THE APPLES OF IDUN

Do what you ought, come what may.

Once upon a time Odin, Loke, and Hœner started on a journey. They had often travelled together before on all sorts of errands, for they had a great many things to look after, and more than once they had fallen into trouble through the prying, meddlesome, malicious spirit of Loke, who was never so happy as when he was doing wrong. When the gods went on a journey, they travelled fast and hard, for they were strong, active, spirits who 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 into which the sun hardly looked during half the year, and swift-rushing streams, cold as ice, and treacherous to the surest foot and the strongest arm. Not a bird flew through the air, not an animal sprang 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 steep, pine-crested mountains, and the travellers had neither breakfasted nor dined. Even Odin was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, like the most ordinary mortal, when suddenly, entering a little valley, the famished 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! In spite oftheir 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. It is easy to imagine that the travellers were not in very good humor. As they were talking about it, and wondering how it could be, a voice called out from the branches of the oak overhead, “If you will give me my fill, I’ll make the pot boil.”

The gods looked first at each other and then into the tree, and there they discovered a great eagle. They were glad enough to get their supper on almost 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, it must be confessed, and Loke, who was always angry when anybody got more than he, no sooner saw what the eagle had taken than he seized a great pole and began to beat the rapacious bird unmercifully. Whereupon a very singular 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 over the tops of the trees, Loke went pounding along on the ground, striking against rocks and branches until he was bruised half to death.

The eagle was not an ordinary bird by any means, as Loke soon found when he begged for mercy. The giant Thjasse happened to be flying abroad in his eagle plumage when the hungry travellers 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 their other treasures in Asgard, it was the beautiful fruit of Idun, 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 the 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 was wicked enough for anything; but when it came to robbing the gods of their immortality, even he hesitated. And while he hesitated the eagle dashed hither and thither, flinging him against the sides of the mountains and dragging him through the great tough boughs of the oaks until 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 when he got on his feet again to hate the giant, who handled him so roughly, with all his heart, but he was not unwilling to keep hispromise to steal the Apples, if only for the sake of tormenting the other gods. But how was it to be done? Idun guarded the golden fruit of immortality with sleepless watchfulness. No one ever touched it but herself, and a beautiful sight it was to see her fair hands spread it forth for the morning feasts in Asgard. The power which Loke possessed lay not so much in his own strength, although he had a smooth way of deceiving people, as in the goodness of others who had no thought of his doing wrong because they never did wrong themselves.

Not long after all this happened, Loke came carelessly up to Idun as she was gathering her Apples to put them away in the beautiful carven box which held them.

“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,” continued 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, however large and fair, bore the immortal fruit.

“Where have you seen any Apples like them?” she asked.

“Oh, just outside the gates,” said Loke, indifferently. “If you care to see them, I’ll 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, as she prepared to go.

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 tempest, and before she could think or act, the giant Thjasse, in his eagle plumage, was bearing her swiftly away through the air to his desolate, icy home in Thrymheim, where, after vainly trying to persuade her to let him eat the Apples and be forever young like the gods, he kept her a lonely prisoner.

Loke, after keeping his promise and delivering Idun into the hands of the giant, strayed back into Asgard as if nothing had happened. The next morning, when the gods assembled for their feast, there was no Idun. Day after day went past, and still the beautiful goddess did not come. Little by little the light of youth and beauty faded from the home of the gods, and they themselves became old and haggard. Their strong, young faces were lined with care and furrowed by age, their raven locks passed from gray to white, and their flashing eyes became dim and hollow. Brage, the god of poetry, could make no music while his beautiful wife was gone he knew not whither.

Morning after morning the faded light broke on paler and ever paler faces, until even in heaven the eternal light of youth seemed to be going out forever.

Finally the gods could bear the loss of power and joyno longer. They made rigorous inquiry. They tracked Loke on that fair morning when he led Idun beyond the gates; they seized him and brought him into solemn council, and when he read in their haggard faces the deadly hate which flamed in all their hearts against his treachery, his courage failed, and he promised to bring Idun back to Asgard if the goddess Freyja would lend him her falconguise. No sooner said than done; and with eager gaze the gods watched him as he flew away, becoming at last only a dark, moving speck against the sky.

After long and weary flight, Loke came to Thrymheim, and was glad enough to find Thjasse gone to sea and Idun alone in his dreary house. He changed her instantly into a nut, and taking her thus disguised in his talons, flew away as fast as his falcon wings could carry him. And he had need of all his speed, for Thjasse, coming suddenly home and finding Idun and her precious fruit gone, guessed what had happened, and, putting on his eagle plumage, flew forth in a mighty rage, with vengeance in his heart. Like the rushing wings of a tempest, his mighty pinions beat the air and bore him swiftly onwards. From mountain peak to mountain peak he measured his wide course, almost grazing at times the murmuring pine forests, and then sweeping high in mid-air with nothing above but the arching sky and nothing beneath but the tossing sea.

At last he sees the falcon far ahead, and now his flight becomes like the flash of the lightning for swiftness, and like the rushing of clouds for uproar. The haggard faces ofthe gods line the walls of Asgard and watch the race with tremulous eagerness. Youth and immortality are staked upon the winning of Loke. He is weary enough and frightened enough too, as the eagle sweeps on close behind him; but he makes desperate efforts 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 prepare great fires upon the walls. With fainting, drooping wing 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, where a dozen fierce hands smite the life out of him, and the great giant Thjasse perishes among his foes.

Idun resumes her natural form as Brage rushes to meet her. The gods crowd around her. She spreads the feast, the golden Apples gleaming with unspeakable lustre in the eyes of the gods. They eat; and once more their faces glow with the beauty of immortal youth, their eyes flash with the radiance of divine power, and, while Idun stands like a star for beauty among the throng, the song of Brage is heard once more; for poetry and immortality are wedded again.—Hamilton Wright Mabie.

From “Norse Stories,” by permission of the author and of the publishers, Dodd, Mead and Company, New York.

He that is not wise will not be taught.

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;“Good speed!” cried the watch as the gate bolts undrew;“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through.Behind shut the postern, the light sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Duffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime.So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river-headland its spray:And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye’s black intelligence—ever that glanceO’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely; the fault’s not in her,We’ll remember at Aix,”—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,’Neath our foot broke the brittle, bright stubble, like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white,And “Gallop,” cried Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”“How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood!And all I remember is,—friends flocking roundAs I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.—Robert Browning.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Duffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime.So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river-headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye’s black intelligence—ever that glanceO’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely; the fault’s not in her,We’ll remember at Aix,”—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,’Neath our foot broke the brittle, bright stubble, like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white,And “Gallop,” cried Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”

“How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood!

And all I remember is,—friends flocking roundAs I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.—Robert Browning.

The train from out the castle drew;But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.“Though something I might plain,” he said,“Of cold respect to stranger guest,Sent hither by your king’s behest,While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed,Part we in friendship from your land,And, noble earl, receive my hand.”But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:“My manors, halls, and bowers shall stillBe open, at my sovereign’s will,To each one whom he lists, howe’erUnmeet to be the owner’s peer.My castles are my king’s alone,From turret to foundation stone:The hand of Douglas is his own,And never shall, in friendly grasp,The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,And shook his very frame for ire;And “This to me?” he said;“An ’twere not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion’s had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas’ head.And first, I tell thee, haughty peer,He who does England’s message here,Although the meanest in her state,May well, proud Angus, be thy mate.“And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,Even in thy pitch of pride,Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,I tell thee thou’rt defied!And if thou saidst I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied.”On the earl’s cheek the flush of rageO’ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth: “And dar’st thou thenTo beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!—Up drawbridge, grooms!—what, warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall!”Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,—And dashed the rowels in his steed;Like arrow through the archway sprung;The ponderous gate behind him rung;To pass there was such scanty room,The bars, descending, grazed his plume.The steed along the drawbridge flies,Just as it trembled on the rise;Nor lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lake’s level brim.And when Lord Marmion reached his band,He halts, and turns with clenchèd hand,And shout of loud defiance pours,And shook his gauntlet at the towers.—Sir Walter Scott.

But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:“My manors, halls, and bowers shall stillBe open, at my sovereign’s will,To each one whom he lists, howe’erUnmeet to be the owner’s peer.My castles are my king’s alone,From turret to foundation stone:The hand of Douglas is his own,And never shall, in friendly grasp,The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,And shook his very frame for ire;And “This to me?” he said;“An ’twere not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion’s had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas’ head.And first, I tell thee, haughty peer,He who does England’s message here,Although the meanest in her state,May well, proud Angus, be thy mate.

“And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,Even in thy pitch of pride,Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,I tell thee thou’rt defied!And if thou saidst I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied.”

On the earl’s cheek the flush of rageO’ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth: “And dar’st thou thenTo beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!—Up drawbridge, grooms!—what, warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall!”

Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,—And dashed the rowels in his steed;Like arrow through the archway sprung;The ponderous gate behind him rung;To pass there was such scanty room,The bars, descending, grazed his plume.The steed along the drawbridge flies,Just as it trembled on the rise;Nor lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lake’s level brim.And when Lord Marmion reached his band,He halts, and turns with clenchèd hand,And shout of loud defiance pours,And shook his gauntlet at the towers.—Sir Walter Scott.

Upon a lonely island of the sea, far from the haunts of humanity, there dwelt an old man and his beautiful daughter. She had been very young when she was taken there, so young that she could not remember ever having seen a human face, excepting the face of Prospero, her father.

William Shakespeare

Their home was in a rocky cavern, which was divided into two or three apartments, and in one of these the old man kept his books, which treated of a strange art, much thought of in olden time. It was called magic; and it is said that by this means Prospero had released many good spirits which a bad witch named Sycorax had managed to confine in the hollow trunks of large old trees, just because they would not do the wicked things she commanded.

One of these released spirits had the pretty name of Ariel; a lively little sprite, who, in gratitude to Prospero, was always ready to do his will. But Ariel had a dislike to a monster called Caliban,—the son of wicked Sycorax,—and took great pleasure in tormenting him.

Though Prospero found this ugly Caliban in the woods, and took him home to his cavern, treating him with great

The Storm

kindness, it seemed impossible to teach him anything really useful; so at length he was put to draw water and carry wood, while Ariel watched to see how he executed these duties.

Ariel was such a delicate sprite that no mortal’s eye could perceive him save the eye of Prospero; and thus, when Caliban was lazy, he was not able to see that it was Ariel who would pinch him and tease him, or else take some fantastic shape and tumble in his way, and so vex him, as a punishment for not doing the will of Prospero.

Strange as it may seem, this old man of the island could get the spirits to rouse the winds and the waves at his pleasure. Once, when a violent storm was raging, he showed his daughter Miranda a ship quite full of human beings, whose lives were in peril from the surging waves. “Oh, dear father,” cried the maiden, “if indeed your power has raised this storm, have pity on these poor creatures and calm the wind. If I could, I would rather sink the sea beneath the earth, than have the ship and so many lives destroyed.”

“No person on board the vessel shall be harmed,” said Prospero, soothing her alarm. “I have done this for your sake, Miranda. You wonder—ah! you know not who you are, or whence you came; in fact, you only know that I am your father, and that this cavern is our home. You were scarce three years old when I brought you here; you cannot then remember any previous time?”

“Yes, my father, I can,” replied Miranda.

Then Prospero entreated her to say what remembrance she had of the days of her infancy.

“It is but little,” said the maiden. “It seems indeed like unto a dream, and yet surely there was a time when several women were in attendance on me.”

“That is quite true,” replied Prospero. “How can you recall this?—can it be possible that you remember our coming here?”

“No, I can recall nothing more than I have said, father.”

Upon this Prospero decided that the time had come when he should tell his daughter the story of her life. “Twelve years ago, Miranda,” he began, “I was duke of Milan, and you the heiress of my wealth and a princess. I had a brother younger than myself, to whom I trusted the management of my affairs, little dreaming of his unworthiness. Buried among my books, I neglected all else, and Antonio used this opportunity to gain an influence over my subjects; and then, with the aid of an enemy of mine, the king of Naples, to make himself duke in my place.

“He feared to take our lives by violence, but having forced us on board a vessel, Antonio put out to sea, and then removing us into a smaller boat without sail or mast, left us to what he believed would prove a certain death.

“A lord of my court, by name Gonzalo, had, however, felt some presentiment of danger, and thus had, out of his love for me, taken the precaution of putting food, apparel, and my highly valued books into the boat.”

“Oh, father,” said Miranda, “what a care, what a trouble must I, a little child, have been to you, then!”

“Nay, my child,” replied Prospero, passing his hand fondly over her hair; “not a care, but a comforter, a consoler! I could hardly have borne up under such misfortunes, but for your innocent face and baby tongue. Our food lasted till the boat touched this island; and here my great joy has been to watch over and instruct you.”

“But tell me, father, why this furious storm?” cried Miranda.

“By this storm my cruel brother and the king of Naples are cast ashore upon this island.”

As he spoke these words Prospero touched his daughter with his magic wand, and her eyes closed in sleep.

Just then Ariel came to his master to tell how he had treated the company on board the ship, describing their great alarm, and how the young Ferdinand, son of the king, had leaped into the sea, to the grief of his father, who believed him lost. “But he is not lost,” said Ariel. “He is sitting now in a corner of the island, with not one hair of his head injured; but he is grieving sadly, because he concludes that the king, his father, has been drowned.”

“Bring the young prince hither, Ariel,” said Prospero. “Where is the king, and where my brother Antonio?”

“Searching for Ferdinand,” replied the sprite. “Searching with a very faint hope, for they believe they saw him perish. In fact, although all the ship’s company is safe,each believes himself the only survivor; and even the ship is invisible to them, though it lies in the harbor.”

“Thy duty has been well done,” said Prospero. “There is more work yet for thee, Ariel.”

“More work!” cried the sprite. “But, master, you promised me my liberty; and pray remember I have done you good service. I have made no mistakes, told no lies, neither have I murmured at the commands laid upon me.”

“How now?” said Prospero. “Do you forget from what I freed you? Do you forget Sycorax, the wicked witch? Where was she born? Tell me, Ariel.”

“Sir, she was born in Algiers.”

“Was she?” said Prospero. “Now let me remind you of something which methinks you have forgotten. Sycorax was for her wicked witchcraft banished from Algiers, and left upon this lonely island by some sailors; and because you were not able to obey her commands, she shut you up in a hollow tree. Do you forget that I found you howling there, and set you free?”

Ariel was ashamed of having seemed ungrateful. “Pardon me, dear master,” he said. “I will continue to obey your orders.”

“Do so, and then I shall set you free,” said Prospero; and having received his directions, Ariel went off to where Ferdinand sat upon the grass with a sad countenance.

“Come, young gentleman,” said the sprite. “Come, and let the lady Miranda have a sight of you;” and hebegan to sing this song, which gave Ferdinand news of his father, and roused him from his silent grief:—

“Full fathom five thy father lies:Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fadeBut doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.”

Following the sound of Ariel’s sweet voice, Ferdinand found himself in the presence of Prospero and Miranda, who stood under the shade of a large tree.

“O father,” cried the maiden, who had never before seen any human being besides Prospero, “surely this must be a spirit coming towards us?”

“It is a young man who was one of the company in the ship,” said Prospero. “He is in great grief, which somewhat lessens the beauty of his features. Having lost his companions, he is wandering in search of them.”

Ferdinand now saw with amazement and delight the beautiful Miranda, and he began to address her as if she were the goddess of an enchanted island.

She replied that she was but a simple maiden and no goddess, and would have given an account of herself, had not Prospero interrupted her. He foresaw that these two young people would become much attached to each other, and therefore resolved to throw many difficulties in Ferdinand’sway, that he might prove the strength and constancy of his affection.

“I will bind you hand and foot,” he cried. “Shell-fish, acorns, withered roots shall be your food, and salt sea water your only drink.”

“No,” cried Ferdinand, drawing his sword; “I shall resist such entertainment—at any rate until I am overcome by some more powerful enemy than yourself.”

At this Prospero raised his magic wand, which completely fixed Ferdinand to the spot, so that he could not move!

“O father, be not so unkind,” cried Miranda, clinging to the old man. “Have some pity on him, for indeed it seems to me that he is good and true.”

“Silence, girl. You think much of this youth because you have seen no comelier form than mine: but I tell you there are others who in person excel him as far as he excels in beauty the monster, Caliban.”

Then, turning to the prince, Prospero cried, “Come, young sir; you have no power to disobey me.”

And Ferdinand found himself compelled to follow the old man into the cavern, although he turned once and again to gaze upon Miranda. “In truth this man’s threats would seem as nothing to me,” he sighed, “if only I might from my prison behold this fair maid.”

Ferdinand was not confined very long; he was brought out and set to some laborious task, while Prospero from his study watched both the young man and Miranda.

The prince had been ordered to pile up some heavy logsof wood, and soon the maiden saw him half-fainting beneath his burden. “Pray rest,” she cried; “my father will for three hours be at his studies. I entreat you not to work so hard.”

“Dear lady, I dare not rest,” said Ferdinand; “I must finish my task.”

“Sit down and I shall carry the logs for a while,” said the maiden; but Ferdinand would not have it so, and so she began to assist him, though the business went on but slowly because they were talking together.

But Prospero was not among his books, as Miranda thought; he was quite close to them, although invisible, and he smiled as he heard his daughter tell her name, and smiled again as Ferdinand professed his great love and admiration for her.

“I fear I am talking too freely. I have forgotten my father’s command,” said Miranda, at last.

And here Prospero nodded his head, and said to himself, “My daughter shall be queen of Naples.”

They had not talked long, before Miranda had promised to be the bride of Ferdinand; and then her father no longer concealed his presence, but made himself visible to the eyes of these young people. “Be not afraid, daughter,” he said; “I have heard all that has passed, but I approve it. As for you, Ferdinand, if I have been hard, it was but to try if you were worthy of my child; and by giving her to you I make amends for it all.”

Calling his attendant, Ariel, Prospero left them, sayinghe had business to attend to; which business was to hear how the sprite had been tormenting and frightening his master’s brother and the king of Naples. When they were weary and well-nigh famished, he set a delicate banquet before them; but only to appear again as a monster, who carried the untasted food away. Then he spoke to them, still in the form of a harpy, and reminded them of the shameful way in which they had treated Prospero and his little child, adding that in punishment this shipwreck had befallen them.

The king and Antonio were greatly distressed at this; and Ariel declared that though he was but a sprite, he could not but pity them, their grief seemed so sincere.

“Bring them here,” cried Prospero. “Bring them quickly, my good Ariel; for if you feel for them, much more should I who am a human being, such as they, take compassion on them in their misfortune, and freely forgive the past.”

So Ariel brought the king and Prospero’s brother into his presence; and with them came Gonzalo, who had proved his love for his master by putting food and apparel into the boat in which he had been left to the mercy of the winds and waves.

When Prospero spoke to Gonzalo, and called him the preserver of his life, Antonio knew this old man must be his own much-injured brother, and he began to implore his pardon with many tears; the king also asked forgiveness for the part he had taken against him.

Prospero assured them that he freely forgave all; and, opening a door, he showed them Ferdinand, who was engaged in a game of chess with Miranda. What joy was this to the father and son, both of whom believed the other had been lost in the storm!

The king of Naples was astonished at the beauty of Miranda. “Is this a goddess” he asked, “who parted us that she might bring us together?”

“Not a goddess,” answered Ferdinand, smiling. “A fair maiden, whom I have asked to be my bride. She is the daughter of the duke of Milan, who, in giving her to me, has made himself my second father.”

“Then I must be her father,” said the king. “And, first, I must ask her forgiveness.”

“Not so,” interrupted Prospero; “let us rather forget the past and think only of the happy present.” And then, embracing his brother, he declared that all his troubles had been overruled by Providence; as, but for their meeting on the desert island, perhaps Ferdinand would never have known and loved Miranda.

The ship was safe in harbor, the sailors were on board, and the whole company intended to depart together in the morning; but for that last evening they partook of some refreshments in the cavern, which was so soon now to be deserted, while Prospero gave them the story of his adventures.

Before he left the island he dismissed Ariel from his service, to the joy of the active sprite, who loved libertyabove all else. “But, master, I shall attend your passage home, and get for you prosperous winds; and then how merrily I’ll live.” And at this Ariel broke into a sweet song, which went like this:—

“Where the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat’s back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”

Prospero’s last act was to bury all his magical books and his wand; for he meant to have nothing more to do with the art, but to spend the rest of his life in his native land, watching over the welfare of his people, and at peace with all the world.

As soon as the party reached Naples, the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda took place with much splendor, thus completing the happiness of Prospero, now again duke of Milan, but whom we have learned to know as the old man of the island.—Mary Seymour.

From “Tales from Shakespeare,” by Mary Seymour, published by Thomas Nelson & Sons, Edinburgh.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears;To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.—Wordsworth.

News of battle! News of battle!Hark! ’tis ringing down the street;And the archways and the pavementBear the clang of hurrying feet.News of battle! who hath brought it?News of triumph! who should bringTidings from our noble army,Greetings from our gallant king?All last night we watched the beaconsBlazing on the hills afar,Each one bearing, as it kindled,Message of the opened war.All night long the northern streamersShot across the trembling sky;Fearful lights, that never beckonSave when kings or heroes die.News of battle! who hath brought it?All are thronging to the gate;“Warder—warder! open quickly!Man—is this a time to wait?”And the heavy gates are opened:Then a murmur long and loud,And a cry of fear and wonderBursts from out the bending crowd.For they see in battered harnessOnly one hard-stricken man;And his weary steed is wounded,And his cheek is pale and wan:Spearless hangs a bloody bannerIn his weak and drooping hand—What! can this be Randolph Murray,Captain of the city band?Round him crush the people, crying,“Tell us all—oh, tell us true!Where are they who went to battle,Randolph Murray, sworn to you?Where are they, our brothers,—children?Have they met the English foe?Why art thou alone, unfollowed?Is it weal, or is it woe?”Like a corpse the grisly warriorLooks out from his helm of steel;But no words he speaks in answer—Only with his armèd heelChides his weary steed, and onwardsUp the city streets they ride;Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,Shrieking, praying by his side.“By the God that made thee, Randolph!Tell us what mischance has come.”Then he lifts his riven banner,And the asker’s voice is dumb.The elders of the cityHave met within their hall—The men whom good King James had chargedTo watch the tower and wall.“Your hands are weak with age,” he said,“Your hearts are stout and true;So bide ye in the Maiden Town,While others fight for you.My trumpet from the border sideShall send a blast so clear,That all who wait within the gateThat stirring sound may hear.Or if it be the will of HeavenThat back I never come,And if, instead of Scottish shouts,Ye hear the English drum,—Then let the warning bells ring out,Then gird you to the fray,Then man the walls like burghers stout,And fight while fight you may.’Twere better that in fiery flameThe roof should thunder down,Than that the foot of foreign foeShould trample in the town!”Then in came Randolph Murray,—His step was slow and weak,And, as he doffed his dinted helm,The tears ran down his cheek:They fell upon his corselet,And on his mailèd hand,As he gazed around him wistfully,Leaning sorely on his brand.And none who then beheld himBut straight were smote with fear,For a bolder and a sterner manHad never couched a spear.They knew so sad a messengerSome ghastly news must bring,And all of them were fathers,And their sons were with the King.And up then rose the Provost—A brave old man was he,Of ancient name, and knightly fame,And chivalrous degree.He ruled our city like a LordWho brooked no equal here.And ever for the townsman’s rightsStood up ’gainst prince and peer.And he had seen the Scottish hostMarch from the Borough-muir,With music-storm and clamorous shout,And all the din that thunders outWhen youth’s of victory sure.But yet a dearer thought had he,—For, with a father’s pride,He saw his last remaining sonGo forth by Randolph’s side,With casque on head and spur on heelAll keen to do and dare;And proudly did that gallant boyDunedin’s banner bear.Oh! woful now was the old man’s look,And he spake right heavily—“Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,However sharp they be!Woe is written on thy visage,Death is looking from thy face:Speak!—though it be of overthrow,It cannot be disgrace!”Right bitter was the agonyThat wrung that soldier proud:Thrice did he strive to answer,And thrice he groaned aloud.Then he gave the riven bannerTo the old man’s shaking hand,Saying—“That is all I bring yeFrom the bravest of the land!Ay! ye may look upon it—It was guarded well and long,By your brothers and your children,By the valiant and the strong.One by one they fell around it,As the archers laid them low,Grimly dying, still unconquered,With their faces to the foe.Ay! ye may well look upon it—There is more than honor there,Else, be sure, I had not brought itFrom the field of dark despair.Never yet was royal bannerSteeped in such a costly dye;It hath lain upon a bosomWhere no other shroud shall lie.Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,Keep it as a sacred thing,For the stain you see upon itWas the life-blood of your King!”Woe, and woe, and lamentation!What a piteous cry was there!Widows, maidens, mothers, children,Shrieking, sobbing in despair!“Oh, the blackest day for ScotlandThat she ever knew before!Oh, our king! the good, the noble,Shall we see him never more?Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!Oh, our sons, our sons and men!Surely some have ’scaped the Southron,Surely some will come again!”Till the oak that fell last winterShall uprear its shattered stem—Wives and mothers of Dunedin—Ye may look in vain for them!—William Edmondstoune Aytoun.

News of battle! who hath brought it?All are thronging to the gate;“Warder—warder! open quickly!Man—is this a time to wait?”And the heavy gates are opened:Then a murmur long and loud,And a cry of fear and wonderBursts from out the bending crowd.For they see in battered harnessOnly one hard-stricken man;And his weary steed is wounded,And his cheek is pale and wan:Spearless hangs a bloody bannerIn his weak and drooping hand—What! can this be Randolph Murray,Captain of the city band?

Round him crush the people, crying,“Tell us all—oh, tell us true!Where are they who went to battle,Randolph Murray, sworn to you?Where are they, our brothers,—children?Have they met the English foe?Why art thou alone, unfollowed?Is it weal, or is it woe?”

Like a corpse the grisly warriorLooks out from his helm of steel;But no words he speaks in answer—Only with his armèd heelChides his weary steed, and onwardsUp the city streets they ride;Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,Shrieking, praying by his side.“By the God that made thee, Randolph!Tell us what mischance has come.”Then he lifts his riven banner,And the asker’s voice is dumb.The elders of the cityHave met within their hall—The men whom good King James had chargedTo watch the tower and wall.“Your hands are weak with age,” he said,“Your hearts are stout and true;So bide ye in the Maiden Town,While others fight for you.My trumpet from the border sideShall send a blast so clear,That all who wait within the gateThat stirring sound may hear.Or if it be the will of HeavenThat back I never come,And if, instead of Scottish shouts,Ye hear the English drum,—Then let the warning bells ring out,Then gird you to the fray,Then man the walls like burghers stout,And fight while fight you may.’Twere better that in fiery flameThe roof should thunder down,Than that the foot of foreign foeShould trample in the town!”

Then in came Randolph Murray,—His step was slow and weak,And, as he doffed his dinted helm,The tears ran down his cheek:They fell upon his corselet,And on his mailèd hand,As he gazed around him wistfully,Leaning sorely on his brand.And none who then beheld himBut straight were smote with fear,For a bolder and a sterner manHad never couched a spear.They knew so sad a messengerSome ghastly news must bring,And all of them were fathers,And their sons were with the King.

And up then rose the Provost—A brave old man was he,Of ancient name, and knightly fame,And chivalrous degree.He ruled our city like a LordWho brooked no equal here.And ever for the townsman’s rightsStood up ’gainst prince and peer.And he had seen the Scottish hostMarch from the Borough-muir,With music-storm and clamorous shout,And all the din that thunders outWhen youth’s of victory sure.But yet a dearer thought had he,—For, with a father’s pride,He saw his last remaining sonGo forth by Randolph’s side,With casque on head and spur on heelAll keen to do and dare;And proudly did that gallant boyDunedin’s banner bear.Oh! woful now was the old man’s look,And he spake right heavily—“Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,However sharp they be!Woe is written on thy visage,Death is looking from thy face:Speak!—though it be of overthrow,It cannot be disgrace!”

Right bitter was the agonyThat wrung that soldier proud:Thrice did he strive to answer,And thrice he groaned aloud.Then he gave the riven bannerTo the old man’s shaking hand,Saying—“That is all I bring yeFrom the bravest of the land!Ay! ye may look upon it—It was guarded well and long,By your brothers and your children,By the valiant and the strong.

One by one they fell around it,As the archers laid them low,Grimly dying, still unconquered,With their faces to the foe.Ay! ye may well look upon it—There is more than honor there,Else, be sure, I had not brought itFrom the field of dark despair.Never yet was royal bannerSteeped in such a costly dye;It hath lain upon a bosomWhere no other shroud shall lie.Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,Keep it as a sacred thing,For the stain you see upon itWas the life-blood of your King!”

Woe, and woe, and lamentation!What a piteous cry was there!Widows, maidens, mothers, children,Shrieking, sobbing in despair!“Oh, the blackest day for ScotlandThat she ever knew before!Oh, our king! the good, the noble,Shall we see him never more?Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!Oh, our sons, our sons and men!Surely some have ’scaped the Southron,Surely some will come again!”Till the oak that fell last winterShall uprear its shattered stem—Wives and mothers of Dunedin—Ye may look in vain for them!—William Edmondstoune Aytoun.

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