THE SONG OF THE WHEAT

Capital T

here was once a stalk of wheat that grew in the middle of a field. It was very tall and it lifted its head high and nodded in the wind.

All around it were a thousand other stalks not quite so tall. Every one was looking up at the sun and bowing to its neighbor, and saying, "Good morning."

"How bright and golden we are!" said the tall stalk; "and how beautiful we look, standing together like a great army of soldiers! The sun shines to cheer us. And when the gentle rains fall, how sweet and refreshing they are!"

"Yes, yes!" said the other stalks, waving back and forth in the morning breeze. "All the world is very kind to us. We have nothing to do but to live and grow and become bright and golden like the sun."

"Ah," said the tall stalk. "It is true that we must live and grow and become yellow and golden. But after that, there must be something else for us to do."

The very next day the farmer came into the fields to look at his wheat. He took some of the bearded heads and rubbed them between his hands. They were full of plump, round, golden grains.

"What fine flour these will make, and what good bread for little Alice," he said. "The wheat is fully ripe and it must be cut at once."

Then all the golden-headed stalks waved back and forth in the wind. "Now we understand it all," they whispered. "It is for the sake of the farmer's fair little girl that we are here.

"She must live and grow and be healthyand beautiful. There is nothing that can help her to do this so well as good bread made from the best of wheat."

Very soon the golden stalks were cut. The wheat was threshed and ground into the finest of flour. And then the flour was baked into fresh, white loaves of bread.

But little Alice did not know that her bread was made of the wheat that she had seen growing in the big field where the daisies bloomed.

—W. E. Baldwin.

Back of the bread is the snowy flour;Back of the flour is the mill;Back of the mill the growing wheatNods on the breezy hill;Over the wheat is the glowing sunRipening the heart of the grain;Above the sun is the gracious God,Sending the sunlight and rain.

The Old Mill Wheel.THE OLD MILL WHEEL.

THE OLD MILL WHEEL.

Round and round it goes,As fast as water flows,—The dripping, dropping, rolling wheelThat turns the noisy, dusty mill.Round and round it goes,As fast as water flows.Turning all the day,It never stops to play,—The dripping, dropping, rolling wheelThat keeps on grinding golden meal.Turning all the day,It never stops to play.Sparkling in the sun,The merry waters runUpon the foaming, flashing wheelThat laugheth loud, but worketh still.Sparkling in the sun,The merry waters run.—Selected.

Round and round it goes,As fast as water flows,—The dripping, dropping, rolling wheelThat turns the noisy, dusty mill.Round and round it goes,As fast as water flows.

Turning all the day,It never stops to play,—The dripping, dropping, rolling wheelThat keeps on grinding golden meal.Turning all the day,It never stops to play.

Sparkling in the sun,The merry waters runUpon the foaming, flashing wheelThat laugheth loud, but worketh still.Sparkling in the sun,The merry waters run.—Selected.

Ship on the water

Boats sail on the rivers,Ships sail on the seas,But the clouds that sail across the skyAre prettier far than these.

Castle with bridge and rainbow

There are bridges on the rivers,As pretty as you please,But the bow that bridges heaven,And overtops the trees,And builds a bridge from earth to skyIs prettier far than these. Christina G. Rossetti.

An old apple treeThe old apple tree had stood in the corner of the pasture for so many years that no one could tell when it was planted.It was a friendly old tree. Under its branches men and animals found pleasant shade. In the spring it gave blossoms to all that came, and in the fall it dropped apples at their feet.The apple tree was easy to climb, as Dick well knew. From its top he could see the sloping hillside and the little brook that flowed through the pasture. Indeed, he spent so much time playing in the old tree that his father often said, "Well, Dick, has the Apple-Tree Mother kept you out of mischief to-day?"And so Dick came to wonder a great deal about the Apple-Tree Mother.The time of green apples had come, and all day long a hard wind had been blowing. When supper time came Dick was ill. Perhaps the apple tree could have told the reason.Dick was lying on the couch, and his mother was busy making a cup of tea for him.After he had taken the hot and bitterdrink he lay watching the steam that rose from the teakettle. Just as he was closing his eyes in sleep the steam began to turn from white to green. Then an apple tree grew up out of the teakettle and stretched its branches to the ceiling."That looks like the apple tree in the corner of our pasture," thought Dick.And then he saw a woman sitting in the midst of the branches. She wore a dress that was green and brown, like the apple-tree leaves in the fall."I suppose that is the Apple-Tree Mother," said Dick to himself. "If she is as old as our tree, she must be very old indeed."Then the Apple-Tree Mother laughed and all the leaves of the tree danced. "My little boy," she said, "I am so old that I have grown young again, and I bring with me pictures and stories of the world that has lived about my tree."

The old apple tree had stood in the corner of the pasture for so many years that no one could tell when it was planted.

It was a friendly old tree. Under its branches men and animals found pleasant shade. In the spring it gave blossoms to all that came, and in the fall it dropped apples at their feet.

The apple tree was easy to climb, as Dick well knew. From its top he could see the sloping hillside and the little brook that flowed through the pasture. Indeed, he spent so much time playing in the old tree that his father often said, "Well, Dick, has the Apple-Tree Mother kept you out of mischief to-day?"

And so Dick came to wonder a great deal about the Apple-Tree Mother.

The time of green apples had come, and all day long a hard wind had been blowing. When supper time came Dick was ill. Perhaps the apple tree could have told the reason.

Dick was lying on the couch, and his mother was busy making a cup of tea for him.

After he had taken the hot and bitterdrink he lay watching the steam that rose from the teakettle. Just as he was closing his eyes in sleep the steam began to turn from white to green. Then an apple tree grew up out of the teakettle and stretched its branches to the ceiling.

"That looks like the apple tree in the corner of our pasture," thought Dick.

And then he saw a woman sitting in the midst of the branches. She wore a dress that was green and brown, like the apple-tree leaves in the fall.

"I suppose that is the Apple-Tree Mother," said Dick to himself. "If she is as old as our tree, she must be very old indeed."

Then the Apple-Tree Mother laughed and all the leaves of the tree danced. "My little boy," she said, "I am so old that I have grown young again, and I bring with me pictures and stories of the world that has lived about my tree."

"Pictures and stories!" exclaimed Dick. "Oh, can't you show me some of them?"

"That is just why I came to visit you," she said. "Will you have pictures of animals or of flowers?"

"I would like to see pictures of animals first," said Dick.

Then the room changed to the corner of the pasture. There was the fence and the brook and the old apple tree. Just above the fence,half hidden in the branches, was a nest that held five tiny eggs.

The Oriole's Nest.The Oriole's Nest.

The Oriole's Nest.

The sound of bird voices was heard, and there in the tree Dick saw two orioles. They were singing a song together, and somehow Dick could understand it all. They sang of their little home and of the eggs that lay within it. And they sang of the happy time when five little birds would come to be loved and cared for.

Then the two orioles rose slowly into the air and flew across the field. The nest was left alone.

Down the road came a boy whistling and kicking up the dust with every step.

Dick began to feel very unhappy, for he knew just what would happen next.

The boy in the picture looked up and sawthe brown nest among the leaves. "There is an oriole's nest," thought he. And in a moment he had climbed the tree, and the five tiny eggs were in his hand.

"I'll take them home," he said, as he put the eggs into his pocket. But he handled them so roughly that three were broken.

With an angry word he threw all the eggs on the ground, and then went on whistling and kicking up the dust.

A joyous bird song was heard in the air, and the two orioles darted into the apple tree. The mother bird flew to her nest. Then she gave a cry so sharp and sad that it hurt one's heart to hear it.

The father bird joined the poor mother in her outcries of fright and sorrow. There on the dusty ground lay all that was left of the beautiful eggs.

Far across the field flew the oriole mother, almost wild with sorrow. The father, with his feathers drooping, sat on a fence post, and his happy songs were changed to notes of sadness.

The Apple-Tree Mother looked very grave, but she only said, "Shall we have another picture?"

Dick was afraid to say "No." He lay quite still, looking at the apple tree. The rain was beginning to beat against the leaves. Then he saw a weary little dog come limping to the tree, whining, and licking one of his paws.

He was not a handsome dog. His legs were crooked and one ear was torn. The branches of the tree bent above him. And when the poor dog looked up at their shelter, one could see how big and soft and sad were his eyes.

With a splashing noise two boys came wading across the brook. Each boy had a fishing pole over his shoulder, and in hishand was a small tin pail in which he had carried bait.

As they came toward the tree one of them pointed to the poor little dog. It was the same boy that had stolen the oriole's eggs.

Two boys with fishing poles walking in a creek

"Now for some fun!" he said. Then both the boys sat down on the ground, and to work they went with a fishing line and one of the empty pails.

They did not see how the apple tree shook its head at them. They did not hear howeach raindrop called, "No! no! no!" as it fell pattering on the leaves.

The poor little dog lay resting under the tree, safe from the storm. All at once he was caught and held by rough hands. He howled with fright and pain, but he could not get away. A strong cord was bound around his thin little body, and his wounded foot was sadly hurt.

At last the boys let him go, and with a wild bound he jumped through the fence and ran along the road.

But oh, what terrible thing is rattling and banging around him? At every leap he is cruelly struck on his crooked little legs.

Dick had turned his head the other way. His cheeks burned and his heart was sad. Then he opened his eyes and saw his mother standing beside him with a second cup of bitter tea in her hand.

"Such a nice sleep as you have had," she said. "I really think you are better. Now sit up and drink this like a man."

Never a word said Dick. He sat up anddrank the bitter tea, while he thought of many things. Had he seen himself in the pictures which the Apple-Tree Mother had brought to his bedside?

—Adapted from "True Fairy Stories."

Once upon a time it was very hot and very, very dry. No rain had fallen for days and days. The thirsty birds had stopped singing. The plants withered and the animals were dying for want of water. All the people were praying for rain.

One morning a little girl started out to find some water for her sick mother. In her hand she carried a tin dipper.

She climbed a high hill hoping to find a spring. Up and up she climbed. On her way she saw the dusty plants, the quiet birds, and the suffering animals.

Girl with a dipper talking to a fairy

The sharp stones cut her feet. High rocks towered above her head. Their strange shapes filled her with fear. But she thought of her sick mother and she would not turn back. At last she came to a great wall of rocks, and could go no farther.

"Oh, that some good fairy would show me where to find water!" she cried.

And then a beautiful fairy stood before her in a robe like the clouds at sunset. She pointed to a narrow path among the rocks. The child followed the path and soon came to a spring hidden under green fern leaves.

She filled her dipper to the brim. How carefully she held it! How softly she stepped, so as not to spill one drop!

In her path down the hill there lay a rabbit almost dead from thirst. The little girl needed all the water, but she poured a few drops upon the rabbit's tongue. Then something wonderful happened! The rusty tin dipper was changed to shining silver.

The little girl hurried home. With a happy heart she gave the water to her sick mother. The gentle mother raised the dipper to her lips, but she did not drink. "My faithful nurse, let her drink first," she said.

As she gave the silver dipper to the nurse, behold! it was changed to yellow gold.

Again the mother raised the water to her lips. Just then a shadow fell across the floor. In the open doorway stood an oldwoman. She was ragged and pale and weak. She could only stretch out her thin hand toward the water.

The mother and the little girl looked at each other. Could they give up the last drop of the precious water? The mother nodded her head, and the little girl put the golden dipper into the hands of the stranger.

The poor old woman took the water and drank it all. As she drank, her rags were changed into beautiful garments, and the dipper sparkled with diamonds.

"Oh, mother, look! There is the fairy I saw in the mountains," cried the little girl. "And see! The dipper shines like diamonds!"

They looked again, but the fairy was gone. It was not long before clouds spread over the sky, and a gentle rain began to fall. Soon there was water for all the plants, the birds, the animals, and the people.

But the dipper could not anywhere be found. Night came, and the little girl looked up at the stars. There, in the sky, she saw the dipper shining like diamonds.

And now, when the evening stars twinkle overhead, the mothers point out the great dipper in the northern sky and tell this story to their children.

"Is the story true?" the children ask when the tale is ended.

And the mothers smile as they answer:—

"When you can tell what the story means, you will know that it is true."

Beautiful hands are those that doWork that is earnest, brave, and true,Moment by moment, the long day through.Beautiful feet are those that goOn kindly errands to and fro—Down humblest ways, if God wills it so.Beautiful faces are those that wear—It matters little if dark or fair—Whole-souled honesty printed there.—David Swing.

Beautiful hands are those that doWork that is earnest, brave, and true,Moment by moment, the long day through.

Beautiful feet are those that goOn kindly errands to and fro—Down humblest ways, if God wills it so.

Beautiful faces are those that wear—It matters little if dark or fair—Whole-souled honesty printed there.—David Swing.

From sea to sea my country liesBeneath the splendor of the skies.Far reach its plains, its hills are high,Its mountains look up to the sky.Its lakes are clear as crystal bright,Its rivers sweep through vale and height.America, my native land,To thee I give my heart and hand.God in His might chose thee to beThe country of the noble free!—Marie Zetterberg.

From sea to sea my country liesBeneath the splendor of the skies.

Far reach its plains, its hills are high,Its mountains look up to the sky.

Its lakes are clear as crystal bright,Its rivers sweep through vale and height.

America, my native land,To thee I give my heart and hand.

God in His might chose thee to beThe country of the noble free!—Marie Zetterberg.

Land of the forest and the rock,Of dark blue lake and mighty river,Of mountains reared on high to mockThe storm's career and lightning's shock,My own green land forever!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;The birds singing gayly, that came at my call;Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all.Home, home, sweet, sweet home,There's no place like home,Oh, there's no place like home.—John Howard Payne.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;The birds singing gayly, that came at my call;Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,There's no place like home,Oh, there's no place like home.—John Howard Payne.

A grape vine

The peaches are ripe in the orchard,The apricots ready to fall,And the grapes reach up to the sunshineOver the garden wall.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Berries on a branch

The morns are meeker than they were,The nuts are getting brown,The berry's cheek is plumper,The rose is out of town.—Emily Dickinson.

Oak leaves

October glows on every tree,October shines in every eye,While up the hill and down the daleHer crimson banners fly.—Dora Read Goodale.

Thistles

Nuts are falling, trees are bare,Leaves are whirling everywhere;Plants are sleeping, birds have flown,Autumn breezes cooler grown,In the chill November.

They are seen on the trees,They are seen on the ground,They are seen in the air,Whirling softly around;They sing rustling songsAs our footsteps they hear,And their name is well known,For they come every year.

Scamper, little leaves, aboutIn the autumn sun;I can hear the old wind shout,Laughing as you run;And I haven't any doubtThat he likes the fun.So run on and have your play,Romp with all your might;Dance across the autumn day,While the sun is bright.Soon you'll hear the old wind say,"Little leaves, good night!"—Frank Dempster Sherman.

Scamper, little leaves, aboutIn the autumn sun;I can hear the old wind shout,Laughing as you run;And I haven't any doubtThat he likes the fun.

So run on and have your play,Romp with all your might;Dance across the autumn day,While the sun is bright.Soon you'll hear the old wind say,"Little leaves, good night!"—Frank Dempster Sherman.

Dark brown is the river,Golden is the sand;It flows along forever,With trees on either hand.Green leaves a-floating,Castles of the foam,Boats of mine a-boating—When will all come home?On goes the river,And out past the mill,Away down the valley,Away down the hill.Away down the river,A hundred miles or more,Other little childrenShall bring my boats ashore.—Robert Louis Stevenson.

Dark brown is the river,Golden is the sand;It flows along forever,With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,Castles of the foam,Boats of mine a-boating—When will all come home?

On goes the river,And out past the mill,Away down the valley,Away down the hill.

Away down the river,A hundred miles or more,Other little childrenShall bring my boats ashore.—Robert Louis Stevenson.

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn.Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our plows their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,Its harvest time has come,We pluck away the frosted leavesAnd bear the treasure home.—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our plows their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,Its harvest time has come,We pluck away the frosted leavesAnd bear the treasure home.—John Greenleaf Whittier.

IN THE CORNFIELD.IN THE CORNFIELD.

IN THE CORNFIELD.

A feather

Did you ever take a feather in your hand and look at it? Did you notice how the quill keeps the feather in shape and makes it strong?

Now find the leaf of an apple tree. Hold it before your eyes and let the light shine through it.

Do you see the large rib running along the middle of the leaf? Do you see the fine ribs on each side of the large rib? Does not the large rib make you think of the quill of a feather?

The ribs of a leaf have fine passages or pipes in them through which the sap flows. These passages are called veins, and the large rib is called a midvein. When a leaf has one strong midvein like the quill of a feather, it is said to be feather-veined.

Let us go out of doors and find leaves that are shaped like feathers.

There is a peach tree. Pick a leaf and look at it. Yes, the peach leaf is feather-veined. Now go to the pear tree. "These leaves look like the apple leaves," you say.

Here is a dandelion plant growing in the grass. Take a leaf in your hand and look at its ragged edges. There is one straight rib or vein along the middle of the leaf. And so you see that the dandelion leaf is also feather-veined.

Leaves on a branch

You can find feather-veined leaves on the plants in the garden and on the flower stems that grow in our window boxes. And you can also find feather-veined leaves on the weeds that grow by the side of the road.

Look again at the apple leaf. Do you see the fine network of veins? Now take up a leaf of grass and hold it in the light. Can you see a network of veins in it? No, the grass leaf has straight veins.

All the grass blades are long and narrow. Have you ever seen any other leaves that were long and narrow like the grass?

Apple leaves

But what is this leaf under the maple tree? "It is a maple leaf," you say. This leaf is not shaped like a feather.

Hold out your hand and stretch out your fingers. Does not the maple leaf look as if it had fingers, too? We may call the maple leaf a hand-shaped leaf. Perhaps we can find more hand-shaped leaves. Let us go to the currant bushes. Yes, these also have hand-shaped leaves.

One of the strangest leaves in the world is shaped like a pitcher. It has a lid thatopens and shuts. Some leaves of this kind hold more than a cup of water.

There are leaves shaped like hearts and leaves shaped like arrowheads. And there are many other wonderful leaves which we may see if we keep our eyes open.

Leaves

Green leaves, what are you doingUp there on the tree so high?"We are shaking hands with the breezes,As they go singing by."What, green leaves! have you fingers?Then, the maple laughed with glee—"Yes, just as many as you have;Count them, and you will see!"—Kate Louise Brown.

Green leaves, what are you doingUp there on the tree so high?"We are shaking hands with the breezes,As they go singing by."

What, green leaves! have you fingers?Then, the maple laughed with glee—"Yes, just as many as you have;Count them, and you will see!"—Kate Louise Brown.

Two dogs waiting by a rock

It seems as if our friend the dog can talk without using words. He not only makes other dogs understand him, but he also makes his wants known to his master.

A little dog named Rudy was once taken to the city. One day he lost his way in the streets and did not come home at night.

The next morning, as Rudy's master was looking out of the window, he saw his little dog coming along the street with two other dogs.

The strangers left Rudy at his own door, and then went away. As they left they seemed to say, "Good-by." But how did Rudy ask the other dogs to show him the way home? This we should like to know.

Another dog called Prince often asked in his own way to be let out of doors. But when he returned he could not always get into the house again.

The bell was too high for Prince to reach it or he might have learned to ring it. As he could not do this he found another way to get in. A little girl who lived near by often played with him. He ran to her and begged until she saw what he wanted. This he did day after day.

After the little girl had rung the bell for him, Prince never forgot to thank her. He jumped around her and wagged his tail to show his pleasure.

One day Prince could not find his little friend. So he begged a man who was passing by to ring the bell. It was some time before the man could understand what the dog wanted. But at last the bell tinkled, the door was opened, and Prince ran into the house.

A faithful dog never forgets those he loves. Sometimes he proves to be a good friend in time of great need.

One night a fire broke out in a shed close by a little cottage. The watchdog saw the flames. He ran to the cottage and began to scratch the door with his paws. He scratched and howled until he woke the family.

After the fire had been put out the children put their arms around the faithful dog. They patted him and thanked him for saving their lives. They treated him as if he were a human being instead of only a dog.

There are many true stories about dogs that have saved the lives of children. A great artist has painted a beautiful picture of one of these noble animals.

A dog has jumped into the sea and saved a child from drowning. He has caught the child's clothes in his strong jaws, and has brought her to the shore.

See, he is almost too tired to climb up beside her! There she lies on his big paws. He seems to be waiting for help. Does he not look as if he could speak?

Dog with little girl lying on his paws

The artist who painted this picture was a great friend of dogs. His name was Edwin Landseer. He has made hundreds of paintings of his humble friends. Many of the dogs in his pictures look as if they could talk.

O little flowers, you love me so,You could not do without me;O little birds that come and go,You sing sweet songs about me;O little moss, observed by few,That round the tree is creeping,You like my head to rest on you,When I am idly sleeping.O rushes by the river side,You bow when I come near you;O fish, you leap about with pride,Because you think I hear you;O river, you shine clear and bright,To tempt me to look in you;O water lilies, pure and white,You hope that I shall win you.O pretty things, you love me so,I see I must not leave you;You'd find it very dull, I know,I should not like to grieve you.

O little flowers, you love me so,You could not do without me;O little birds that come and go,You sing sweet songs about me;

O little moss, observed by few,That round the tree is creeping,You like my head to rest on you,When I am idly sleeping.

O rushes by the river side,You bow when I come near you;O fish, you leap about with pride,Because you think I hear you;

O river, you shine clear and bright,To tempt me to look in you;O water lilies, pure and white,You hope that I shall win you.

O pretty things, you love me so,I see I must not leave you;You'd find it very dull, I know,I should not like to grieve you.

Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose,A bright yellow primrose, blooming in the spring!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, stay! I wish I were an elm tree,A great, lofty elm tree with green leaves gay!The winds would set them dancing,The sun and moonshine glance in,And birds would house among the boughs,And sweetly sing.Oh, no! 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!—William Allingham.

Nay, stay! I wish I were an elm tree,A great, lofty elm tree with green leaves gay!The winds would set them dancing,The sun and moonshine glance in,And birds would house among the boughs,And sweetly sing.

Oh, no! 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!—William Allingham.

One day Rollo and his playmate, George Cropwell, were running along the road, pushing their little wheelbarrows.

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