

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Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water. Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water,

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle. Bedded soft in moss and rushes. Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, “Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Lulled him into slumber, singing, “Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!” Who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!”

Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward

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In the frosty nights of Winter; Showed the broad, white road in heaven. Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows. Running straight across the heavens. Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.

At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the water. Sounds of music, words of wonder; “Minne-wawa!” said the pine-trees, “Mudway-aushkal” said the water.

Saw the firefly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening. With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes; And he sang the song of children. Sang the song Nokomis taught him: “Wah-wah-taysee, little firefly. Little, flitting, white-fire insect. Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me. Ere in sleep I close my eyelids 1”

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Saw the moon rise from the water, Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomisf* And the good Nokomis answered: “Once a warrior, very angry. Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; ‘Tis her body that you see there.”

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis I” A.nd the good Nokomis answered: ^ ‘ ris the heaven of flowers you see there; ,M1 the wild-flowers of the forest. All the lilies of the prairie. When on earth they fade and perish. Blossom in that heaven above us.”

When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, “What is that?” he cried in terror; “What is that?” he said, “Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered:

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“That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other.”

Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets. How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.”

Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges. Where the squirrels hid their acorns. How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid. Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.”

Then lagoo, the great boaster, He the marvelous story-teller. He the traveler and the talker. He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it,

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From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with

feathers. And the cord he made of deer-skin.

Then he said to Hiawatha: **Go, my son, into the forest. Where the red deer herd together, KilL for us a famous roebuck. Kill for us a deer with antlers 1″

Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o’er himi “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”

Up the oak-tree, close beside him. Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches. Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

And the rabbit from his pathway 180

Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

But he heeded not, nor heard them. For his thoughts were with the red deerj On their tracks his eyes were fastened. Leading downward to the river. To the ford across the river. And as one in slumber walked he.

Hidden in the alder-bushes. There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted. Saw two eyes look from the thicket. Saw two nostrils point to windward. And a deer came down the pathway. Flecked with leafy light and shadow. And his heart within him fluttered. Trembled like the leaves above him. Like the birch-leaf palpitated. As the deer came down the pathway.

Then upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow;

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Scarce a twig moved with his motioiij Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the wary roebuck started, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted. Leaped as if to meet the arrow; Ah I the singing, fatal arrow, Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him.

Dead he lay there in the forest, By the ford across the river; Beat his timid heart no longer. But the heart of Hiawatha Throbbed and shouted and exulted, As he bore the red deer homeward. And lagoo and Nokomis Hailed his coming with applauses.

From the red deer’s hide Nokomis Made a cloak for Hiawatha, From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis Made a banquet in l^s honor. All the village came and feasted, All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-tahal Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!

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Hiawatha’s Sailing

“Give me of your bark, Bircli-Tree Of your yellow bark, Birch-Tree I Growing by the rushing river. Tall and stately in the valley! I a light canoe will build me, Build a swift Cheemaun for sailings That shall float upon the river. Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, Like a yellow water-lily I “Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree! Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, For the Summer-time is coming. And the sim is warm in heaven. And you need no white-skin wrapper!*

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha Li the solitary forest. By the rushing Taquamenaw, While the birds were singing gayly, Li the Moon of Leaves were singing, And the sun, from sleep awaking,

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Started up and said, “Behold me I Geezis, the great Sun, behold mel”

And the tree with all its branches Rustled in the breeze of morning. Saying, with a sigh of patience, “Take my cloak, Hiawatha I”

With his knife the tree he girdled; •Just beneath its lowest branches. Just above the roots, he cut it, Till the sap came oozing outward; Down the trunk, from top to bottom, Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, With a wooden wedge he raised it. Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. “Give me of your boughs, Cedar 1 Of your strong and pliant branches. My canoe to make more steady. Make more strong and firm beneath mel”

Through the summit of the Cedar Went a sound, a cry of horror, Went a mtirmur of resistance; But it whispered, bending downward, “Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!”

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,

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Shaped them straightway to a frameworkj Like two bows he formed and shaped them, Like two bended bows together. “Give me of your roots, Tamarack I Of your fibrous roots, Larch-Tree 1 My canoe to bind together. So to bind the ends together That the water may not enter, That the river may not wet me I”

And the larch with all its fibres. Shivered in the air of morning. Touched his forehead with its tassels. Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, “Take them all, Hiawathal”

From the earth he tore the fibres. Tore the tough roots of the Larch-TreCj Closely sewed the bark together. Bound it closely to the framework. “Give me of your balm, Fir-Tree 1 Of your balsam and your resin. So to close the seams together That the water may not enter. That the river may not wet me I”

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre,

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Sobbed through all its robes of darknesSj Rattled like a shore with pebbles, Answered wailing, answered weeping, “Take my balm, O Hiawatha!”

And he took the tears of balsam, Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, Made each crevice safe from water. “Give me of your quills, Hedgehog 1 All your quills, Kagh, the Hedgehog! I will make a necklace of them. Make a girdle for my beauty. And two stars to deck her bosom!”

From the hollow tree the Hedgehog With his sleepy eyes looked at him. Shot his shining quills, like arrows. Saying, with a drowsy murmur. Through the tangle of his whiskers, “Take my quills, O Hiawatha!”

From the ground the quills he gathered, All the little shining arrows. Stained them red and blue and yellow, With the juice of roots and berries; Into his canoe he wrought them,

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Round its waist a shining girdle, Round its bows a gleaming necklace, On its breast two stars resplendent.

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded In the valley by the river. In the bosom of the forest; And the forest’s life was in it. All its mystery and its magic, All the lightness of the birch-tree, All the toughness of the cedar, All the larch’s supple sinews; And it floated on the river Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, Like a yellow water-lily.

Paddles none had Hiawatha, Paddles none he had or needed. For his thoughts as paddles served him, And his wishes served to guide him; Swift or slow at will he glided. Veered to right or left at pleasure.

Then he called aloud to Kwasind, To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, Saying, “Help me clear this river Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.”

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straight into the- river Kwasind Plunged as if he were an otter, Dove as if he were a beaver, Stood up to his waist in water. To his arm-pits in the river, Swam and shouted in the river, Tugged at simken logs and branches, With his hands he scooped the sand-bars. With his feet the ooze and tangle.

And thus sailed my Hiawatha Down the rushing Taquamenaw, Sailed through all its bends and windings. Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.

Up and down the river went they. In and out among the islands, Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar. Dragged the dead trees from its channel, Made its passage safe and certain. Made a pathway for the people. From, its springs among the mountains,, To the water of Pauwating, To the bay of Taquamenaw.

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Hiawatha’s Fishing

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, On the shining Big-Sea-Water, With his fishing-line of cedar, Of the twisted bark of cedar, Forth to catch the sturgeon, Nahmaj Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, In his birch canoe exulting All alone went Hiawatha. Through the clear, transparent watei He could see the fishes swimming Far down in the depths below himj Bee the yellow perch, the Sahwa, Like a sunbeam in the water, See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, Like a spider on the bottom, On the white and sandy bottom.

At the stem sat Hiawatha, With his fishing-line of cedar; In his plumes the breeze of morning Played as in the hemlock branches; On the bows, with tail erected,

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Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;

In his fur the breeze of morning

Played as in the prairie grasses.

On the white sand of the bottom Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, Lay the sturgeon, Eang of Fishes; Through his gills he breathed the water, With his fins he fanned and winnowed, ,With his tail he swept the sand-floor.

There he lay in all his armor; On each side a shield to guard him, Plates of bone upon his forehead, Down his sides and back and shoulders Plates of bone,. with spines projecting! Painted was he with his war-paints. Stripes of yellow, red, and azure. Spots of brown and spots of sable; And he lay there on the bottom. Fanning with his fins of purple, As above him Hiawatha In his birch canoe came sailing, With his fishing-line of cedar. “Take my bait,” cried Hiawatha, Down into the depths beneath him;

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“Take my bait, Sturgeon, Kahma! Come up from below the water. Let us see whicli is the stronger!” And he dropped his line of cedar Through the clear, transparent water. Waited vainly for an answer, Long sat waiting for an answer. And repeating loud and louder, “Take my bait, King of Fishes!”

Quiet lay the sturgeon, NaJima^ Fanning slowly in the water, Looking up at Hiawatha, Listening to his call and clamor. His unnecessary tumult. Till he wearied of the shouting; And he said to the Kenozha, To the pike, the Maskenozha, “Take the bait of this rude fellow, Break the line of Hiawatha!”

In his fingers Hiawatha Felt the loose line jerk and tighten; As he drew it in, he tugged so That the birch canoe stood endwise. Like a birch log in the water,

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With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Perched and frisking on the summit.

Full of scorn was Hiawatha When he saw the fish rise upward, Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, Coming nearer, nearer to him, And he shouted through the water, “Esal esal shame upon you I You are but the pike, Kenozha, You are not the fish I wanted. You are not the King of Fishes!”

Reeling downward to the bottom Sank the pike in great confusion. And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, “Take the bait of this great boaster, Break the line of Hiawatha I”

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming* Like a white moon in the water. Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish. Seized the line of Hiawatha, Swung with all his weight upon it, Made a whirlpool in the water, WTiirled the birch canoe in circles,

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Round and round in gurgling eddies, Till the circles in the water Reached the far-off sandy beaches, Till the water-flags and rushes Nodded on the distant margins.

But when Hiiawatha saw him Slowly rising through the water, Lifting his great disc of whiteness. Loud he shouted in derision, “Esa! esal shame upon you! You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, You are not the fish I wanted. You are not the King of Fishes 1” Wavering downward, white and ghastly^ Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, And again the sturgeon, Nahma, Heard the shout of Hiawatha, Heard his challenge of defiance. The unnecessary tiunult. Ringing far across the water.

From the white sand of the bottom Up he rose with angry gesture. Quivering in each nerve and fibre. Clashing all his plates of armor,

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Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; In his wrath he darted upward, Flashing leaped into the sunshine, Opened his great jaws, and swallowed Both canoe and Hiawatha.

Down into that darksome cavern Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, As a log on some black river Shoots and plunges down the rapids. Found himself in utter darkness. Groped about in helpless wonder. Till he felt a great heart beating. Throbbing in that utter darkness.

And he smote it in his anger. With his fist, the heart of Nahma. Felt the mighty King of Fishes Shudder through each nerve and fibre, Heard the water gurgle round him As he leaped and staggered through ito Sick at heart, and faint and weary.

Crosswise then did Hiawatha Drag his birch-canoe for safety. Lest from out the jaws of Nahma^ In the turmoil and confusion,

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Forth he might be hurled and perish. And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Frisked and chatted very gayly, Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha Till the labor was completed.

Then said Hiawatha to him, “O my little friend, the squirrel. Bravely have you toiled to help me; Take the thanks of Hiawatha, And the name which now he gives you; For hereafter and forever Boys shall call you Adjidaiuno, Tail-in-air the boys shall call you I”

And again the sturgeon, Nahma, Gasped and quivered in the water, Then was still, and drifted landward Till he grated on the pebbles, Till the listening Hiawatha Heard him grate upon the margin, Felt him strand upon the pebbles, Kjiew that Nahma, King of Fishes, Lay there dead upon the margin.

Then he heard a clang and flapping, As of many wings assembling,

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Heard a screaming and confusion, As of birds of prey contending, Saw a gleam of light above bim. Shining through the ribs of Nahma, Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, Gazing at him through the opening, Heard them saying to each other, “‘Tis our brother, Hiawatha!”

And he shouted from below them. Cried exulting from the caverns: “0 ye sea-gulls 1 O my brothers I I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; Make the rifts a little larger. With your claws the openings widen, Set me free from this dark prison. And henceforward and forever Men shall speak of your achievements, Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls. Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble ScratchersI”

And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls Toiled with beak and claws together, Made the rifts and openings wider In the mighty ribs of Nahma,

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And from peril and from prison, From the body of the sturgeon, From the peril of the water. Was released my Hiawatha.

He was standing near his wigwam. On the margin of the water, And he called to old Nokomis, Called and beckoned to Nokomis, Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, Lying lifeless on the pebbles, With the sea-gulls feeding on him. “I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, Slain the King of Fishes!” said he; “Look I the sea-gulls feed upon him. Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls; Drive them not away, Nokomis, They have saved me from great peril In the body of the sturgeon; Wait until their meal is ended, Till their craws are full with feasting, Till they homeward fly at sunset, To their nests among the marshes; Then bring all your pots and kettles. And make oil for us in Winter.”

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And she waited till the sun set, Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, Rose above the tranquil water, Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, From their banquet rose with clamor, And across the fiery sunset Winged their way to far-off islands. To their nests among the rushes.

To his sleep went Hiawatha, And Nokomis to her labor, Toiling patient in the moonlight. Till the sun and moon changed places, Till the sky was red with sun-rise. And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls. Came back from the reedy islands, Clamorous for their morning banquet.

Three whole days and nights alternate Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma. Till the waves washed through the rib- bones, Till the sea-gulls came no longer. And upon the sands lay nothing But the skeleton of Nahma.

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 2Q0.

The Boyhood of Theseus

Once upon a time there was a princess of Troe’-zen-e who had one fair son, named The’-seus, the bravest lad in all the land. When Theseus was fifteen years old, his mother took him up to the temple, which was surrounded by a grove. There she said, “Theseus, my son, go into that thicket, and you will find at the foot of the plane-tree a great flat stone. Lift it and bring what lies underneath.”

So Theseus pushed his way through the thick bushes and saw they had not been moved for many a year. Searching among the roots, he found a great flat stone, over- grown with ivy and moss. He tried to lift it but could not. He tried till the sweat ran down his brow and the tears from his eyes. At last he came back to his mother and said, “I have found the stone, but I cannot lift it.”

She sighed and said, “Let it rest for

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another year. The day may come when you will be stronger.”

When a full year was past, she led Theseus again to the temple, and bade him lift the stone; but he could not. Then she sighed, and said the same words again, and went away. They came again the next year; but Theseus could not lift the stone then, nor the year after.

So he said to himself, “The day will surely come when I shall lift that stone, though no man in Troezene can.” In order to grow strong, he spent all his days in wrestling, and boxing, and hurling the spear, and taming horses, and hunting the boar and the bull. Upon all the mountains there was no other hunter so swift as Theseus.

When his eighteenth year was past, Theseus went into the thicket, stood over the stone and tugged at it, and it moved. Then his spirit swelled within him, and he said, “If I break my heart in my body, if shall come up.” He tugged at it once more, and lifted it, and rolled it over with a shout.

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When he looked beneath it, there lay on the ground a sword of bronze, with a hilt of glittering gold, and by it lay a pair of golden sandals. He caught them up and ran through the bushes to his mother, hold- ing them high above his head.

“Hide them in your bosom, Theseus, my son, and come with me where we can look down upon the sea,” said his mother. Then they went and looked down over the bright blue sea.

“Do you see this land at our feet?” asked his mother.

And he said, “Yes, this is Troezene, where I was bom and bred.”

And she said, “It is but a little land, barren and rocky, and looks toward the bleak northeast. Do you see that land beyond?”

“Yes, that i? Attica, where the Athenian people dwell.”

“That is a fair land and large, Theseus, my son; and it looks toward the sunny south. It is a land of olive oil and honey, the joys of gods and men. The gods have girdled it

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with mountains whose veins are of pure sil- ver, and their bones are of marble, white as snow. There the hills are sweet with thyme, and the meadows with violets; and the night- ingales sing in the thickets by the side of ever-flowing streams. There are twelve towns, well peopled, the home of an ancient race. What would you do, Theseus, if you were king of such a land?”

He looked across the bright sea, and saw the fair Attic shore and all the mountain peaks which girdled Athens. His heart grew great within him, and he said, “If I were king of such a land, I would rule it wisely and well, in wisdom and in might.”

His mother smiled, and said, “Then take the sword and the sandals, and go to the King of Athens, who is thy father, and say to him, ‘The stone is lifted.’ Show him the sword and the sandals, and take what the gods shall send.” Then she kissed Theseus, and wept over him, and went into the temple.

So Theseus stood there alone, full of hope. First he thought of going to the harbor and

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hiring a swift ship^ and sailing across the bay to Athens; but even that seemed too slow for him. He longed for wings to fly across the sea and find his father. But after a while his heart began to fail him, and he said to himself, “What if he will not receive me? He has forgotten me ever since I was bom; why should he welcome me nowf

Theseus thought a long while sadly. At last he cried aloud, “Yesl I will make him love me, for I will prove myself worthy of his love. I will win honor and renown, and do such deeds that he shall be proud of me I Did not Hercules win honor? Did he not kill all robbers and evil beasts, and drain great lakes and marshes? All nien honored him because he rid them of their miseries, and made life pleasant to them. Where can I go to do as Hercules did? Where can I find strange adventures, robbers and mon- sters, and the enemies of men? I will go into th3 mountains. There I may do some- thing which will win my father’s love.”

— Adapted from Charles Kingstey. 205

Theseus Overcomes Corynetes

So Theseus went away into the moun- tains, with his father’s sword upon his thigh, till he came to the Spider Moimtains, and he went up and up, till he could see the nar- row gulfs below him, north and south, and east and west. He toiled on through bog and brake, till he came to a pile of stones.

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On the stones a man was sitting wrapped in a bearskin cloak. The head of the bear served him for a cap, its teeth grinned white around his brows. The feet were tied about his throat, and their claws shone white upon his chest. “When he saw Theseus, he rose and laughed till the glens rang, “Who art thou, fair fly, who hast walked into the spider’s web?”

Theseus advanced and made no answer; but he thought, “Is this some robber? Has an adventure come already to me?”

But the strange man laughed louder than ever and said, “Bold fly, know you not that these glens are the web from which no fly ever finds his way out again? I am the spider who sucks their blood. Come hither, and let me feast upon you. It is of no use to run away, so cunning a web did my father spread for me when he made these clefts in the moimtains.”

But Theseus came on steadily, and asked, “A.nd what is your name among men, bold

spider, and where are your spider’s fangs?”

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The strange man laughed again. “Men call me Co-ry-ne’-tes the club-bearer, and here is my spider’s fang.” And he lifted from off the stones at his side a mighty club of bronze. “This my father gave me, and forged it himself in the roots of the mountain. With it I pound all proud flies till they give out their fatness and sweetness. So give me that gay sword of yours and your mantle and your golden sandals, lest by ill luck you die.”

Theseus wrapped his mantle quickly in hard folds round his left arm, from his shoulder to his hand. Then he drew his sword and rushed upon the club-bearer, and the club-bearer rushed on him. Thrice he struck at Theseus, and made him bend under the blows like a sapling; but Theseus guarded his head with his left arm and the mantle which was wrapped around it. Thrice Theseus sprang upright after the blows, like a sapling when the storm is past. He thrust with his sword, but the loose folds of the bearskin saved the club-bearer.

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Then Theseus grew angry and closed with him. He caught him by the throat and they fell and rolled over together. But when Theseus rose from the ground, the club- bearer lay still at his feet.

Then Theseus took his club and his bear- skin, and went upon his journey down the glens till he came to a broad green valley^ and saw flocks and herds sleeping beneath the trees.

By the side of a pleasant fountain, under the shade of rocks and trees, were nymphs and shepherds dancing; but no one piped to them as they danced. When they saw Theseus they shrieked, and the shepherds ran off and drove away their flocks, while the nymphs dived into the foimtain and vanished.

Theseus wondered and laughed. “What

curious fancies folks have who run away

from strangers, and have no music when

they dance!” But he was tired and dusty

and thirsty, so he thought no more of them,

but drank and bathed in the clear pool. Then

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he lay down in the shade under a plane-tree, while the water sang him to sleep as it tinkled down from stone to stone.

When he awoke, Theseus heard a whis- ipering, and saw the nymphs peeping at him across the fountain. One said, “Surely, he is not Corynetes,” and another, “He looks like no robber. He seems a fair and gentle youth.”

Theseus smiled, and called to them, “Fair nymphs, I am not Corynetes. He sleeps among the kites and crows; but I have brought away his bearskin and his club.”

At this the nymphs crossed the pool, and came to him, and called the shepherds back. And he told them how he had slain the lelub-bearer. The shepherds kissed his feet and sang, “Now we shall feed our flocks in peace, and not be afraid to have music when we dance. The cruel Corynetes has met his match. He will listen for our pipes no.

more.”

Then the shepherds brought Theseus kid*s

flesh and wine, and the nymphs brought him

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honey from the rocks. He ate and drank and slept again, while the nymphs and shep- herds danced and sang. When he awoke, they begged him to stay, but he would not. “I have a great work to do,” he said, “I must go to Athens.”

But the shepherds said, “Will you go alone toward Athens? None travel that way now, except in armed troops.”

“As for arms, I have enough, as you see. And as for troops, an honest man is good enough company for himself. Why should I not go alone toward Athens?”

“If you go, you may meet Si’-nis, whom men call the pine-bender, for he bends down two pine-trees, and binds all travelers be- tween them I When he lets the trees go again, their bodies are torn asunder.”

“After that,” said another, “you must meet Sci’-ron, the robber, who will make you wash his feet. While you are washing them, he will kick you over the cliff to the tortoise who lives below.”

Before Theseus could answer, anothef

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cried, “And after this there is a worse dan- ger still; for in E-leu’-sis rules a cruel king, the terror of all mortals. He dares all comers to wrestle with him, for he is the best wrestler in Attica, and overthrows all who come. Those whom he overcomes he kills, and his palace is full of their bones.” Theseus frowned and said, “This seems indeed an ill-ruled land, with adventures enough in it to be tried. But if I am the heir to it, I wiU rule it and right it I” And he shook his club of bronze. And there came upon him a great anger that the people of his land had suffered so long. “Why has no one delivered my people from their troubles? I must set out to do it,” he cried. The nymphs and shepherds clung round him, and entreated him not to go, but he heeded them not.

— Adapted from Charles Kingsley.

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Theseus Slays Sinis and Cercyon

Theseus thrust aside the friendly shep- herds and the nymphs, and strode forth upon his journey in fury and in might. Through forest after forest he strode, along silver rivers and beside beautiful lakes. On he went, not stopping though many people were kindly and shed love upon the brave young stranger. At last he came to the place where he could see both seas.

He passed swiftly along, his heart burning to meet that cruel Sinis, and in a pine-wood at last he met him. There he sat on a stone by the wayside, with a young fir tree for a club across his knees, and a cord laid ready by his side. Over his head upon the fir-tops, hung the bones of murdered men. Theseus shouted to him, “Holla, thou pine-bender, hast thou two fir trees left for me?’*

Sinis leaped to his feet and answered, pointing to the bones above his head, “My larder has grown empty lately, so I have

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two fir trees ready for thee.” And he rushed on Theseus, lifting his club, and Theseus rushed upon him.

Then they hammered together till the green woods rang. But the metal was tougher than the pine; and Theseus smote Sinis down upon his face, and knelt upon his back, and bound him with his own cord. He said, “As thou hast done to others, so shall it be done to thee.” Then he bent down two young fir trees, and bound Sinis between them, and let them go.

Then he went over the hills, keeping close to the sea, till he came to the cliff of Sciron. Eere the path was narrow between the mountain and the sea.

Above him was Sciron sitting by a foun- tain at the edge of the cliff. On his knees was a mighty club, and he had barred the path with stones, so that everyone must stop who came up.

Then Theseus shouted to him, “Holla, thou tortoise feeder, do thy feet need washing?”

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Sciron leaped to his feet and answered. “My tortoise is empty and hungry, and my feet need washing to-day.” And he stood before hip barrier, and lifted his club in both hands. \

Then Theseus rushed upon him. Sore was the battle upon the cliff, for when Sciron felt the weight of the bronze club he dropped his own, and closed with Theseus, and tried to hurl him by main force over the cliff. But Theseus was a wary wrestler, and dropped his own club, and caught him by the throat and by the knee, and forced him back against the wall of stones, till his breath was almost gone.

Sciron cried, panting, “Loose me, and I will let you pass.”

But Theseus answered, “I must not pass till I have made the rough way smooth.” And he forced him back against the wall till it fell, and Sciron rolled down the cliff head over heels.

Then Theseus lifted him up all bruised, and said, “Come hither and wash my feet.”

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And he drew his sword, and sat down by the well and said again, “Wash my feet.”

Sciron washed his feet, trembling; and when it was done, Theseus rose and cried, “As thou hast done to others, so shall it be done to thee. Go feed the tortoise thyself,” and he kicked Sciron over the cliff into the sea.

Then he went a long day’s journey, into the Attic land, and high before him rose the snow-peaks. He went along the plain into Eleusis, and stood in the market place, and cried, “Where is Cer-cy’-on, the king of the city? I must wrestle with him to-day.”

Then all the people crowded round him, and cried, “Fair youth, why will you die? Hasten out of the city before the cruel king hears that a stranger has come.”

But Theseus went up through the town, while the people wept and prayed. He passed through the gates of the palace yard, and through the piles of bones and skulls, till he came to the door of Cercyon’s hall. There he saw Cercyon sitting at a table.

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Before him was a whole sheep roasted anct beside him a great jar of wine. Theseus stood and called him, “Thou valiant wres- tler, wilt thou wrestle a fall to-day?”

And the king looked up and answered, “I will wrestle a fall to-day.”

So they tossed off their garments, and went forth into the palace yard. There the heroes stood face to face, and all the people crowded at the gates to see what would befall.

They wrestled till the stars shone over their heads; up and down and around they went, till the sand was stamped hard beneath their feet. Their eyes flashed like stars in the darkness, and their breath went up like smoke in the night air. Neither took nor gave a footstep, and the people watched silent at the gates.

But at last Cercyon grew angry. He caught Theseus round the neck, and shook him as a mastiff shakes a rat, but he could not shake him off his feet.

Theseus was quick and wary, and clasped.

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the king round the waist. He slipped his lion skin quickly under him, while he caught him by the wrist. Then, with a mighty heave, he lifted Cercyon and pitched him over his shoulders to the ground.

Then Theseus opened the gates, and called in all the people and they cried, **You have slain our evil king; be you now our

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king; be you now our king and rule us well.”

“I will be your king in Eleusis, and I will rule you well. For this cause I have slain all evil-doers.” So Theseus took an oath of the people of Eleusis that they would serve him as their king. Next morning he went away across the plain and over the hills, down the valley and by the silver stream, till he saw the plain of Athens, and the hills where Athene dwells.

Theseus went up through Athens, and all the people ran out to see him; for his fame had gone before him. Every one knew of his mighty deeds. All cried, “Here comes the hero who slew Sinis, and conquered Cer- cyon in wrestling, and slew Corynetes.” But Theseus went on, for his heart yearned after his father.

— Adapted from Charles Kingsley.

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Theseus Finds Egeus, His Father

Theseus went up the holy stairs into the A-crop’-o-lis where the palace of E-ge’-us stood. He went into the hall of the palace, and stood upon the threshold, and looked around.

Then Theseus called to the servants and said, “Go, tell King Egeus, your master, that Theseus is here, and asks to be his guest a while.”

When Egeus heard this he turned pale and red again, rose from his seat trembling, and came out into the hall. “When Theseus saw him, his heart leaped up and he longed to fall on his neck; but he controlled himself and said, “My father may not wish for me, after all. I will try him before I reveal myself.” So he bowed low before Egeus, and said, “I have delivered the people from many monsters. Therefore I am come to ask a reward of the king.”

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Old Egeus looked on him and loved him. But he only sighed and said, “It is little that I can give you, noble lad, and nothing that is worthy of you. Surely, you are no mortal man, or at least no mortal’s son.”

“All that I ask,” said Theseus, “is to eat and drink at your table.”

“l^hat I can give you,” said Egeus. Then he bade them put a seat for Theseus, and set before him the best of the feast. Theseus came close to Egeus, and drew from his bosom the sword and the sandals, and said the words which his mother had told him to say.

Egeus stepped back a pace, and looked at the lad till his eyes grew dim. Then he cast himself on his neck and wept.

Egeus turned to the people and cried, “Behold my son! He is a better man than his father was.”

Before nightfall all the town came up. They danced and sang, and offered sacri- fices to Athene. They rejoiced all the night long, because their king had found a noble

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son and lieir to his royal house. So Theseus stayed with his father all that winter.

When spring came, a herald came to Athens, stood in the market, and cried, “Oh, people and King of Athens, where is your yearly’ tribute?” Then a great cry arose throughout the city. But Theseus stood up before the herald and cried: “And who are you who dare demand tribute heref

The herald answered proudly, for he was a grave and ancient man, “Fair youth, I do the bidding of Mi’-nos, King of Crete. You must surely be a stranger here, or you would know why I come.”

“I am a stranger here. Tell me why you come.”

“To fetch the tribute which King Egeus promised to Minos. For Minos conquered all this land when he came hither to avenge the death of his son.

“You must know that the son of Minos overcame all the Greeks in the sports, so that the people honored him as a hero. But, when Egeus saw his valor, he envied him,

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and plotted against his life, and slew him basely. Then Minos came hither to avenge his death, and would not depart till this land had promised him a tribute— seven youths and seven maidens yearly, who go back with me to Crete in a black-sailed ship.”

Theseus ground his teeth together and said, “Wert thou not a herald, I would kill thee for saying such things of my father. But I will go to him and know the truth.” So he went to his father and asked him. Egeus turned away his head and wept, and said, “Blood was shed in the land unjustly, and by blood it is avenged. Break not my heart by questions.”

Then Theseus groaned and said, “I will go myself with these youths and maidens, and kill Minos upon his royal throne.”

But Egeus shrieked and cried, “You shall not go, my son — ^the light of my old age, ruler of this people after I am dead and gone. You shall not go to di« as those youths and maidens die, for Minos thrusts

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them into a labyrintli among the rocks. lYom that labyrinth no one can escape, for a mon- ster there feeds upon the flesh of men.”

“All the more will I go with them and slay the beast. Have I not slain evildoers and monsters that I might free this land? And this Min’-o-taur shall go the road they have gone; and Minos himself, if he dare stay me.”

“But how will you slay him, my son? For you must leave your club and your armor behind, and be cast to the monster helpless and naked like the rest.”

And Theseus said: “Are there no stones in that labyrinth? And have I not fists and teeth? Did I need my club to kill Cercyon, the terror of all mortal men?”

Then Egeus clung to his knees, but The- seus would not hear. At last Egeus let him go, weeping bitterly. Theseus went out to the market place where- the herald stood, while they drew lots for the youths and maidens who were to sail in that sad crew. The people stood wailing and weeping, as

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the lot fell to this one and that one, but Theseus strode into the midst and cried, “Here is a youth who needs no lot. I myself will be one of the seven.”

Then the herald asked in wonder, “Fair youth, know you whither you are going f

Theseus said, “I know. Let us go down to the black-sailed ship.*’ So they went down to the black-sailed ship, seven maidens and seven youths. Theseus went before them all, and the people followed them, weeping. Theseus whispered to his companions, “Have hope, for the monster is mortal.” Then their hearts were comforted a little, but they wept as they went on board. All the isles of the E-ge’-an Sea rang with their sad cries as they sailed toward Crete.

— Adapted from Charles Kingslcy.

REG. 225

Theseus Destroys the Minotaur

At last Theseus and his companions came to Crete, to the palace of Minos, who had conquered all the Egean isles. His ships were as many as the seagulls, and his palace like a marble hill. Minos ordered the youths and maidens to prison, to be cast to the monster one by one, that the death of his son might be avenged. Theseus stood before Minos, and they looked each other in the face. Then Theseus cried out, “A boon, O Minos. Let me be thrown first to the beast; for I came hither for that very pur- pose, of my own will, and not by lot.”

“Who art thou, then, brave youth?”

“I am the son of Egeus, the King of Athens, and I am come here to end this matter.”

Minos looked steadfastly at him, and thought, “This lad means to atone by his

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own death for his father’s sin.” And he answered mildly, “Go back in peace, my son. It is a pity that one so brave should die.”

But Theseus said, “I have sworn that I wiQ not go back till I have seen the mon- ster face to face.”

At that Minos frowned, and said, “Thou shalt see him. Take the madman away.” And they led Theseus away into the prison, with the other youths and maidens.

But A-ri-ad’-ne, the daughter of Minos, saw him, and she loved him for his courage. She said, “Shame that such a youth should die!” And by night she went down to the prison and told him all her heart, and said, “Flee down to your ship at once, for I have bribed the guards at the door. Flee, you and all your friends, and go back in peace to Greece, and take me, take me with you I I dare not stay after you are gone, for my father will kill me if he knows what I have done.”

Theseus stood silent a while. At last he

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saidj “1 cannot go home in peace till I have seen and slain this Minotaur. I must avenge the death of the youths and maidens, and put an end to the horrors of my land.”

“And will you kill the Minotaui ? How, then?” she asked.

“I know not, nor do I care; but he must be strong if he be too strong for me.”

Then Ariadne loved him all the more and said, “When you have killed him, how will you find your way out of the labyrinth?”

“I know not; but it must be a strange road indeed if I do not find it,” said Theseus.

“Fair youth, you are too bold; but I can help you, weak as I am. I will give you a sword. With that you may slay the beast. And I will give you a ball of thread, and by that you may find your way out again. Only promise me that if you escape you will take me home with you to Greece. My father will surely kill me if he knows what I have done.”

Theseus laughed and said: “Am I not safe enough now?” And he hid the sword

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in his bosom, and rolled the ball in his hand. Then he lay down and slept.

When evening came, the guards came in and led him away to the labyrinth. He went down through winding paths among the rocks, under caverns and arches, and over heaps of fallen stone. He turned on the left hand, and on the right hand, and went up and down, till his head was dizzy; but all the while he held his ball of thread. When he went in he had fastened the thread to a stone, and he let it unwind as he walked.

When Theseus saw the monster, he stopped a while, for he had never seen so strange a beast. His body was that of a man, but his head was the head of a bull, and his teeth were the teeth of a lion.

When the monster saw Theseus, he roared

and put his head down and rushed at him.

Theseus stepped aside nimbly and, as he

passed by, cut him in the knee. Ere he could

turn in the narrow path, Theseus followed

him and stabbed him again and again, till the

monster fled, bellowing wildly; for he had

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never before felt a wound. Theseus followed him at full speed, holding the thread in his left hand.

On through cavern after cavern, and up rough glens and torrent-beds, they went, while the. hills rang with the monster^s bel- lows. At last Theseus came up with him,

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where lie lay panting, caught him by the horns, forced his head back, and drove the sword through his throat. Then Theseus turned and went back, limping and weary, feeling his way by the thread, till he came to the mouth of the cave. There Ariadne was waiting for him.

Theseus whispered, “It is done I” and showed her the sword.

She laid her fingers on her lips and led him to the prison. She opened the doors and set all the prisoners free, while the guards lay sleeping, for she had silenced them with wine. Then they fled together to their ship, and leaped on board, and hoisted the sails. The night lay dark around them, so they passed through Minos’s ships, and escaped; and Ariadne went with them.

— Adapted from Charles Kingsley’s “Greek Heroes.”

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King Solomon and the Bees

When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came. To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty king.

Nor this alone: much had her Highness

heard What flowers of learning graced the royal

speech; What gems of wisdom dropped with every

word; What wholesome lessons he was wont to

teach In pleasing proverbs, and she wished, in

sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.

Besides, the queen had heard (which piqued

her most) How through the deepest riddles he could

spy;

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How all tlie curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to Ms piercing eye. And so the queen had come — a royal guest- To put the sage’s cunning to the test.

And straight she held before the monarch’s

view, In either hand a radiant wreath of flowers ; The one, bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature’s choicest

bowers; The other, no less fair in every part. Was the rare product of divinest Art.

“Which is the true and which the false f she

said. Great Solomon was silent. All-amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled

head. While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, As one who sees a miracle, and fain, For very rapture, ne’er would speak again.

“Which is the true?” once more the woman asked,

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Pleased at the fond amazement of the king. “So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned liege, with such a trivial thing!’* But still the sage was silent; it was plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.

While thus he pondered, presently he sees, Hard by the (jasement (so the story goes), A little band of busy, bustling bees. Hunting for honey in a withered rose. The monarch smiled, and raised his royal

head: “Open the window I” — ^that was all he said.

The window opened at the king’s command; Within the room the eager insects flew. And sought the flowers in Sheba’s dexter

hand I And so the king and all his courtiers knew That wreath was Nature’s; and the baflied

queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen.

— John Godfrey Saxe. 234

The Blind Men and the Elephant

It was six men of Indostan, To learning much inclined,

Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind).

That each by observation Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant

And, happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side,

At once began to bawl: “God bless me I but the Elephant

Is very like a wall I”

The Second, feeling of the tusk. Cried: “Hoi what have we here,

So very round, and smooth, and sharp! To me ’tis mighty clear

This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spearl”

The Third approached the animal

And, happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands,

Thus boldly up and spake: “I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant

Is very like a snake!” 235

The Fourtli reached out his eager hand,

And felt about the knee. “What most this wondrous beast is like

Is mighty plain,” quoth he; “Tis clear enough the Elephant

Is very like a tree.”

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: “E’en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can:

This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan I”

The Sixth no sooner had begun

About the beast to grope. Than, seizing on the swinging tail

That fell within his scope, “I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant

Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan

Disputed loud and long. Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff- and strong. Though each was partly in the right.

And all were in the wrong 1

— John Godfrey Saxe. 236

Hercules, or The Three Golden Apples

“Can you tell me, pretty maidens,” asked a stranger, “whether this is the right way to the garden of the Hes-per’-i-des?”

The young women sat by the brink of the river, making wreaths of flowers and crowning one another. On hearing the stranger’s question, they dropped all their flowers on the grass, and gazed at him in surprise.

“The garden of the Hesperides!” cried one, “and pray, brave traveler, what do you want there?”

“A certain king who is my cousin,” replied the stranger, “has ordered me to get him three of the golden apples.”

“Most of the young men who go in quest’ of these apples,” said another of the damsels, “desire them for themselves or for some fair maiden whom they love. Do you then, love this king, your cousin, so very much?”

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“Perhaps not,” replied the stranger sigh- ing. “He has often been severe and cruel to me, but it is my fate to obey him.”

“And do you know,” asked the damsel, “that a terrible dragon with a hundred heads keeps watch under the golden apple tree?”

“I know it well,” answered the stranger calmly. “But, from my cradle upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pas- time, to deal with serpents and dragons.”

The young women looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion*s skin which he wore, and at his heroic figure. They whis- pered to each other that the stranger appeared able to perform great deeds. But the dragon with a hundred heads! What mortal could hope to escape the fangs of such a monster?

“Go back,” they cried, “go back to your own home! We do not wish the dragon with the himdred heads to eat you upl”

The stranger carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay near by. With the force of that idle blow the great rock was shattered to pieces.

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“Do you not believe,” said lie, “that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon’s hundred heads?”

Then he sat down on the grass, and told them the story of his life. When he lay cradled in the shield of a soldier, two big serpents came gliding over the floor and opened their jaws to devour hina. He, a baby only a few months old, had gripped one of the fierce snakes in each of his little fists, and strangled them to death. When he was a stripling, he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as the one whose shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders. The next thing that he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly sort of monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads, and very sharp teeth in every one.

“But the dragon of the Hesperides, you know,” said one of the damsels, “has a hun- dred heads!”

“Nevertheless,” replied the stranger, **I would rather fight two such dragons than a jingle hydra, for as fast as I cut off a head«

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two others grew in its place. Besides, there was one of the heads that could not possibly be killed. It kept biting as fiercely as ever, long after it was cut off. So I was forced to bury it under a stone, where it is doubtless alive to this very day. But the hydra’s body and its eight other heads will never do any more mischief.”

Then the traveler told how he chased a very swift stag, for twelve months, without ever stopping to take breath. He had at last caught it by the antlers and carried it home flli^e* -^^ ^® ^^^ fought with a very odd i^ce of people, half horses and half men, and put them all tp death. Besides all this, he took to himself great credit for having cleaned out a stable.

“Do you call that a wonderful exploit? Any clown in the country has done as much!” Raid one of the young maidens with a smile.

“Had it been an ordinary stable,” replied the stranger, “I should not have mentioned it. But this was so great a task that it would have taken me all my life to perform

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it, if I liad not turned a river through the stable door. That did the work in a very short time!”

Seeing how earnestly the maidens listened, he next told them how he had shot some huge birds, and had caught a wild bull alive and let him go again, and had tamed a munber of wild horses, and had conquered the war- like queen of the Am’-a-zons. He men- tioned, likewise, that he had taken off the queen’s enchanted girdle, and had given it to the daughter of his cousin the king.

“Was it the girdle of Venus?” inquired the damsels, “which makes women beau- tiful?”

“No,” answered the stranger. “It had been the sword-belt of Mars, and it can only make the wearer brave.”

Going on with his wonderful story, he told the maidens that his strangest adventure was when he fought with Ge’-ry-on the six- legged man. This was a very odd and frightful sort of figure. Any person look- ing at his tracks in the sand or snow, would

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suppose that three companions had been walking along together. On hearing his footsteps at a little distance, one would judge that zeveral men must be coming. But it was only the strange man Geryon clattering onward with his six legs!

When the stranger had finished the story of his adventures, he looked around at the attentive faces of the maidens.

“Perhaps you may have heard of me before,” said he modestly. “My name is Her’-cu-les.”

“We have already guessed it,*’ replied the maidens; “for your wonderful deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange any longer, that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the Hes- perides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers 1”

Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty shoulders, so that the lion’s skin was almost entirely covered with roses.

“Dear maidens,” said he, when they

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paused to take breath, “now that you know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of the Hesperides?”

“We will give you the best directions we can,” replied the damsels. “You must go to the seashore, and find out the Old One, and compel him to inform you where the golden apples are to be found.”

“The Old One,” repeated Hercules, laugh- ing at this odd name. “And, pray, who may the Old One be?”

“Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure!” answered one of the damsels. **He knows all about the garden of the Hesper- ides; for it is on an island which he often visits.”

Hercules then asked where the Old One was most likely to be met. When the dam- sels had told him, he thanked them for all their kindness; for the bread and grapes with which they had fed him, for the lovely flowers with which they had crowned him, and for the songs and dances wherewith they had done him honor. He thanked them, most

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of all, for telling him the right way, and at once he set forth upon his journey.

But before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after him, “Keep fast hold of the Old One, when you catch him, and do not be surprised at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast and he will tell you what you wish to know.”

Hercules again thanked her and went his way, while the maidens went back to their flower-wreaths. They talked about the hero long after he was gone.

Meanwhile, Hercules traveled onward, over hill and dale, and through the lonely woods. Sometimes he swimg his club aloft, and splintered a mighty oak with a blow. His mind was so full of giants and monsters, that perhaps he mistook the great tree for a giant or monster. And so eager was Hercules to get the apples, that he almost regretted having spent so much time with the damsels, wasting idle breath upon the story of his adventures.

Hastening forward, he at last heard the

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sea roaring at a distance. At this sound he increased his speed, and soon came to the beach, where the great waves tumbled them- selves upon the hard sand in a long line of snowy foam.

At one end of the beach there was a pleasant spot, where some green vines climbed up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and beautiful. A carpet of grass covered ,the narrow space between the bottom of the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules see there, but the Old Man fast asleep. It was the Old Man of the Sea of whom the maidens had told him. Hercules stole on tiptoe towards him and caught him by the arm and leg.

“Tell me,” cri^d he, before the Old One was well awake, “which is the way to the garden of the Hesperides?”

The Old Man of the Sea awoke in ter- ror, but his astonishment was not greater than that of Hercules. For, all of a sudden, the Old One disappeared out of his grasp, and Hercules found himself holding a stag

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by a fore and a hind leg I But still lie kept fast hold. Then the stag disappeared, and in its stead there was a sea-bird, fluttering and screaming, while Hercules clutched it by the wing and claw! But the bird could not get away.

Lnmediately afterwards, there was an ugly three-legged dog, which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped fiercely at his hands. But Hercules would not let him go. In another minute, instead of the three- legged dog, what should api)ear but Geryon, the six-legged man-monster, kicking at Her- cules with five of his legs, to get the other free! But Hercules held on.

By and by there was a huge snake, like

one of those which Hercules had strangled

in his babyhood, only a hundred times as

big. It twisted and twined about the hero’s

neck and body, and threw its tail high in

the air, and opened its deadly jaws as if to

devour him outright! But Hercules squeezed

the great snake so tightly that he soon

began to hiss with pain.

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As Hercules held on so hard, and squeezed the Old One so much the tighter at every change of shape, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure. So there he was again, a fishy, scaly, web-footed sort of personage, with something like a tuft of sea- weed at his chin.

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“Pray, wliat do you want with me?” cried he. “Why do you squeeze me so hard? Let me go this moment, or I shall begin to think you a very rude person!”

“My name is Hercules!” roared the mighty stranger. “And you will never get out of my clutches, until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of the Hesperides!”

When the old fellow heard who it was that had caught him, he knew he must tell everything Hercules wanted to know. Of course, he had often heard of Hercules and his wonderful deeds. He made no more attempts to escape, but told the hero how to find the garden of the Hesperides.

“You must go on,” said the Old Man of the Sea, “till you come in sight of a very tall giant who holds the sky on his shoulders. And the giant, if he happens to be in the himior, will tell you exactly where the garden of the Hesperides lies.”

“And if the giant happens not to be in the humor,” remarked Hercules, “perhaps I shall find means to put him in the humor.”

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Thanking the Old Man of the Sea, and begging his pardon for having squeezed him so roughly, the hero went on his journey.

It was on this journey that Hercules met a giant, who was so wonderfully made that, every time he touched the earth, he became ten times as strong as ever he had been before. His name was An-tae’-us. As often as he got a knock-down blow, he started up stronger and fiercer than ever.

Thus, the harder Hercules pounded the giant with his club, the further he seemed from winning the victory. The only way he could win the battle, was to lift Antaeus off his feet into the air, and squeeze and squeeze him, until finally all the strength was squeezed out of Ms huge body.

When this affair was finished, Hercules continued his travels. Passing through the deserts of Africa, and going as fast as he could, he arrived at last on the shore of the great ocean. And here, unless he could walk on the crests of the billows, it seemed as if his journey must end. Nothing was before

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him save the foaming, dashing ocean. But, suddenly, as he looked towards the horizon, he saw something a great way off, which he had not seen the moment before. It beamed very brightly, almost like the round, golden disk of the sun, when it rises or sets over the edge of the world. It became larger and brighter. At length, it came so nigh that Hercules discovered it to be an immense cup or bowl, made of either gold or burnished brass. There it was rolling on the billows which tossed it up and down, without ever throwing their spray over the brim.

“I have seen many giants in my time,” thought Hercules, “but never one that would need to drink his wine out of a cup like this!”

The waves tumbled the bowl onward till it grazed against the shore a short distance from where Hercules was standing. It was clear that this marvelous cup had been sent to carry Hercules across the sea, to the garden of the Hesperides.

Without a moment’s delay, Hercules cJunbed over the brim and slid down on the

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inside. Spreading out his lion’s skin, he lay upon it to take a little repose. He had scarcely rested until now, since he bade fare- well to the damsels on the margin of the river. The waves dashed with a pleasant and ringing sound against the hollow cup. It rocked lightly to and fro, and the motion soon rocked Hercules to sleep.

His. nap had probably lasted a long while, when the cup grazed against a rock. The noise awoke Hercules, who started up and gazed around, wondering where he was. He soon found that the bowl had floated across the sea, and was coming near to the shore.

There he saw a giant. And, most won- derful of all, the giant held up his great hands to support the sky, which, so far as Hercules could see through the clouds, was resting upon the giant’s head.

Meanwhile the bright cup floated onward until it touched the shore. Just then a breeze wafted away the clouds from the giant’s face, and Hercules saw it, with all its enormous features; eyes each of them as

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big as a lake, tiie nose a mile long, and the mouth of the same width.

Poor fellow I He had evidently stood there a long while. An ancient forest had been growing and decaying at his feet; and oak- trees, six or seven centuries old, had sprung from the acorn and forced themselves between his toes. The giant looked down from the far height of his great eyes and, seeing Hercules, roared out, in a voice that resembled thunder, “Who are you, down at my feet there? And whence do you come, in that little cupf

“I am Hercules I” thundered back the hero, in a voice nearly as loud as the giant’s own. “And I am seeking the garden of the HesperidesI”

“Hoi hoi hoi” roared the giant, in a fit of laughter. “That is a wise adventure, truly I”

“And why not?” cried Hercules, getting angry at the giant’s mirth. “Do you think I am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads?”

While they were talking together, some

2&2

black clouds gathered about the giant and burst into a great storm of thunder and light- ning. Only the giant’s legs were to be seen^ with now and then a glimpse of his whole figure. At last the storm swept over, as sud- denly as it had come. There again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, while the pleasant sunshine beamed over his vast height. So far above the shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was wet by the raindrops!

When the giant could see Hercules still standing on the seashore, he roared out to him again, “I am Atlas, the mightiest giant in the worldl I hold the sky upon my headi”

“So I see,” answered Hercules. “But can you show me the way to the garden of the Hesperidesf

“What do you want there?” asked the giant.

“I want three of the golden apples,” shouted Hercules, “for my cousin, the king.”

“There is nobody but myself,” quoth the giant, “that can go to the garden of the Hes-

253

perides and gather golden apples. If it were not for this little task of holding up the sky, I would make half a dozen steps across the sea and get them for you.”

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“You are very kind,” replied Hercules. “Can you not rest the sky upon a mountain?”

“None of them are quite high enough,” said Atlas, shaking his head. “But, if you were to take your stand on the summit of that nearest one, your head would be nearly on a level with mine. You seem to be a fellow of some strength. If you will take my burden on your shoulders, I will do your errand for you.”

“Is the sky very heavy!” inquired Her- cules.

“No, not at first,” -answered the giant, “But it gets to be a little heavy after a thousand years 1”

“How long a time will it take you to get the golden apples’?” asked Hercules.

“Oh, that will be done in a few moments,” cried Atlas. “I shall take ten or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again before your shoulders begin to ache.”

“Well, then,” answered Hercules, “I will climb the mountain behind you there, and relieve you of your burden.”

255

Without more words, the sky was shifted from the shoulders of Atlas and placed upon those of Hercules. When this was safely done, the first thing the giant did was to stretch himself. Next, he slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest that had grown up around it. All at once he began to caper and leap and dance for joy at his freedom. He flung himself nobody knows how high in the air, and floundered down again with a shock that made the earth tremble. Then he laughed — “Hoi hoi hoi” — ^with a roar that was echoed from the mountains. Then he stepped into the sea.

Ten miles at the first stride brought him midleg deep, and ten miles at the second made the water come just above his knees, and ten miles more at the third sank him nearly to his waist. This was the greatest depth of the sea.

Hercules watched the giant, as he still went onward. It was really a wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles off, half hidden in the ocean.

256

The upper half was still as tall and misty and blue as a distant mountain. At last the huge shape faded entirely out of view.

Now Hercules began to consider what he should do, in case Atlas should be drowned at sea; or if he should be stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads, which guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. If any misfortune were to happen, how could he ever get rid of the sky? By and by its weight began to become a little irksome to his head and shoulders.

“I really pity the poor giant,” thought Bercules. “If it wearies me so much in ten minutes, how it must have wearied him in a thousand years I”

Hercules gazed at the world before him. He thought to himself that it was far better to be a shepherd at the foot of a mountain than to stand on its summit and bear up the sky. If he did not stand perfectly still and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be ajar I Or, after nightfall

a great many of the stars might be loosened

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‘from their places and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the people’s heads! How ashamed the hero would be, if the sky should break, and show a great crack across it I

I know not how long it was before he beheld the huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far off edge of the sea. As Atlas approached nearer he held up his hand, in which Hercules could see three beautiful golden apples, as big as pump- kins, all hanging from one branch.

“I am glad to see you again,” shouted Hercules, when the giant was within hear- ing. “So you have the golden apples’?”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered Atlas; “and very fair ones they are. I took the finest that grew on the tree, I assure you. Ah! it is a beautiful spot, that garden of the Hesperides, and the dragon with the hundred heads is worth any man’s seeing. After all, you should have gone for the apples yourself.”

“No matter,” replied Hercules. “You

have had. a pleasant ramble, and have done

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the errand as well as I could. I heartily thank you for your trouble. And now, as I have a long way to go, and am in haste, will you be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders again?”

“Can I not carry the golden apples to the king much more quickly than you? As his majesty is in such a hurry to get them, I promise you to take my longest strides. Besides, I have no wish to burden myself with the sky just at present,” replied Atlas.

Hercules grew a little angry and gave a great shrug of his shoulders. It being now twilight, you might have seen a number of stars tumble out of their places. Every- body on earth looked upward in fear, think- ing that the sky might be going to fall next.

“Oh, that will never do I” cried Atlas, with a great roar of laughter. “I have not let so many stars fall in the last five cen- turies. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will begin to learn patience!”

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“What I” shouted HerculeSj in great anger, “do you intend to make me bear this burden forever f

“We shall see about that, one of these days,” answered the giant. “At all events, you ought not to complain, if you have to bear it the next hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it a good while longer, in spite of the backache. If %fter a thousand years, I happen to feel in the mood, we may shift about again. You are a very strong man, and you will never have a better chance to prove it.”

“Well,” said Hercules, “if I am to spend many centuries here, I must make a cushion of my lion’s skin, for the weight to rest upon. It really chafes me. Will you take the sky on your head one minute?”

“That’s no more than fair, and I’ll do

it I” quoth the giant. “For just five minutes,

then, I’ll take back the sky^ but only for

five minutes, recollect I I have no idea of

spending another thousand years as I spent

the last.”

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So the thick-witted old giant threw down the golden apples and received back the sky upon his own head and shoulders, where it belonged. Hercules picked up the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins, and set out on his journey homeward. He paid not the slightest heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed after him to come back.

Another forest sprang up around the feet of Atlas, and became old there; and again oak-trees six or seven centuries old may be seen between his toes. There stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name. When the thunder rum- bles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of the giant Atlas bellowing after Hercules.

— Adapted from Nathaniel Hawthorne,

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The Brook-Song

Little brook I Little brook!

You have such a happy look — Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and curve and crook —

And your ripples, one and one.

Reach each other’s hands and run Like laughing little children in the sun I

Little brook, sing to me: Sing about a bumble-bee That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled mumblingly. Because he wet the film Of his wings and had to swim, While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at him I

From Rbymes of Cbildhood, by James Whltcomb Riley, Copyrlgbt, 1900, oaed Ifj special permission ot tbe Bobbs-MerrlU Company.

262

Little brook — sing a song

Of a leaf that sailed along Down the golden-braided center of your cur- rent swift and strong,

And a dragon-fly that lit

On the tilting rim of it And rode away and wasn’t scared a bit.

And sing — ^how oft in glee

Came a truant boy like me, Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody,

Till the gurgle and refrain

Of your music in his brain Wrought a happiniess as keen to him as pain.

Little brook — laugh and leap!

Do not let the dreamer weep: Sing him all the songs of summer till he sinks in softest sleep;

And then sing soft and low

Through his dreams of long ago — Sing back to him the rest he used to knowH

— James Whitcomb Riley. 263

The Circus-Day Parade

Oh I the Circus-Day Parade; How the bugles played and played!

And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed,

As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor- drummer’s time

Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime I

How the grand band-wagon shone with a

splendor all its own, And glittered with a glory that our dreams

had never known I And how the boys behind, high and low, of

every kind. Marched in unconscious capture, with a

rapture undefined!

B^m Armagindy. by James Wbitcomb Blley, copyright 1884, used by apedall permiaBlon of the Bobbs-Merrill Compav*

264

How the horsemen, two and two, with their

plumes of white and blue And crinjson, gold and purple, nodding by

at me and you, Waved the banners that they bore, as the

knights in days of yore, Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened

like the spangles that they wore I

How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed,

And the capers of the little horse that can- tered at his side I

How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame.

With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.

How the cages jolted past, with each wagon

battened fast. And the mystery within it only hinted of

at last From the little grated square in the rear^

and nosing there

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The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air I

And last of all, The Clown, making mirth

for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his

eyebrows ever down. And his chief attention paid to the little

mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in

the Parade.

Oh I the Circus-Day Parade! How the bugles played and played I

And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed.

As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor- drummer’s time

Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime I

— James Whitcomb BUey.

366

The Man in the Moon

Said The Raggedy Man, on a hot afternoon; My! SakesI What a lot o* mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the

Moon I But people that’s be’n up to see him, like me, And calls on him frequent and intimately. Might drop a few facts that would interest you Clean! Through! — If you wanted *em to — Some actual facts that might interest you I

O The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Wheel Whimml Ain’t you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and

black; And his eyes so weak that they water and run

From Rhymes of Childhood, by Jamee Whltcomb BUey, copyright 1900, omA ky special permission of the Bobbs-Merrlll Company.

267

If he dares to dream even he looks at the

sun, — So he jes dreams of stars, as the doctors advise — My! Eyes! But isn*t he wise — To jes dream of stars, as the doctors advise!

And The Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear — Whee! Whingl What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my

dear, — There*s a boil on his ear, and a com on his

chin — He calls it a dimple — ^but dimples stick in— Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why, certainly so! — It might be a dimple turned over, you knowX

And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee — Gee! Whizz! What a pity that isl 268

And his toes have worked round where his

heels ought to be — So whenever he wants to go North he goes

South, And comes back with porridge-crumbs all

round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, Whingl Whannl What a marvelous man I What a very remarkably marvelous man!

And The Man in the Moon, sighed The Raggedy Man, Gits! Sol So lonesome, you know, — Up there by himself sence creation began! — That when I call on him and then come

away. He grabs me and holds me and begs me to

stay,— Till — ^welU if it wasn*t for Jimmy-cum-jim Daddl Limb! Fd go pardners with him — Jes jump my job here and be pardners with hun!

— James Whitcomh BUey. 269

The King of the Golden River

Past I. The Visit of Southwest Wind Esqukb

In the mountain parts of Styria there was in old time a very fertile valley. It was surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains. These were always cov- ered with snow, and from them great tor- rents flowed. One of these torrents fell westward, over a high crag, making a great waterfall. When the sim had set to every- thing else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was therefore called by the people the Golden River.

It was strange that none of these streams from the mountains fell into the valley. They all went down on the other side of the moimtains. But the clouds rested so softly in the hollow that, when all the country

270

round was burned up, there was still rain in the little valley. Its crops were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to everyone who saw it. It was called the Treasure Valley.

This little valley belonged to three brothers called Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two older brothers, were ugly men, with heavy eyebrows and small, dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you couldn’t see into them.

They farmed Treasure Valley and very good farmers they were. They killed every- thing that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds, because they pecked the fruit. They killed the hedgehogs, lest they should hurt the cows. They worked their servants without any wages, till they would work no more, and then quarreled with them and turned them out of doors without paying them. They kept their com till it was very dear, and then sold it for twice

271

its value. They had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given away so much as a penny or a crust. They were, in a word, so cruel and grinding that they were nicknamed the “Black Brothers.”

The youngest brother, Gluck, was very different. He was not over twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind to every living thing. He did not agree with his brothers, or rather, they did not agree with him. He had charge of the turnspit, when there was anything to roast. And he used to clean the shoes, the floors, and sometimes the plates, getting only what was left on them to eat.

Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet sum- mer, and everything went wrong in the country round. The haystacks were floated down to the sea by a flood, the vines were cut to pieces by the hail, and the com was all killed by a black blight.

Only in the Treasure Valley was all safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere

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else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to the farm to buy com. The Black Brothers asked what they liked, and got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg.

It was winter, and very cold weather, when one day the two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck to let nobody in, and give nothing out. Gluck sat down close to the fire, for it was raining hard. He turned and turned the roast till it became nice and brown.

“What a pity,” thought Gluck, **my brothers never ask anybody to dinner. Pm sure, when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, and nobody else has even a piece of dry bread, it would do their hearts good to have somebody eat it with them.” Just as he spoke there came a; double knock at the house door, more like a puff than a knock.

“It must be the wind,” said Gluck, “nobody else would dare to knock double knocks at our door.”

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No; it wasn’t the wind. It came again very hard. The knocker seemed to be in a hurry and not in the least afraid. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.

It was the strangest looking little gen- tleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, and his cheeks were very round and very red. His eyes twinkled merrily through long, silky eyelashes, his mustaches curled twice round like a cork- screw on each side, and his hair fell far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six inches high, and on his head was A pointed cap almost as high, trimmed with a black feather some three feet long. He wore an enormous black cloak, which the wind carried clear out from his shoulders to about four times his own length.

The old gentleman turned around to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck’s little yellow head in the window, with mouth and eyes wide open. “Hello 1” said the little gentleman,

274

“that’s not the way to answer the door. I’m wet, let me in.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Gluck. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” said the old gentleman.

“I. can’t let you in, sir; I can’t, indeed. My brothers would beat me, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sirf^

“Want?” said the old gentleman, “I want fire and shelter, and there’s your great fire

275

blazing, crackling and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say. I only want to warm myself.”

Gluck felt cold, and when he turned and saw the beautiful fire his heart melted within him. Why should it be burning away for nothing? “He does look wet,” said little Gluck. “I’ll just let him in for a quarter of an hour.” Round he went to the door, and opened it, and as the little gentleman walked in, a gust of wind came that made the old chimneys totter.

“That’s a good boy,” said the little gen- tleman. “Never mind your brothers. TU talk to them.”

“Pray, sir, don’t do any such thing,” said Gluck. “I can’t let you stay till they

come.”

“Dear me,” said the old gentleman, “Fm very sorry to hear that. How long may I

if

“Only till the mutton’s done, sir,” replied Gluck, “and it’s very brown.”

Then the old gentleman walked into the

276

kitchen, and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof.

“You’ll soon be dry, sir,” said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did not dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders. The fire fizzed and sputtered, and began to look very black; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Gluck, after watching the water spreading in long streams for a quarter of an hour. “May 3 not take your cloak?”

“No, thank you,” said the old gentleman.

“Your cap, sir?”

“rm all right, thank you,” said the old gentleman, rather gruffy.

“But, sir, Tm very sorry,” said Gluck, “but really, sir, you’re putting the fire out.”

“It’ll take longer to do the mutton then,” replied his visitor.

Gluck was very much puzzled by his odd guest.

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“That mutton looks very nice,” said the old gentleman, at length. “Can’t you give me a little bit r

“Impossible, sir,” said Gluck.

“I’m very hungry,” went on the old gentleman, “I’ve had nothing to eat yester- day nor to-day. They surely could not miss a small bit from the knuckle!”

“They promised me one slice to-day, sir,” said Gluck. “I can give you that, but not a bit more.”

“That’s a good boy,” said the old gen- tleman again.

Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharp- ened a knife. “I don’t care if I do get beaten for it,” thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton there came a rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it suddenly became too warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.

“What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?” said Schwartz, as he walked in, and threw his umbrella in Gluck’s face.

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“Ay! what for, indeed, you little vaga- bond?” asked Hans, giving him a box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen.

“Bless my soul,” said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

“Amen,” said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing again and again.

“Who’s that?” said Schwartz, catching up a rolling pin and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown.

“I don’t know,” said Gluck, in great terror.

“How did he get in?” roared Schwartz<

“My dear brother,” said Gluck, “he was so wet!”

The rolling, pin was descending on Gluck’s head; but at that instant the old gentleman held out his cap. It crashed with a shock that shook the water out of the cap all over the room. The rolling pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of

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Schwartz’s hand, spiiming like a straw in a high wind, and fell into a comer.

“Who are you, sir?” demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.

“What’s your business?” snarled Hans.

“I’m a poor old man, sir,” said the little gentleman very modestly. “I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour.”

“Have the goodness to walk out again, then,” said Schwartz. “We’ve enough water in our kitchen.”

“It is a cold day to turn an old man out, sir. Look at my gray hairs.”

“Yes,” said Hans, “there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk I”

“I’m very, very himgry, sir. Could you not spare me a bit of bread before I go?”

“Bread, indeed I” said Schwartz. “Do you suppose we’ve nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?”

“Why don’t you sell your feathers?” said Hans. “Out with you.”

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“A little bit/’ said the old gentleman.

“Be offl” said Schwartz.

“Pray, gentlemen.”

“Off, and be hanged!” cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman’s collar than away he went after the rolling-pin, spin- ning round and roimd, till he fell into the comer on top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out. He also had hardly touched him when away he went, after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the comer. So there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun around until his cloak was all wound neatly about him. He clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side, gave another twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and said, “Gentle- men, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve to-night I’ll call again.”

“If ever I catch you here again,” mut- tered Schwartz, — ^but the old gentleman

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had shut the door behind him with a great bang. Past the window at the same instant drove a cloud that whirled down the valley in all manner of shapes.

“A pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluckl’* said Schwartz. “Dish the mutton, sir. If ever I ciatch you at such a trick again — bless me, the mutton has been cut!”

“You promised me one slice, brother, you know,” said Gluck.

“Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I sup- pose, and going to catch all the gravy. It will be a long time before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir, and have the kindness to wait in the coal cellar till I call you.”

Gluck left the room, sad enough. The brothers ate as much of the mutton as they could, and locked the rest in the cupboard.

Such a night as it was I The brothers had closed all the shutters and barred the doors before they went to bed. As the clock struck twelve they were awakened by a great noise. Their door burst open with

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a crash that shook the house from top to bottom.

“What’s that?” cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.

“Only I,” said the little gentleman.

The two brothers sat up in bed and stared into the darkness. The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam they could see a large globe, spinning round and bobbing up and down like a cork, on

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wMcli sat the little old gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for his cap now, for the roof was off.

“I am sorry for you,” said their visitor. “Fm afraid your beds are damp. Perhaps you had better go to your brother*s room. IVe left the ceiling on there.”

They rushed into Gluck’s room, wet through, and in an agony of terror.

“You’ll find my card on the kitchen table,” the old gentleman called after them. “Remember, the last visit.”

“Pray heaven it may be I” said Schwartz, shuddering. And the globe disappeared.

Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck’s little window in the morning. Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin. The storm had swept away trees, crops and cattle, and left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers crept, shivering and afraid, into the kitchen. The water had filled the whole first floor. Com, money and almost every

movable thing had been swept away. There

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was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long- legged letters, were the words:

— Adapted from John Buskin.

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The King of the Golden River

Past II. The Mug and the Kino

Southwest Wind, Esquire, was as good as his word. He entered the Treasure Val- ley no more. What was worse, his relatives, the West Winds, did not either. So no rain fell in the valley from one year’s end to another. What had once been the richest soil in the kingdom became a heap of red sand. The brothers finally left the valley to gain a living in the city. All their money was gone, and they had nothing left but some curious, old-fashioned pieces of gold plate.

“Suppose we turn goldsmiths,” said Schwartz and Hans, as they entered the large city. “It is a good knave’s trade. We can put copper with the gold, without its being found out.” So they hired a fur- nace and turned goldsmiths.

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But two things hurt their trade: first, the people did not approve of the coppered gold, and second, the two brothers used to go and drink out the money in the ale- house. So they melted all their gold, with- out making money enough to buy more. They were at last reduced to one large drinking-mug, which an old uncle had given to little Gluck.

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The mug was very odd. The handle was formed of two wreaths of golden hair. These wreaths were mixed with a beard and whiskers of the same color, around a fierce little face of the reddest gold. It was impossible to drink out of this mug without feeling the gaze from these eyes. Schwartz declared he had seen them wink I

When it came the mug’s turn to be made into spoons, it half broke poor little Gluek*s heart. But the brothers only laughed at him and tossed the mug into the melting pot. Then they staggered to the ale-house, leaving him to pour the gold into bars when it was ready.

When they were gone, Gluck took a farewell look at his old friend in the melt- ing-pot. The flowing hair was all gone. Nothing remained but the red nose and the sparkling eyes. Gluck went to the window and sat down to catch the fresh evening air.

Now this window gave a view of the mountains and of the peak from which fell

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the Golden River. It was just at the close of the day when Gluck sat down at the window. He saw the mountain tops, all crimson and purple with the sunset. There were bright red clouds about them, and the river fell in a waving stream of pure gold, with the arch of a rainbow across it.

“Ah I” said Gluck aloud, after he had looked at it for a little while, “if that river were really gold, what a nice thing it would bel”

“No, it would not, Gluck,” said a clear voice, close to his ear.

“Bless me, what’s that?” exclaimed Gluck, jimiping up. There was nobody there. He looked around the room, and under the table, and a great many times behind him. but there was nobody there, and he sat down again at the window. This time he didn’t speak, but he could not help thinking again that it would be very fine if the river were really all gold.

“Not at all, my bpy,” said the same voice, louder than before.

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REG.

“Bless me I” said Gluek again, “what is that?” He looked again into all the cor- ners and cupboards, and then began turning round and round in the middle of the room, thinking there was somebody behind him. The same voice struck again on his ear. It was singing now merrily, “Lala-lira-la,” something like a kettle on the boil. Gluck looked out of the window. No, it was cer- tainly in that room, coming in quicker time and clearer notes every moment.

All at once it struck Gluck , that it sounded louder near the furnace. He ran to the opening and looked in. Yes, it seemed to be coming not only out of the furnace, but out of the pit. Gluck uncov- ered it and ran back in great fright, for the pot was certainly singing. He stood in a far comer of the room with his hands up and his mouth open. Then the singing stopped, and the voice became clear.

“Hello I” said the voice.

Gluck made no answer.

“Hello I Gluck, my boy,” said the pot again. 290

Gluck walked up to the furnace and looked in. The gold was all melted and its surface was as smooth as a river. As he looked, Gluck saw in the gold the red nose and sharp eyes of his old friend of the mug.

“Come, Gluck, my boy,” said the voice of the pot again, “Fm all right; pour me out.”

But Gluck was too much surprised tp do anything of the kind.

“Pour me out, I say,” said the voic© rather gruffly. ggi

still 01iick cQuld not maveV

“Will you pour me out?” said the voice, “Fm too hot.”

By a great ejffort* Gluck took hold of the pot to pour out the gold. But instead of a stream there came out a pair of little yellow legs, then some coat-tails, then a pair of arms akimbo, and finally, the well-known head of his friend of ihe mug. All parts united as they came out and stood up on the floor, in the shape of a little golden dwarf very little more than a foot and a half high.

“That’s right,” said the dwarf, stretching first his legs and then his arms. Then he shook his head up and down, and as far round as it would go, for five minutes, with- out stopping. He was dressed in a slashed doublet of spun gold, so fine that the rain- bow colors gleamed through it. Over this bright doublet his hair and beard fell half- way to the ground in curls that seemed to melt into the air. The dwarf turned his small sharp eyes on Gluck, and stared at

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him for a minute or two. “No, it would not, Gluck, my boy,” said the little man.

“Wouldn’t it, sir?” said Gluck, very mildly.

“No,” said the dwarf. “No, it would not.” With that the dwarf pulled his cai’ hard orer his brows and took three turns up and down the room, lifting his legs very high, and setting them down very hard. This gave time for Gluck to think a little. He soon saw no great reason to fear his little visitor.

“Pray, sir,” said Gluck, “were you my mug?”

On which the little man turned sharply round, walked straight up to Gluck, and drew himself up to his full height. “I,” said the little man, “am the King of the Golden River.” Whereupon he turned about again and took two more turns. After which he again walked up to Gluck and stood still, as if expecting him to speak.

“I hope your Majesty is very well,” said

Gluck.

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“Listen 1” said the little man, “I am the King of the Golden River. The shape you saw me in was due to a stronger king. You have this instant freed me. What I have seen of you, and your conduct to your wicked brothers, makes me willing to serve you. Therefore attend to what I tell you.

“Whoever shall climb to the top of that mountain from which the Golden River flows, and shall cast into the stream three drops of holy water, for him, and for him only, the river shall turn to gold. But no one failing in his first, can succeed in a second attempt. If anyone cast unholy water into the river, he will become a black stone.” So saying the King of the Golden River turned away, and walked into the center of the hottest flame of the furnace. His figure became red, and white, and dazzling. It rose, trembled and disappeared. The King of the Golden River had vanished.

“Oh!” cried poor Gluck, running to look up the chimney after him. “Oh dear, dear mel My mug! my mug I my mug I”

— Adapted from John BuslUn, 2M

The King of the Golden River

Part III. The Qxjbst op the Two Black Brothers

The King of the Golden River had

hardly gone before Hans and Schwartz came

roaring into the house. Gluck told them

his story, which they did not believe.

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In the morning, howerer, Gluck again told the same story. The brothers thought it might be true. After quarreling a long time about which should try his fortune first, they drew their swords and began fighting. The noise alarmed the neighbors, who sent for the constable.

Hans managed to escape, and hid him- self; but Schwartz was taken before the judge and fined for breaking the peace. Having drunk out his last penny the evening before, he was thrown into prison till he should pay.

When Hans heard this he was glad and he decided to set out at once for the Golden River. For the first time in his life he went to church to get the holy water. He stole a cupful and returned home.

Next morning Hans got up before sun- rise, put the holy water into a strong flask, and two bottles of wine and some meat into a basket. He slimg them over his back, took his staff in his hands, and set forth

for the mountains.

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The Golden River, which sprang from one of these peaks, was now nearly in shadow. On this object Hans’s eyes and thoughts were fixed, forgetting the distance he had to travel. He set off at a rate of walking which soon tired him out. Then he found that a large glacier lay between him and the Golden River. He entered on it boldly, however. The ice was very slip- pery, and out of its chasms came wild sounds of gushing water. His ears grew dull and his head giddy with the constant gush and roar of the hidden waters. The ice crashed into fresh chasms at his feet, and great ice cakes fell thundering across his path. In a panic he made a wild rush and with great effort succeeded in leaping across the last chasm and flung himself on the firm turf of the mountain.

Hans lost his basket of food and could only break off some of the ice. This relieved his thirst and after an hour*s rest he resumed his journey. The path grew steeper, the climbing more difficult, and his

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thirst more intense. He cast glance after glance at the flask of water which hung at his belt. “Three drops are enough,” thought he; “I may as well cool my lips with it.”

He opened the flask and was raising it to his lips, when his eyes fell on an object lying on the rock beside him. He thought it moved. It was a small dog with its tongue out, its jaws dry, and its limbs life- less. Its eyes moved to the bottle which Hans held in his hands. He raised it, drank, spumed the animal with his foot, and passed on. He did not know how it was, but he thought that a shadow had come across the blue sky.

The path became steeper and more rugged every moment, and the air seemed to throw his blood into a fever. The noise of the torrents mocked his thirst, which increased every moment. Another hour passed and Hans again looked down to the flaisk at his side. It was half empty, but there was much more than three drops in

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it. He stopped to open it, and as he did so, something moved again in the path above him. It was a fair child, nearly life- less, on the rock. Its eyes were closed, and its lips were parched. Hans looked at it, drank, and passed on. A dark cloud came over the sun, and long shadows crept along the mountain sides.

Hans struggled on. The sun was sink- ing, but the change brought no coolness. He saw the great falls of the Golden River, scarcely five hundred feet from him. He paused for a moment to breathe and sprang on to complete his task.

At this instant a faint cry fell on his ears. He turned and saw a gray-haired old man lying on the rocks. His eyes were sunken and his face was pale. “Water I” cried he, feebly. “Water, I am dying.**

“I have none,” replied Hansj “thou hast had thy share of life.” He strode over the body and darted on. A flash of blue light- ning rose out of the east, shaped like t

sword.

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The roar of the Golden River rose on Hans’ ear. He stood at the brink of the chasm through which it ran. Its waves were filled with the red glory of the sunset. Shuddering, he drew the flask from his girdle and hurled it into the center of the torrent. As he did so, an icy chill shot through his limbs. He staggered, shrieked and fell. The waters closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly into the night as it gushed over The Black Stone.

Poor little Gluck waited alone in the house for Hans’ return. Finding he did not come back, he was greatly frighteiied. He went to the prison and told Schwartz all that had happened. Schwartz was much pleased, and said that Hans must have been turned into a black stone, and now he would have all the gold for himself. But Gluck was sorry and cried all night.

When he got up in the morning there y^as no bread in the house, nor any money. So Gluck went and hired himself to

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another goldsmith. He worked so hard and so neatly, and so long every day, that he soon got money enough to pay his brother’s fine. He gave it all to Schwartz, who was set free. Schwartz was pleased and said Oluck should have some of the gold of the river. But Gluck only begged him to go and see what had become of Hans.

When Schwartz learned that Hans had stolen the holy water, he thought that must have displeased the King of the Golden River. So he took some more of Gluck’s money and went to a priest, who gave him some holy water. Then Schwartz was sure that it was all right. So he got up early in the morning, before the sun rose, and took some bread and wine in a basket and put his holy water in a flask, and set off for the mountains.

Like his brother, Schwartz was much surprised at the sight of the glacier and found it hard to cross, so he left his basket behind him. As he climbed the steep, rocky path, thirst came upon him, as it had

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Upon his brother, and he lifted his flask to his Ups to drink. Then he saw the fair child lying near him on the rocks and it cried to him for water.

“Water, indeed,” said Schwartz, “I haven’t half enough for myself,” and he passed on. As he went he thought that the sunbeams grew more dim, and he saw a low bank of black clouds rising out of the . west. When he had climbed for an- other hour, the thirst overcame him again and he would have drunk. Then he saw the old man lying before him in the path and he heard him cry for water. “Water, indeed,” said Schwartz, “I haven’t enough for myself,” and on he went.

Then again the light seemed to fade before his eyes. Schwartz looked up. A mist had come over the sun, and the bank of black clouds had risen very high.

Then Schwartz climbed for another hour and again his thirst returned. As he lifted his flask to his lips he thought he saw his brother Hans lying in the path. As he

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gazed, the figure stretched out his arms to him and cried for water. ,

“Hal hal” laughed Schwartz. “Water, indeed! So you suppose I carried it all the way up here for you?” And he strode over the figure. Yet as he passed he thought he saw a strange, mocking look about the lips. When he had gone a few rods farther, he looked back, but the figure was not there.

A sudden horror came over Schwartz; he knew not why. But the thirst for gold was greater than his fear and he rushed on.

When at last Schwartz stood by the Golden River its waves were black like thun- der-clouds, but their foam was like fire. The roar of the water below and the thunder above met as he cast the flask into the stream. As he did so, the lightning glared into his eyes, the earth gave way beneath him, and the waters closed over his cry. The moaning of the river rose wildly into the night as it gushed over The Two Black Stones.

— Adapted from John Buskin. 303

The King of the Golden River

Pabt IV. Gluck’s Quest and the Rewabd

When Gluck found that Schwartz did not come back, he was very sorry, and did not know what to do. He had no money and made up his mind to go and try his fortune with the Golden River. “The little king looked very kind,” thought he. “I don’t think he will turn me into a black stone.” So he went to the priest, and the priest gave him some holy water as soon as he asked for it. He took some bread in his basket and the bottle of water, and set off early for the mountains.

Gluck had several bad falls, lost his basket and bread, and he was very much frightened at the strange noises under the ice. He lay a long time to rest on the grtiss, after he had crossed the glacier, and began to climb the hill just in the hottest

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part of the day. When he had climbed for an hour he got very thirsty. He was going to drink, like his brothers, when he saw an old man coming down the path above him, looking very feeble and leaning on a staff. “My son,” said the old man, “I am faint with thirst; give me some of that water.”

Gluck looked at him, and when he saw he was pale and weary, he gave him the water. “Pray, do not drink it all,” said Gluck. But the old man drank long and gave him back the bottle two-thirds empty. Then the old man bade him good speed, and Gluck went merrily on his way. The path became easier to his feet, and two or three blades of grass appeared upon it. Some grasshoppers began singing on the bank beside it, and Gluck thought he never heard such merry singing.

Then he went on for another hour and his thirst increased so that he thought he must drink. But, as he raised his flask, he saw a child lying by the roadside. It cried

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out piteously for water. Gluck put the bottle to the child’s lips, and it drank all but a few drops. Then it smiled on him and got up, and ran down the hill. Gluck looked after it till it became as small as a little star. Then he turned and began climbing again.

There were all kinds of sweet flowers growing on the rocks, bright green moss, with pale pink blossoms and pure white lilies. Crimson and purple butterflies darted hither and thither, and the sky sent down such pure light that Gluck had never felt so happy in his life.

Yet, when Gluck had climbed for another hour, he again became thirsty. When he looked at his bottle, he saw there were only flve or six drops in it, and he did not dare to drink. As he was hanging the flask to his belt again, he saw a little dog lying on the rocks, gasping for breath. Gluck stopped and looked at it. Then he looked at the Golden River, not five himdred yards above him.

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b~^l^jf/\^^ ..v*^’^. -^

He thought of the dwarf’s words, “That no one could succeed except in his first attempt.” He tried to pass the dog, but it whined piteously, and Gluck stopped again. “Poor beast,” said Gluck, “it will be dead when I come down again if I do not help it.” Then he looked closer and closer at the dog, and its eyes were so

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mournful that lie could not stand it. “Con- found the King and his gold, too,” said Gluck ; and he opened the flask and poured all the water into the dog’s mouth.

The dog sprang up and stood on its hind legs. Its tail disappeared, its ears became long and silky, its nose became very red, and its eyes became very twinkling. In three seconds the dog was gone, and before Gluck stood his old friend, the King of the Golden Eiver.

“Thank you,” said the King, “but don*t be frightened. It’s all right. Why didn’t you come before, instead of sending me your rascally brothers? I turned them into stones. Very hard stones they made too.”

“Oh, dear me I” said Gluck, “have you been so cruel?”

“Cruel?” said the dwarf; “they poured unholy water into my stream. Do you suppose I am going to allow that?”

“Why,” said Gluck, “I am sure, your Majesty, they got the water out of the church font.”

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t%

“Very likely,” replied the dwarf, “but,’ and his face grew stem as he spoke, “the water which has been refused to the weary and the dying is unholy.”

So saying, the dwarf stooped and plucked a lily that grew at his feet.

On its white leaves hung three drops of clear dew, and the dwarf shook them into the flask which Gluck held in his hand. “Cast these into the river,” he said, “and descend on the other side of the mountains into the Treasure Valley. And so, good speed.”

As he spoke, the figure of the dwarf became dim. The colors of his robe formed themselves into a rainbow mist of dewy light. He stood for an instant veiled in them. Then the colors grew faint, the mist rose into the air and the monarch had evaporated.

Gluck climbed to the brink of the Golden il^iver. Its waves were as clear as crystal and as brilliant as the sun. When he cast the three drops of dew into the stream,

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there opened a small whirlpool into which the waters descended with a musical noise.

Gluck stood watching it for some time, disappointed, because the river was not turned into gold. Yet he obeyed his friend the dwarf and descended the other side of the mountains toward the Treasure Valley. As he went he thought he heard the noise of water working its way under the ground. When he came in sight of the Treasure Val- ley, behold I a river like the Golden River was springing from a new cleft in the rocks, and was flowing in streams among the dry heaps of red sand.

As Gluck gazed, fresh grass sprang beside the new streams, and creeping plants grew and climbed among the soil. Mowers opened suddenly along the river sides, as stars leap out when twilight is deepening. Thickets of myrtle and tendrils of vine cast shadows over the valley as they grew. And thus the Treasure Valley became a garden again. Gluck went and dwelt in the valley, and

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the poor were never driven from his door. His bams became full of com, and his house full of treasure. For him the river had become a river of gold.

To this day the people of the Valley point out the place where the three drops of holy dew were cast into the stream. They trace the course of the Golden River under the ground until it comes into the Treasure Valley. At the top of the great falls of the Golden River are still to be seen two black stones. Around these the waters howl mournfully every day at sunset. And these stones are still called, by the people of the valley,

The Black Brothers.

— Adapted from John Buskin.

3U

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

Hamelin town’s in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover City;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its walls, on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied:

But, when begins my ditty,

■Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the town folks suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles.

And ate the cheese out of the vats.

And licked the soup from the cook’s own

ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

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Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women’s chats.

At last the people in a body,

To the Town Hall came flocking:

“Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a

noddy; And as for the Corporation — shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine. For dolts that can’t or won’t determine What’s best to rid us of our vermin 1″

An hour they sat in council;

At length the Mayor broke silence:

“It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain —

I’m sure my poor head aches again,

I’ve scratched it so and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”

Just as he said this what should hap?

At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?

^’Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?

Only the scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything that soimds of a rat.

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat I”

“Come in!” the Mayor cried, looking bigger,

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And in did come the strangest figure. His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With lips where smiles went out and in; And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire.

He advanced to the council-table:

And, “Please your honors,” said he, “I’m

able. By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw I And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm. The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper. If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?” “One? fifty thousand!” — ^was the exclama- tion Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

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Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if lie knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

You heard as if an Army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling.

And the grumbling grew to a mighty

rumbling: And out of the houses the rats came

tmnbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins. Families by tens and dozens. Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing And step for step they followed, dancing. Until they came to the river Weser, Where in all plunged and perished!

You should have heard the Hamelrn people

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Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. “Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles. Poke out the nests and block up the holes I Consult with carpenters and builders And leave in our town not even a trace Of the ratsl” — -when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market place. With a “First, if you please, my thousand

guilders 1″ A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked

blue; So did the Corporation, too.

Quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, “Our business was done at the river^s brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. So friend, we’re not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you sometliing for

drink, But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was a joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders 1 Come, take fifty!”

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The Piper’s face fell, and lie cried, “No trifling, I can’t wait I Beside, Folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion.”

“You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst. Blow your pipe there till you burst 1” Cried the Mayor.

Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes, so sweet. Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes

clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues

chattering. Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls. With rosy-cheeks and flaxen curls. And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and

laughter.

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The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by. They could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back. But how th^ Mayor was on the rack.

The Piper turned from South to West, And towards the mountain his steps ad- dressed, And after him the children pressed.

Great was the joy in every breast, “He never can cross that mighty topi He’s forced to let the piping drop. And we shall see our children stop!”

When lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed. And the Piper advanced, and the children

followed, And when all were in to the very last. The door in the moimtain-side shut fast.

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Did I say all? Nol One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way.

And in after years if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say, —

“It’s dull in our town since my playmates

left! I can’t forget that I am bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me.

“For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand.

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew

And flowers put forth a fairer hue.

And everything was strange and new.

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks

here,

And their dogs outran our fallow deer.

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were bom with eagle’s wings.

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill,

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Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country morel”

The Mayor sent East, West, North and

South To offer the Piper, by word of mouth. Silver and gold to his heart’s content. If he’d only return the way he went And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, Just opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away. And there it stands to this very day. And the place of the children’s last retreat. They called it the Pied Piper’s street,

— Adapted from Robert Browning.

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Rip Van Winkle

A long time ago some Dutch families formed a village in the Kaatskill mountains, near the Hudson River. It was about the time of good Peter Stuy’-ves-ant. Among the villagers was a simple, good-natured fellow named Rip Van Winkle.

Rip was a kind neighbor, and a great favorite among all the good wives of the village. The children of the village, too, would shout for joy whenever he came near. He assisted at their sports, made their play- things, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went about the village, he was foUotved by a troop of children. They hung on his skirts, climbed on his back, and played a thousand tricks on him. Not a dog in the neighbor- hood would bark at him.

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!Rip*s great fault was his dislike for all kinds of useful labor. Yet lie would sit on a wet rock and fish all day without a murmur, even though he did not get a single nibble. He would carry a gun on his shoulder foi hours together, through woods and swamps, up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squir- rels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to help a neighbor. He was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian com, or building stone fences. The women of the village used to get him to run errands and to do odd jobs. In a word, Eip was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his own. He found it impossible to keep his own farm in order.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; ‘it was the worst little piece of ground in the whole country. Everything about it went wrong and would go wrong in spite of him. His fences were always falling to pieces. His cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages.

Weeds were sure to grow quicker in his

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fields than anywhere else. The rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do. So that his estate had dwindled away, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian com and potatoes.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son. Rip, seemed likely to inherit both the habits and the old clothes of his father.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, as it hap- pens, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound.

He used to go to the club of all the idle persons of the village. They held their meet- ings on a bench before a small inn, marked by a portrait of King George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade on a lazy summer’s day. They talked over vil- lage gossip, or told endless stories about nothing. When, by chance, an old news- paper fell into their hands, they would listen

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eagerly to the contents drawled out by Der- rick Van Biumnel. He was tlie schoolmas- ter, a learned little man, who was not to be overcome by the most gigantic word in the dictionary.

Nicholas Vedder, the landlord of the inn, was the leader. He took his seat at the door- way from morning till night, just moving enough to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree. The neighbors could tell the hour by his movements’ as exactly as by a sun-dial. He was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe continually. When anything displeased him, he would send forth short, angry puffs from his pipe, but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly, and blow it in light and quiet clouds. Sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, he would let the smoke curl about his nose.

Sometimes Rip took his gun and strolled away into the woods. Here he seated him- self at the foot of a tree, and shared the contents of his wallet with Wolf, his dog. “Poor Wolf,” he would say, “never mindj

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my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail and looked wistfully into his master’s face.

In a long ramble of this kind, on a fine autumn day, Rip had scrambled to one of the highest parts of the ELaatskill Mountains. He was squirrel-shooting. The silence was often broken by the reports of his gun. Panting and tired, he threw himself on a green knoll that crowned the brow of a cliff. From an opening between the trees, he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile.

On the other side, he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and lonely. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene. Evening was gradually advancing. The mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys. He saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance shouting, “Rip Van

325

Winklel Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its lonely flight across the moun- tain. He thought his fancy must have de- ceived him. He turned again to descend, when he heard the same voice crying through the still evening air, “Rip Van Winklel Rip Van Winklel”

. At the same time Wolf bristled up his back. Giving a low growl, he skulked to his master^s side and looked fearfully down into the glen. Rip looked in the same direc- tion, and saw a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks. He was bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. Rip was surprised to see any human being in this lonely place. But, he supposed it to be some one of the neighborhood, in need of help, and he hastened down to give it.

As Rip came nearer, he was stiQ more surprised at the stranger’s appearance. He was a short old fellow, with thick, bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the old Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin

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strapped round the waist, several pairs of knee breeches, the outer pair of large size, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to come and help him with the load. Though rather shy of this new acquaint- ance, Rip went to his aid. They climbed up

327

a narrow gully, which seemed to be the dry- bed of the mountain torrent. As they as- cended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to come out of the deep ravine. Rip paused for an instant. He supposed it to be a thunder-shower, so he went on. Passing through a ravine, they came to a wide hollow. During the whole time, Rip and his companion had climbed on in silence.

On entering this hollow, new objects of wonder appeared. In the centre, some odd- looking persons were playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint fashion. Some wore short doublets. Some wore jerkins, with long knives in their belts. Most of them wore wide breeches like those of the guide. Their faces, too, were queer. One had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes. The face of another seemed all nose, and he wore a white sugarloaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of many shapes and colors.

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One, who seemed to be the chief, was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten face. He wore a laced doublet, broad belt, high-crowned hat and feather, red stock- ings, and high-heeled shoes with roses on them.

What seemed very odd to Rip was their grave faces and graver silence. They were the saddest party of pleasure he had ever seen. Nothing broke the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip approached with his guide, the men stopped their play and stared at him. Rip’s heart turned within him, and his knees shook. His guide now emptied the keg into large flagons, and made signs to Rip to wait upon the company. Rip obeyed with fear and trembling. They drank in silence, and then returned to their game.

After a while, when no eye was fixed upon him. Rip tasted the liquor. One taste led to another. His visits to the flagon were

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so frequent that at last his eyes swam, his head slowly sank, and he fell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll where he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes. It was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and an eagle was wheeling aloft in the pure

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mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He re- called what he had seen before he fell asleep: the strange man with the keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wide hol- low among the rocks, the grave party at nine-pins, and that wicked flagon.

He looked around for his gun, but he found an old fire-lock beside him. The bar- rel was covered with rust. The lock was falling off. The stock was worm-eaten. He now suspected that these grave players of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared; but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or a partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain. The echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.

As he rose to walk, he foimd himself

stiff in the joints. “These mountain beds

do not agree with me,” thought Rip. With

some difficulty, he got down into the glen.

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He found the gully which he and his com- panion had ascended. To his astonishment, a mountain stream was now dashing down, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with music.

He again called and whistled for his dog. He was answered only by the cawing of a. flock of idle crows, sporting high in the air. The morning was passing away, and Rip was hungry. He grieved to give up his dog and gun, but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty old gun, and, with a heart full of trouble, turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but he knew none of them. This surprised him, for he thought he knew every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that which he knew. They all stared at him, and cast their eyes upon him, and stroked their chins. Then Rip stroked his chin, and his beard had grown a foot long.

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He had now entered tlie skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, barked at him as he passed. The very village was changed. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which he had known so well had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows— everything he saw was strange.

He began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewildered. Surely, this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains. There ran the silver Hudson at a distance. There was every hill and dale just as they had always been. Rip was sorely troubled. “That flagon last night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head!”

At last he f omid the way to his own house. It was gone to decay, the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the door off

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the hinges. A half -starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an un- kind cut indeed. “My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten mel”

He entered the house. It was empty, forlorn, and deserted. He called loudly for his wife and children. The lonely cham- bers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silent.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn; but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden build- ing stood in its place. It had great win- dows, some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats. Over the door was painted.

The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle

“Where was the great tree that sheltered the little Dutch inn of yore? Only a tall, naked pole stood there now, from which flut- tered a flag of stars and stripes. All this was strange. To be sure. King George’s face was

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still on the sign of the inn, but the red coat was changed for one of blue-buff. A sword was held in the hand, and on the head was a cocked hat. Underneath was painted, in large letters,

General Washington.

There was a crowd about the door, but no one that Rip knew. He looked in vain for Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and long pipe. Where was Van Bununel, the schoolmaster, reading the contents of an old newspaper? In place of these, a lean fellow, with pockets fuU of handbills, was talking about rights of citi- zens, members of Congress, liberty. Bunker Hill, heroes of seventy-six, and other strange things.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, gray beard, rusty gun, and queer dress, soon gathered a crowd. They pushed about him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, asked on which side he voted. Rip stared stupidly*

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Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm and, rising on tiptoe, asked, “Are you a Federal or a Democrat?”

Then an old gentleman, in a cocked hat, made his way through the crowd and planted himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane. He demanded, “What brings you to the elec- tion with a gun on your shoulder and a mob at your heels? Do you mean to breed a riot in the village?”

“Alasl gentlemen,” cried Rip, “I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him I”

Here a general shout burst from the by- standers: “A Toryl a spy! hustle him I away with himl”

Then the little old man in the cocked hat demanded what he came there for, and what he was seeking. Rip humbly said that he meant no harm. He merely came there in search of some of his neighbors who used to keep about the tavern.

“Well, who are they? Name them.”

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Rip thought a moment, and inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedderf ‘

There was silen’ e for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice: “Nicholas Vedderl Whjj he is dead and gone these eighteen years I There is a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that tells all about him.”

“Where’s Brom Butcher?”

“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point.”

“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmas- ter?”

“He went off to the war, too. He was a great general, and is now in Congress.”

Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair: “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”

“Oh, Rip Van Winkle,” exclaimed two REG. 337

or three. “Oh, to he surel That’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”

Rip looked, and beheld an exact likeness of himself as he went up the mountain — just as lazy and as ragged. Rip now doubted whether he was himself or another man. As Rip wondered, the man in the cocked hat asked who he was, and what was his name.

“God knows,” cried Rip, at his wits’ end. “I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I ami”

The bystanders began now to look at one

another, nod, and tap their fingers against

their foreheads. There was a whisper, also,

about securing the gun, and keeping the

old fellow from doing mischief. At this

moment, a fresh, comely woman passed

through the throng to get a peep at the

gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child

in her arms, which, frightened at his looks,

began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried she; “hush

— ^the old man won’t hurt you.” The name

of the child, the air of the mother, the tone

of her voiccj all awakened his memory.

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“What is your name, my good woman?’* asked he.

“Judith Gardiner.”

“And your father’s name?”

“Ah, poor man I his name was Rip Van Winkle. It is twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since. His dog came home without him, but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl.”

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“Whereas your mother?”

“Oh, she, too, died but a short time since.”

The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. “I am your father 1” cried he; “young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle nowl Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?”

All stood dazed, until an old woman in the crowd put her hand to her brow, peered into his face, and exclaimed: “Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle I It is himself 1 Wel^ come home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years f

Rip*s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it, and some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks.

It was decided to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly coming up the road. Peter was the oldest person in the village. He knew all the won-

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derful events and tales of the neighborhood! He remembered Rip at once and accepted his story. He told the company that the KaatskUl Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. The great Hen- drik Hudson, the first discoverer of the river, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half Moon. He said his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountains. He himself had heard one summer afternoon the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the com- pany broke up, and Rip’s daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recalled as one of the children that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir, who was the image of himself, he was employed to work on the farm, but he attended to everything but his own business.

Rip now resumed his old walks and

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habits. He soon found many of his former cronies. Having nothing to do at home, he took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was regarded as one of the wise old men of the village who knew all about the old times “before the war.”

It was some time before he could under- stand the strange events that had taken place during his absence. There had been a Revolutionary War. The country had thrown off the yoke of the old England. Instead of being a subject of King George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States.

Rip used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at the inn. He told it exaptly as I have told it, and not a man, woman or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm on a summer afternoon about the Kaatskills but they say, “Hendrik Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins.”

— Adapted from Washington Irving. 342

Sir Lark and King Sun

“Good morrow, my lordl” in the sky alone, Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne. “Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair.”

“Must I thank you, then,” said the kingj

“Sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, and half love to be first. There *s many a bird makes no such haste, But waits till I come: that’s as much io my

taste.”

And King Sun hid his head in a turban of

cloud, And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed

* and cowed; But he flew up higher, and thought, “Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone;

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And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold.”

So he flew — ^with the strength of a lark he

flew; But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the golden hair Came through the depths of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore. The strong sun-seeker could do no more.

His wings had had no touch of gold.

And his feathers felt withered, and wom^

and old; He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a

stone. And there on his nest, where he left her,

alone Sat his little wife on her little eggs. Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! Full in her face was shining the king. “Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired,” said

he; “Up is not always the best way to me.

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;Wliile you have been singing so high and

away, IVe been shining to your little wife all day.”

He had set his crown all about the nest, And out of the midst shone her little brown

breast; And. so glorious was she in russet gold. That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold. He popped his head under her wing, aind lay As still as a stone, till King Sun was away.

— Oeorge MacDondld.

The Tax Gatherer

“And pray, who are you?” Said the Violet blue

To the Bee, with surprise

At his wonderful size In her eye-glass of dew.

“I, madam,” quoth he, “Am a publican Bee, Collecting the tax Of honey and wax. Have you nothing for me?”

—John B. Tcibh. 345

Lullaby of an Infant Chief

Oh, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a

knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens from the tower

which we see. They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it

blows. It calls but the warders that guard thy

repose; Their bows would be bended their blades

would be red Ere the step of a foeman draws near to

thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my baby, the time will soon

come When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet

and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while

you may. For strife comes with manhood, and waking

with day.

— v8f»r Walter Scott. 346

The Tree

The Tree’s early leaf-buds were burstmg

their brown; “Shall I take them awayf said the Frost, sweeping down. “No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown,” Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the

birds sung: “Shall I take them away?” said the Wind, as he swung. “No, leave them alone Till the berries have grown,” Said the Tree, while the leaflets quivering himg.

The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer

glow: Said the girl, “May I gather thy berries now?” **Yes, all thou canst see: Take them; all are for thee,” Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.

— Bjomstjerne Bjornson. 347

Wishing

Ring ting! I wish I were a Primrose
A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring I
The stooping bough above me,
The wandering bee to love me. The fern and moss to creep across.

And the Elm-tree for our king!

Nay, — stayl I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay I The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in. And birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.

Oh, — ^nol I wish I were a Robin, —

A Robin, or a little Wren, everywhere to go,

Through forest, field or garden,

And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs

To ruffle up our wing!

Well, — ^teU! where should I fly to. Where go sleep, in the dark wood or dellf

Before the day was over,

Home must come the rover. For mother’s kiss, — sweeter this

Than any other thing.

William AlUngham.