FOURTH READER

God bless our wide Dominion,Our fathers’ chosen land,And bind in lasting union,Each ocean’s distant strand,From where Atlantic terrorsOur hardy seamen train,To where the salt sea mirrorsThe vast Pacific chain.Our sires when times were sorestAsked none but aid Divine,And cleared the tangled forest,And wrought the buried mine.They tracked the floods and fountains,And won, with master hand,Far more than gold in mountains,—The glorious prairie land.Inheritors of glory,Oh! countrymen! we swearTo guard the flag that o’er yeShall onward victory bear.Where’er through earth’s far regionsIts triple crosses fly,For God, for home, our legionsShall win, or fighting, die!—The Duke of Argyle.

Our sires when times were sorestAsked none but aid Divine,And cleared the tangled forest,And wrought the buried mine.They tracked the floods and fountains,And won, with master hand,Far more than gold in mountains,—The glorious prairie land.

Inheritors of glory,Oh! countrymen! we swearTo guard the flag that o’er yeShall onward victory bear.Where’er through earth’s far regionsIts triple crosses fly,For God, for home, our legionsShall win, or fighting, die!—The Duke of Argyle.

It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter’s evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterwards to sup with me. In passing through some dark, narrow street, he paused suddenly. “Hush!” he said—“what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F!” he said, eagerly. “Hark! how well it is played!”

Image unavailable: BeethovenBeethoven

It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but suddenly there was a break, then the voice of sobbing: “I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful; it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!”

“Ah, my sister,” said her companion, “why create regrets, when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.”

“You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use.”

Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go in,” he said.

“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can we go in for?”

“I shall play to her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is feeling—genius—understanding. I shall play to her, and she will understand it.” And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as we entered.

“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but I heard music, and was tempted to enter. I am a musician.”

The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.

“I—I also overheard something of what you said,” continued my friend. “You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is— Shall I play for you?”

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken, and all smiled involuntarily.

“Thank you!” said the shoemaker; “but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music.”

“No music!” echoed my friend. “How, then, does the young lady—”

He paused, and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.

“I—I entreat your pardon!” he stammered. “But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?”

“Entirely.”

“And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?”

“I used to hear a lady practising near us, when we lived at Brühl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her.”

She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and feared only to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently. “Wonderful man!” he said, in a low tone; “who and what are you?”

The composer smiled as only he could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kindly. “Listen!” he said, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F.

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, “Then you are Beethoven!” they covered his hands with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.

“Play to us once more—only once more!”

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged head and massive figure. “I shall improvise a sonata to the moonlight!” looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.

This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift, breathless, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.

“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning towards the door—“farewell to you!”

“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.

He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly; “I shall come again, and give the young lady some lessons. Farewell! I shall soon come again!”

They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.

“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it.”

We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that “Moonlight Sonata” with which we are all so fondly acquainted.—Anonymous.

Go to the ant, thou sluggard;Consider her ways, and be wise:Which having no chief, overseer, or ruler,Provideth her meat in the summer,And gathereth her food in the harvest.—From “The Book of Proverbs.”

Whither away, Robin,Whither away?Is it through envy of the maple leaf,Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,Thou wilt not stay?The summer days were long, yet all too briefThe happy season thou hast been our guest:Whither away?Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the spring?Whither away?Whither away, Swallow,Whither away?Canst thou no longer tarry in the north,Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest?Not one short day?Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forthAnd wander far from them who love thee best?Whither away?—Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the spring?Whither away?

Whither away, Swallow,Whither away?Canst thou no longer tarry in the north,Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest?Not one short day?Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forthAnd wander far from them who love thee best?Whither away?—Edmund Clarence Stedman.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,In the ranks of death you’ll find him;His father’s sword he has girded on,And his wild harp slung behind him.“Land of song!” said the warrior bard,“Though all the world betrays thee,One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,One faithful harp shall praise thee!”The minstrel fell, but the foeman’s chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,For he tore its chords asunder;And said, “No chains shall sully thee,Thou soul of love and bravery!Thy songs were made for the pure and free,They shall never sound in slavery!”—Thomas Moore.

The minstrel fell, but the foeman’s chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,For he tore its chords asunder;And said, “No chains shall sully thee,Thou soul of love and bravery!Thy songs were made for the pure and free,They shall never sound in slavery!”—Thomas Moore.

Alfred the Great was a young man three and twenty years of age when he became king of England. Twice in his childhood he had been taken to Rome, where the Saxon nobles were in the habit of going on pilgrimages, and once he had stayed for some time in Paris. Learning, however,was so little cared for in those days that at twelve years of age he had not been taught to read, although he was the favorite son of King Ethelwulf.

But like most men who grew up to be great and good, he had an excellent mother. One day this lady, whose name was Osburga, happened, as she sat among her sons, to read a book of Saxon poetry. The art of printing was not known until long after that period. The book, which was written, was illuminated with beautiful, bright letters, richly painted. The brothers admiring it very much, their mother said, “I shall give it to that one of you who first learns to read.” Alfred sought out a tutor that very day, applied himself to learn with great diligence, and soon won the book. He was proud of it all his life.

Charles Dickens

This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine battles with the Danes. He made some treaties with them, too, by which the false Danes swore that they would quit the country. They pretended that they had taken a very solemn oath; but they thought nothing of breaking oaths, and treaties, too, as soon as it suited their purpose, and of coming back again to fight, plunder, and burn.

One fatal winter, in the fourth year of King Alfred’s reign, the Danes spread themselves in great numbers overEngland. They so dispersed the king’s soldiers that Alfred was left alone, and was obliged to disguise himself as a common peasant, and to take refuge in the cottage of one of his cowherds, who did not know him.

Here King Alfred, while the Danes sought him far and near, was left alone one day by the cowherd’s wife, to watch some cakes which she put to bake upon the hearth. But the king was at work upon his bow and arrows, with which he hoped to punish the false Danes when a brighter time should come. He was thinking deeply, too, of his poor, unhappy subjects, whom the Danes chased through the land. And so his noble mind forgot the cakes, and they were burnt. “What!” said the cowherd’s wife, who scolded him well when she came back, and little thought she was scolding the king; “you will be ready enough to eat them by and by, and yet you cannot watch them, idle dog!”

At length the Devonshire men made head against a new host of Danes who landed on their coast. They killed the Danish chief, and captured the famous flag, on which was the likeness of a raven. The loss of this standard troubled the Danes greatly. They believed it to be enchanted, for it had been woven by the three daughters of their king in a single afternoon. And they had a story among themselves, that when they were victorious in battle, the raven would stretch his wings and seem to fly; and that when they were defeated, he would droop.

It was important to know how numerous the Danes were,and how they were fortified. And so King Alfred, being a good musician, disguised himself as a minstrel, and went with his harp to the Danish camp. He played and sang in the very tent of Guthrum, the Danish leader, and entertained the Danes as they feasted. While he seemed to think of nothing but his music, he was watchful of their tents, their arms, their discipline,—everything that he desired to know.

Right soon did this great king entertain them to a different tune. Summoning all his true followers to meet him at an appointed place, he put himself at their head, marched on the Danish camp, defeated the Danes, and besieged them fourteen days to prevent their escape. But, being as merciful as he was good and brave, he then, instead of killing them, proposed peace,—on condition that they should all depart from that western part of England, and settle in the eastern. Guthrum was an honorable chief, and forever afterwards he was loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes under him were faithful, too. They plundered and burned no more, but ploughed and sowed and reaped, and led good honest lives. And the children of those Danes played many a time with Saxon children in the sunny fields; and their elders, Danes and Saxons, sat by the red fire in winter, talking of King Alfred the Great.

All the Danes, however, were not like these under Guthrum. After some years, more of them came over in the old plundering, burning way. Among them was a fierce pirate named Hastings, who had the boldness to sail up theThames with eighty ships. For three years there was war with these Danes; and there was a famine in the country, too, and a plague, upon both human creatures and beasts. But King Alfred, whose mighty heart never failed him, built large ships, with which to pursue the pirates on the sea. He encouraged his soldiers, by his brave example, to fight valiantly against them on the shore. At last he drove them all away; and then there was repose in England.

As great and good in peace as he was great and good in war, King Alfred never rested from his labors to improve his people. He loved to talk with clever men, and with travellers from foreign countries, and to write down what they told him for his people to read. He had studied Latin, after learning to read English. And now one of his labors was to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue, that his people might be improved by reading them.

He made just laws that his people might live more happily and freely. He turned away all partial judges that no wrong might be done. He punished robbers so severely that it was a common thing to say that under the great King Alfred, garlands of golden chains and jewels might have hung across the streets and no man would have touched them. He founded schools. He patiently heard causes himself in his court of justice. The great desires of his heart were to do right to all his subjects, and to leave England better, wiser, and happier in all ways than he had found it.

His industry was astonishing. Every day he dividedinto portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit. That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax torches, or candles, made, all of the same size and notched across at regular distances. These candles were always kept burning, and as they burned down he divided the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide it into hours upon the clock. But it was found that the wind and draughts of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and windows, caused the candles to burn unequally. To prevent this the king had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. And these were the first lanterns ever made in England.

King Alfred died in the year 901; but as long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour.—Charles Dickens.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,There is ever a something sings alway:There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear,And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.The sunshine showers across the grain,And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;And in and out, when the eaves drip rain,The swallows are twittering carelessly.There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,Be the skies above or dark or fair;There is ever a song that our hearts may hear—There is ever a song somewhere, my dear—There is ever a song somewhere!There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,In the midnight black or the midday blue:The robin pipes when the sun is here,And the cricket chirrups the whole night through;The buds may blow and the fruit may grow,And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere:But whether the sun or the rain or the snow,There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.—James Whitcomb Riley.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,Be the skies above or dark or fair;There is ever a song that our hearts may hear—There is ever a song somewhere, my dear—There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,In the midnight black or the midday blue:The robin pipes when the sun is here,And the cricket chirrups the whole night through;The buds may blow and the fruit may grow,And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere:But whether the sun or the rain or the snow,There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.—James Whitcomb Riley.

By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Copyright, 1898.

Better than grandeur, better than gold,Than rank and title a thousand fold,Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,And simple pleasures that always please;A heart that can feel for a neighbor’s woe,And share his joys with a genial glow;With sympathies large enough to enfoldAll men as brothers, is better than gold.Better than gold is a thinking mind,That in the realm of books can findA treasure surpassing Australian ore,And live with the great and good of yore:—The sage’s lore and the poet’s lay,The glories of empires passed away.The world’s great dream will thus unfoldAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.Better than gold is a peaceful home,Where all the fireside charities come,—The shrine of love and the haven of life,Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.However humble the home may be,Or tried with sorrow by Heaven’s decree,The blessings that never were bought or soldAnd centre there, are better than gold.—Mrs. J. M. Winton.

Better than gold is a thinking mind,That in the realm of books can findA treasure surpassing Australian ore,And live with the great and good of yore:—The sage’s lore and the poet’s lay,The glories of empires passed away.The world’s great dream will thus unfoldAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home,Where all the fireside charities come,—The shrine of love and the haven of life,Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.However humble the home may be,Or tried with sorrow by Heaven’s decree,The blessings that never were bought or soldAnd centre there, are better than gold.—Mrs. J. M. Winton.

Once upon a time a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.

By chance a poor Brahman came by. “Let me out of this cage, O pious one!” cried the tiger.

“Nay, nay, my friend,” replied the Brahman, mildly. “You would probably eat me up if I did.”

“Not at all!” declared the tiger, with many vows; “on the contrary, I should be forever grateful, and would serve you as a slave!”

Now, when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept, the pious Brahman’s heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. At once, out sprang the tiger, and seizing the poor man, cried:—

“What a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now? After being cooped up so long I am terribly hungry.”

In vain the Brahman pleaded for his life. All that he could gain was a promise from the tiger to abide by the decision of the first three things that he chose to question concerning the tiger’s action.

So the Brahman first asked a tree what it thought of the matter, but the tree replied coldly:—

“What have you to complain about? Don’t I give shade and shelter to all who pass by, and don’t they in return tear down my branches and pull off my leaves to feed their cattle? Don’t complain, but be a man!”

Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a buffalo turning a water-wheel. He laid his case before it, but he got no comfort, for the buffalo answered:—

“You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! Do you not see how hard I work? While I was young and strong they fed me on the best of food, but now when I am old and feeble they yoke me here, and give me only the coarsest fodder to eat!”

The Brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion of the tiger’s conduct.

“My dear sir,” said the road, “how foolish you are to expect anything else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes and the husks of their grain!”

On hearing this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully. On his way he met a jackal, who called out:—

“Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as miserable as a fish out of water!”

Then the Brahman told him all that had occurred.

“How very confusing!” said the jackal, when the recital was ended; “will you tell it over again, for everything has got mixed up in my mind?”

The Brahman told his story all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.

“It’s very odd,” said he, sadly, “but it all seems to go in at one ear and out the other! Take me to the place where it all happened, and then, perhaps, I shall be able to understand it.”

So the cunning jackal and the poor Brahman returned to the cage, and there was the tiger waiting for his victim, and sharpening his teeth and claws.

“You’ve been away a long time!” growled the savage beast, “but now let us begin our dinner.”

“Ourdinner!” thought the wretched Brahman, as hisknees knocked together with fright; “what a delicate way he has of putting it!”

“Give me five minutes, my lord!” he pleaded, “in order that I may explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits.”

The tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again, not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.

“Oh, my poor brain! Oh, my poor brain!” cried the jackal, wringing its paws and scratching its head. “Let me see, how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by—”?

“Pooh! Not at all!” interrupted the tiger. “What a fool you are!Iwas in the cage.”

“Yes, of course!” cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright. “Yes! I was in the cage—no, I wasn’t—dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me see—the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by. No, no, that’s not it, either! Well, don’t mind me, but begin your dinner, my lord, for I shall never understand it!”

“Yes, youshall!” returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal’s stupidity; “I’llmakeyou understand! Look here. I am the tiger—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the Brahman—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the cage—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And I was in the cage—do you understand?”

“Yes, but please, my lord, how did you get in?”

“How did I get in! Why, in the usual way, of course!” cried the tiger, impatiently.

“O dear me! my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don’t be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?”

At this the tiger lost all patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, “This way! Now do you understand how it was?”

“Perfectly!” grinned the jackal, as he instantly shut the door; “and if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were!”—Joseph Jacobs.

From “Indian Fairy Tales,” by permission of the author.

Thomas Moore

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!But when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!Utawas’ tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon.Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayers;Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!—Thomas Moore.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!But when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!

Utawas’ tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon.Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayers;Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!—Thomas Moore.

Attempt the end and never stand in doubt;Nothing’s so hard but search will find it out.

There is a bird I know so well,It seems as if he must have sungBeside my crib when I was young;Before I knew the way to spellThe name of even the smallest bird,His gentle, joyful song I heard.Now see if you can tell, my dear,What bird it is, that every year,Sings “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”He comes in March, when winds are strong,And snow returns to hide the earth;But still he warms his head with mirth,And waits for May. He lingers longWhile flowers fade, and every dayRepeats his sweet, contented lay;As if to say we need not fearThe seasons’ change, if love is here,With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”He does not wear a Joseph’s coatOf many colors, smart and gay;His suit is Quaker brown and gray,With darker patches at his throat.And yet of all the well-dressed throng,Not one can sing so brave a song.It makes the pride of looks appearA vain and foolish thing to hearHis “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”A lofty place he does not love,But sits by choice, and well at ease,In hedges, and in little treesThat stretch their slender arms aboveThe meadow-brook; and there he singsTill all the field with pleasure rings;And so he tells in every ear,That lowly homes to heaven are nearIn “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”I like the tune, I like the words;They seem so true, so free from art,So friendly, and so full of heart,That if but one of all the birdsCould be my comrade everywhere,My little brother of the air,This is the one I’d choose, my dear,Because he’d bless me, every year,With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”—Henry van Dyke.

He comes in March, when winds are strong,And snow returns to hide the earth;But still he warms his head with mirth,And waits for May. He lingers longWhile flowers fade, and every dayRepeats his sweet, contented lay;As if to say we need not fearThe seasons’ change, if love is here,With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

He does not wear a Joseph’s coatOf many colors, smart and gay;His suit is Quaker brown and gray,With darker patches at his throat.And yet of all the well-dressed throng,Not one can sing so brave a song.It makes the pride of looks appearA vain and foolish thing to hearHis “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

A lofty place he does not love,But sits by choice, and well at ease,In hedges, and in little treesThat stretch their slender arms aboveThe meadow-brook; and there he singsTill all the field with pleasure rings;And so he tells in every ear,That lowly homes to heaven are nearIn “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

I like the tune, I like the words;They seem so true, so free from art,So friendly, and so full of heart,That if but one of all the birdsCould be my comrade everywhere,My little brother of the air,This is the one I’d choose, my dear,Because he’d bless me, every year,With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”—Henry van Dyke.

From “The Builders and Other Poems.”Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

The only way to have a friend is to be one.

Many, many years ago, in old Urbino, in the pleasant land of Italy, a little boy stood looking out of a high window into the calm, sunshiny day. He was a pretty boy with hazel eyes and fair hair cut straight above his brows. He wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery about the neck of it, and in his hand he carried a little round cap of the same color.

Raphael

He was a very happy little boy here in this stately, yet kindly, Urbino. He had a dear old grandfather and a loving mother; and he had a father who was very tender to him, and who was full of such true love of art that the child breathed it with every breath he drew. He often said to himself, “I mean to become a painter, too.” And the child understood that to be a painter was to be the greatest thing in the world; for this child was Raphael, the seven-year-old son of Giovanni Sanzio.

At this time Urbino was growing into fame for its pottery work, and when its duke wished to send a bridal gift or a present on other festal occasions, he often chose some of his own Urbino ware. Jars and bowls and platters andvases were all made and painted at Urbino, whilst Raphael Sanzio was running about on rosy, infantine feet.

There was a master potter in that day, one Benedetto, who did things rare and fine in the Urbino ware. He lived within a stone’s throw of Giovanni Sanzio, and had a beautiful daughter, by name Pacifica. The house of Benedetto was a long, stone building with a porch at the back all overclimbed by hardy rose trees, and looking on a garden in which grew abundantly pear trees, plum trees, and strawberries. The little son of neighbor Sanzio ran in and out of this bigger house and wider garden of Benedetto at his pleasure, for the maiden Pacifica was always glad to see him, and even the master potter would show the child how to lay the color on the tremulous unbaked clay. Raphael loved Pacifica, as he loved everything that was beautiful, and every one that was kind.

Master Benedetto had four apprentices or pupils at that time, but the one that Raphael and Pacifica liked best was one Luca, a youth with a noble, dark beauty of his own. For love of Pacifica he had come down from his mountain home, and had bound himself to her father’s service. Now he spent his days trying in vain to make designs fair enough to find favor in the eyes of his master.

One day, as Raphael was standing by his favorite window in the potter’s house, his friend, the handsome Luca, who was also standing there, sighed so deeply that the child was startled from his dreams. “Good Luca, what ails you?” he queried, winding his arms about the young man’s knees.

“Oh, ‘Faello!” sighed the apprentice, wofully, “here is a chance to win the hand of Pacifica if only I had talent. If the good Lord had only gifted me with a master’s skill, instead of all the strength of this great body of mine, I might win Pacifica.”

“What chance is it?” asked Raphael.

“Dear one,” answered Luca, with a tremendous sigh, “you must know that a new order has come in this very forenoon from the Duke. He wishes a dish and a jar of the very finest majolica to be painted with the story of Esther, and made ready in three months from this date. The master has said that whoever makes a dish and a jar beautiful enough for the great Duke shall become his partner and the husband of Pacifica. Now you see, ‘Faello mine, why I am so bitterly sad of heart; for at the painting of clay I am but a tyro. Even your good father told me that, though I had a heart of gold, yet I would never be able to decorate anything more than a barber’s basin. Alas! what shall I do? They will all beat me;” and tears rolled down the poor youth’s face.

Raphael heard all this in silence, leaning his elbows on his friend’s knee, and his chin on the palms of his own hands. He knew that the other pupils were better painters by far than his Luca; though not one of them was such a good-hearted youth, and for none of them did the maiden Pacifica care.

Raphael was very pensive for a while; then he raised his head and said, “Listen! I have thought of something,Luca. But I do not know whether you will let me try it.”

“You angel child! What would your old Luca deny to you? But as for helping me, put that out of your little mind forever, for no one can help me.”

“Let me try!” said the child a hundred times.

Luca could hardly restrain his shouts of mirth at the audacious fancy. Baby Raphael, only seven years old, to paint a majolica dish and vase for the Duke! But the sight of the serious face of Raphael, looking up with serene confidence, kept the good fellow grave. So utterly in earnest was the child, and so intense was Luca’s despair, that the young man gave way to Raphael’s entreaties.

“Never can I do aught,” he said bitterly. “And sometimes by the help of cherubs the saints work miracles.”

“It shall be no miracle,” replied Raphael; “it shall be myself, and what the dear God has put into me.”

From that hour Luca let him do what he would, and through all the lovely summer days the child shut himself in the garret and studied, and thought, and worked. For three months Raphael passed the most anxious hours of all his sunny young life. He would not allow Luca even to look at what he did. The swallows came in and out of the open window and fluttered all around him; the morning sunbeams came in, too, and made a halo about his golden head. He was only seven years old, but he labored as earnestly as if he were a man grown, his little rosy fingers grasping that pencil which was to make him, in

Raphael’s Madonna of the Chair

life and death, more famous than all the kings of the earth.

One afternoon Raphael took Luca by the hand and said to him, “Come.” He led the young man up to the table beneath the window where he had passed so many days of the spring and summer. Luca gave a great cry, and then fell on his knees, clasping the little feet of the child.

“Dear Luca,” he said softly, “do not do that. If it be indeed good, let us thank God.”

What Luca saw was the great oval dish and the great jar or vase with all manner of graceful symbols and classic designs wrought upon them. Their borders were garlanded with cherubs and flowers, and the landscapes were the beautiful landscapes round about Urbino; and amidst the figures there was one white-robed, golden-crowned Esther, to whom the child painter had given the face of Pacifica.

“Oh, wondrous boy!” sighed the poor apprentice as he gazed, and his heart was so full that he burst into tears. At last he said timidly: “But, Raphael, I do not see how your marvellous creation can help me! Even if you would allow it to pass as mine, I could not accept such a thing,—not even to win Pacifica. It would be a fraud, a shame.”

“Wait just a little longer, my good friend, and trust me,” said Raphael.

The next morning was a midsummer day. Now, the pottery was all to be placed on a long table, and the Duke was then to come and make his choice from amidst them.A few privileged persons had been invited, among them the father of Raphael, who came with his little son clinging to his hand.

The young Duke and his court came riding down the street, and paused before the old stone house of the master potter. Bowing to the ground, Master Benedetto led the way, and the others followed into the workshop. In all there were ten competitors. The dishes and jars were arranged with a number attached to each—no name to any.

The Duke, doffing his plumed cap, walked down the long room and examined each production in its turn. With fair words he complimented Signor Benedetto on the brave show, and only before the work of poor Luca was he entirely silent. At last, before a vase and a dish that stood at the farthest end of the table, the Duke gave a sudden cry of wonder and delight.

“This is beyond all comparison,” said he, taking the great oval dish in his hands. “It is worth its weight in gold. I pray you, quick, name the artist.”

“It is marked number eleven, my lord,” answered the master potter, trembling with pleasure and surprise. “Ho, you who reply to that number, stand out and give your name.”

But no one moved. The young men looked at one another. Where was this nameless rival? There were but ten of themselves.

“Ho, there!” cried the master, becoming angry. “Canyou not find a tongue? Who has wrought this wondrous work?”

Then the child loosened his little hand from his father’s hold and stepped forward, and stood before the master potter.

“I painted it,” he said, with a pleased smile; “I, Raphael.”

Can you not fancy the wonder, the rapture, the questions, the praise, that followed on the discovery of the child artist? The Duke felt his eyes wet, and his heart swell. He took a gold chain from his own neck and threw it over Raphael’s shoulders.

“There is your first reward,” he said. “You shall have many, O wondrous child, and you shall live when we who stand here are dust!”

Raphael, with winning grace, kissed the Duke’s hand, and then turned to his own father.

“Is it true that I have won the prize?”

“Quite true, my child,” said Sanzio, with tremulous voice.

Raphael looked up at Master Benedetto and gently said, “Then I claim the hand of Pacifica.”

“Dear and marvellous child,” murmured Benedetto, “you are only jesting, I know; but tell me in truth what you would have. I can deny you nothing; you are my master.”

“I am your pupil,” said Raphael, with sweet simplicity. “Had you not taught me the secret of your colors, I couldhave done nothing. Now, dear Master, and you, my lord Duke, I pray you hear me. By the terms of this contest I have won the hand of Pacifica and a partnership with Master Benedetto. I take these rights, and I give them over to my dear friend, Luca, who is the truest man in all the world, and who loves Pacifica as no other can do.”

Signor Benedetto stood mute and agitated. Luca, pale as ashes, had sprung forward and dropped on his knees.

“Listen to the voice of an angel, my good Benedetto,” said the Duke.

The master burst into tears. “I can refuse him nothing,” he said, with a sob.

“And call the fair Pacifica,” cried the sovereign, “and I shall give her myself, as a dower, as many gold pieces as we can cram into this famous vase. Young man, rise up, and be happy!”

But Luca heard not; he was still kneeling at the feet of Raphael.—Louise de la Ramée.

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