A MAY MORNING.
It is one of those first bright, pleasant days, so welcome after the rains and clouds that follow the long siege of winter. With the sunbeams so warm, and the air so soft and balmy, who can choose to stay indoors? The Lieutenant draws his chair out to the porch, and is presently joined by Harry, who mounts the railing and proceeds to relate an adventure he had the other night.
“You see we were out on the lake, fishing—a lot of us, and we’d caught about a dozen trout, when up come a storm—a regular gale. Boat capsized; out we went into the water. Rain pouring down in torrents, and so dark you couldn’t see your hand before you. Tell you we had to swim for it. But we got ashore at last, and they took us in at a house close by, and dried our clothes for us, and gave us some supper, and we had a regular jolly time of it, after all.”
“Yes, I heard about that excursion of yours from another source, and about a boy by the name of Harry who saved another boy from drowning.”
“No! did you, though? Well, you see he didn’t know much about swimming, and it was my doings, his going with us, and if anything had happened to him I’d have been to blame. But, I tell you, I thought one time there we were both goners, sure. Hallo, Edith!”
“See my new hat!” she cries, climbing up the steps. “I and mamma bought it down street this very morning. See, it’s all trimmed with blue ribbons!”
“Yes, it’s really pooty. There comes Marie Maross with her instruction book; she’s been taking a music lesson. Say, Marie, come in and sit down, won’t you? You look tired. Professor cross this morning?”
“Yes,” responds Marie, readily accepting the invitation. “He says I don’t half practice my lessons, and it’s no such thing! I practiced a whole half an hour yesterday, and on those wretched scales, too! they’re enough to drive one distracted.”
Harry glares at the gate-post as if it were the professor himself, and he is about to express, in strong terms, his poor opinion of professors of music generally, when—
“Che! cheree! cheree! te-hee, hee, ha, ha, ha!” laughs Robin Redbreast among the budding branches overhead. What is he cocking his shrewd black eye at the two on the steps below for?—looking for all the world as though he had seen them before now—passingnotes to each other in that “horrid old school-room,” when “Old Williams” wasn’t watching.
But hush, you, Sir Robin, and hush, every one. Marie lifts her hand to impose silence; for, see, there is a wee gray sparrow prospecting about a moss basket hanging in the porch, evidently in search of a good building site.
But here comes the mail-carrier, who cannot stop for such trifles. As he rapidly approaches Mrs. Sparrow flies away.
Kate, who has been setting out tulip-bulbs in her flower-beds in the back-yard, comes to look over the letters. This one, from a small boy, she reads aloud:
Deer Cozen Katean Walter i can’t find ennything but this led pencil to rite with fur they’re housecleening an the inks all spillt on the carpit an the pens lost an the paper lockt up in the riting desk an nobody can find the kee and Briget shes cross she sez ive got to stop running all over the flore whare she scrubd it and so i tore this page out of my gografy whare it isnt printid i most made a bote to sale on our pond fur its chuckfull ov water an somebody swept it up an thru it into the fire when I get to be a Man an have a house ov my own I wont have enny housecleening going on never.Bob.
Deer Cozen Kate
an Walter i can’t find ennything but this led pencil to rite with fur they’re housecleening an the inks all spillt on the carpit an the pens lost an the paper lockt up in the riting desk an nobody can find the kee and Briget shes cross she sez ive got to stop running all over the flore whare she scrubd it and so i tore this page out of my gografy whare it isnt printid i most made a bote to sale on our pond fur its chuckfull ov water an somebody swept it up an thru it into the fire when I get to be a Man an have a house ov my own I wont have enny housecleening going on never.
Bob.
“Them’s my sentiments exactly,” says Harry. “It’s been just so at our house now for a week. Everything’s topsy-turvy, and you can’t find a place to rest the sole of your foot. And cross? my! I thought Annwould take my head off, this morning, when I tumbled against her mop-pail and tipped it over.”
“Will you please give these to Mr. Walter?”
It is bashful little Bessie, on her way home from a ramble in the distant wood, who whispers in Kate’s ear, as she offers a bunch of spring beauties gathered there, and blossoms plucked from a wayside apple-tree. Mr. Walter receives them with a smile of recognition, for who does not love the odor of apple-blossoms?
The blushing Bessie is straightway reassured and gratified by the following fable improvised for the occasion:
Once on a time, in early dawn of summer,Among the trees the question chanced to rise—“Which of us is the fairest, the most comely?”A towering pine tree boasted in this wise:“Behold me, all ye puny ones, behold me!Look at my shoulders reaching to the sky!Look at my tasseled mantle—green forever!How can ye doubt or question?—here am I!”A stately elm tree upward gazed a moment,In acquiescence bent her regal head:“Aye, thou art tall and gayly decked, my brother,But I have more of symmetry,” she said.A languid willow, musing, softly murmured:“Yes, shapely is the elm, and tall the pine;But see, oh, friends (she made a sweeping courtesy),You must admit that gracefulness is mine.”“Ah, well, that’s not the point,” replied a maple;“’Tis not of grace we’re talking, not at all;And as for form, why, I am well proportioned:And as for height, why, one may betootall.”“Hold!” cried a tulip tree; “am I not shapely?And illy would the pine tree’s tassels greenCompare with these broad leaves, so smooth and shining,Or with the bells of bloom that swing between!”“Conceited fools!” a gnarly old oak grumbled;“Bragging of your fine clothes and shape and length!Bah, with your silly prate and idle prattle!There is most beauty where there is most strength!”At that a plain, ill-favored tree took courage,—“And I, too—I am rugged! I am stout!”The little saplings sidelong glanced and giggled,The grown-up trees did toss their heads and shout;And, one and all, they laughed and laughed together,And, one and all, together did they say:“Oh, listen! ugly scrub lays claim to beauty!Who ever heard the like before to-day!”But Mother Nature frowned at their derision,Seeing the humble tree with grief downcast;Her wand she lifted—lo! the slighted claimantIn comeliness all other trees surpassed!A downy robe the knotted limbs enveloped,In folds whose fragrance thrilled the wond’ring air—A robe of pale, rose-tinted blossoms woven!Amazed and breathless did the scoffers stare.And, one and all, they turned from jest and laughter,And, one and all, together whispered they:“Behold, behold the garment of our brother!Who ever saw the like before to-day!”Since then, alway, in early dawn of summer,Dame Nature lifts her wand the trees to shameWho envy him that wears the apple blossomsAnd wish they had not mocked his modest claim.
Once on a time, in early dawn of summer,Among the trees the question chanced to rise—“Which of us is the fairest, the most comely?”A towering pine tree boasted in this wise:“Behold me, all ye puny ones, behold me!Look at my shoulders reaching to the sky!Look at my tasseled mantle—green forever!How can ye doubt or question?—here am I!”A stately elm tree upward gazed a moment,In acquiescence bent her regal head:“Aye, thou art tall and gayly decked, my brother,But I have more of symmetry,” she said.A languid willow, musing, softly murmured:“Yes, shapely is the elm, and tall the pine;But see, oh, friends (she made a sweeping courtesy),You must admit that gracefulness is mine.”“Ah, well, that’s not the point,” replied a maple;“’Tis not of grace we’re talking, not at all;And as for form, why, I am well proportioned:And as for height, why, one may betootall.”“Hold!” cried a tulip tree; “am I not shapely?And illy would the pine tree’s tassels greenCompare with these broad leaves, so smooth and shining,Or with the bells of bloom that swing between!”“Conceited fools!” a gnarly old oak grumbled;“Bragging of your fine clothes and shape and length!Bah, with your silly prate and idle prattle!There is most beauty where there is most strength!”At that a plain, ill-favored tree took courage,—“And I, too—I am rugged! I am stout!”The little saplings sidelong glanced and giggled,The grown-up trees did toss their heads and shout;And, one and all, they laughed and laughed together,And, one and all, together did they say:“Oh, listen! ugly scrub lays claim to beauty!Who ever heard the like before to-day!”But Mother Nature frowned at their derision,Seeing the humble tree with grief downcast;Her wand she lifted—lo! the slighted claimantIn comeliness all other trees surpassed!A downy robe the knotted limbs enveloped,In folds whose fragrance thrilled the wond’ring air—A robe of pale, rose-tinted blossoms woven!Amazed and breathless did the scoffers stare.And, one and all, they turned from jest and laughter,And, one and all, together whispered they:“Behold, behold the garment of our brother!Who ever saw the like before to-day!”Since then, alway, in early dawn of summer,Dame Nature lifts her wand the trees to shameWho envy him that wears the apple blossomsAnd wish they had not mocked his modest claim.
Once on a time, in early dawn of summer,Among the trees the question chanced to rise—“Which of us is the fairest, the most comely?”A towering pine tree boasted in this wise:
Once on a time, in early dawn of summer,
Among the trees the question chanced to rise—
“Which of us is the fairest, the most comely?”
A towering pine tree boasted in this wise:
“Behold me, all ye puny ones, behold me!Look at my shoulders reaching to the sky!Look at my tasseled mantle—green forever!How can ye doubt or question?—here am I!”
“Behold me, all ye puny ones, behold me!
Look at my shoulders reaching to the sky!
Look at my tasseled mantle—green forever!
How can ye doubt or question?—here am I!”
A stately elm tree upward gazed a moment,In acquiescence bent her regal head:“Aye, thou art tall and gayly decked, my brother,But I have more of symmetry,” she said.
A stately elm tree upward gazed a moment,
In acquiescence bent her regal head:
“Aye, thou art tall and gayly decked, my brother,
But I have more of symmetry,” she said.
A languid willow, musing, softly murmured:“Yes, shapely is the elm, and tall the pine;But see, oh, friends (she made a sweeping courtesy),You must admit that gracefulness is mine.”
A languid willow, musing, softly murmured:
“Yes, shapely is the elm, and tall the pine;
But see, oh, friends (she made a sweeping courtesy),
You must admit that gracefulness is mine.”
“Ah, well, that’s not the point,” replied a maple;“’Tis not of grace we’re talking, not at all;And as for form, why, I am well proportioned:And as for height, why, one may betootall.”
“Ah, well, that’s not the point,” replied a maple;
“’Tis not of grace we’re talking, not at all;
And as for form, why, I am well proportioned:
And as for height, why, one may betootall.”
“Hold!” cried a tulip tree; “am I not shapely?And illy would the pine tree’s tassels greenCompare with these broad leaves, so smooth and shining,Or with the bells of bloom that swing between!”
“Hold!” cried a tulip tree; “am I not shapely?
And illy would the pine tree’s tassels green
Compare with these broad leaves, so smooth and shining,
Or with the bells of bloom that swing between!”
“Conceited fools!” a gnarly old oak grumbled;“Bragging of your fine clothes and shape and length!Bah, with your silly prate and idle prattle!There is most beauty where there is most strength!”
“Conceited fools!” a gnarly old oak grumbled;
“Bragging of your fine clothes and shape and length!
Bah, with your silly prate and idle prattle!
There is most beauty where there is most strength!”
At that a plain, ill-favored tree took courage,—“And I, too—I am rugged! I am stout!”The little saplings sidelong glanced and giggled,The grown-up trees did toss their heads and shout;
At that a plain, ill-favored tree took courage,—
“And I, too—I am rugged! I am stout!”
The little saplings sidelong glanced and giggled,
The grown-up trees did toss their heads and shout;
And, one and all, they laughed and laughed together,And, one and all, together did they say:“Oh, listen! ugly scrub lays claim to beauty!Who ever heard the like before to-day!”
And, one and all, they laughed and laughed together,
And, one and all, together did they say:
“Oh, listen! ugly scrub lays claim to beauty!
Who ever heard the like before to-day!”
But Mother Nature frowned at their derision,Seeing the humble tree with grief downcast;Her wand she lifted—lo! the slighted claimantIn comeliness all other trees surpassed!
But Mother Nature frowned at their derision,
Seeing the humble tree with grief downcast;
Her wand she lifted—lo! the slighted claimant
In comeliness all other trees surpassed!
A downy robe the knotted limbs enveloped,In folds whose fragrance thrilled the wond’ring air—A robe of pale, rose-tinted blossoms woven!Amazed and breathless did the scoffers stare.
A downy robe the knotted limbs enveloped,
In folds whose fragrance thrilled the wond’ring air—
A robe of pale, rose-tinted blossoms woven!
Amazed and breathless did the scoffers stare.
And, one and all, they turned from jest and laughter,And, one and all, together whispered they:“Behold, behold the garment of our brother!Who ever saw the like before to-day!”
And, one and all, they turned from jest and laughter,
And, one and all, together whispered they:
“Behold, behold the garment of our brother!
Who ever saw the like before to-day!”
Since then, alway, in early dawn of summer,Dame Nature lifts her wand the trees to shameWho envy him that wears the apple blossomsAnd wish they had not mocked his modest claim.
Since then, alway, in early dawn of summer,
Dame Nature lifts her wand the trees to shame
Who envy him that wears the apple blossoms
And wish they had not mocked his modest claim.
But listen—will you?—to this score of lads and lasses, Bessie’s companions (freed from school, for it is Saturday), who, laden with wild flowers and mosses and ferns, have meanwhile established themselves on the steps, and are chattering like a flock of blackbirds:
“Oh, we’ve had lots of fun, and I’m awfully tired. Will you believe it? I ran over a snake! Dear me, how scared I was!” (A girl, of course.)
“Sho! you needn’t have been afraid of such a harmless little snake as that; I’d just as soon take it up in my hand as not!” (A boy, of course.)
“Why didn’t you, then? Ha, ha! I’d like to have seen you.”
“See, Marie, what a pretty toad-stool I found, all scarlet inside; and Fred, he’s got a lot of snail-shells in his pocket.”
“If I’d only had a gun along I could have popped over two or three red squirrels.”
“Oh—h—h! it would be cruel to kill the dear, sweet, cunning little creatures.”
“Don’t be alarmed, puss; he couldn’t fire off a gun to save his life.”
“Oh, the quantities of Bobolinks we saw in the meadows! If you could only have heard them sing—”
Ting-a-ling,Ting-a-ling, ling.
Ting-a-ling,Ting-a-ling, ling.
Ting-a-ling,Ting-a-ling, ling.
Ting-a-ling,
Ting-a-ling, ling.
Everybody stares at the apparition. He has stolen a march upon them—that little tawny Italian, down there in the street, gazing up at the merry group, with a weary sort of smile, as his slender fingers toy with the strings of his instrument, bringing forth many a plaintive air. Soon the music ceases, and the tattered hat is passed around. But he may not go yet; his audience is clamoring for a song. “An Italian song,” cries Marie. And so, to the accompaniment of his guitar, he sings in his native tongue a little ballad which runs something after this fashion:
Wandering, wandering all the world over,Hither and thither, and to and fro,Free as the wind—the rollicking rover,Lightly humming and thrumming I go.Free as the wind to linger and tarry,Free as the wind to hasten afar,All my wealth in my hands I carry—Look, behold it—my gay guitar!Gold and houses and lands encumber,Never king, in his palace high,Slumber’d as sweetly as I slumber,Under the clear, unclouded sky.Free as the wind, the rollicking rover,Little of trouble or care I know,Wandering, wandering all the world over,Hither and thither, and to and fro.
Wandering, wandering all the world over,Hither and thither, and to and fro,Free as the wind—the rollicking rover,Lightly humming and thrumming I go.Free as the wind to linger and tarry,Free as the wind to hasten afar,All my wealth in my hands I carry—Look, behold it—my gay guitar!Gold and houses and lands encumber,Never king, in his palace high,Slumber’d as sweetly as I slumber,Under the clear, unclouded sky.Free as the wind, the rollicking rover,Little of trouble or care I know,Wandering, wandering all the world over,Hither and thither, and to and fro.
Wandering, wandering all the world over,Hither and thither, and to and fro,Free as the wind—the rollicking rover,Lightly humming and thrumming I go.
Wandering, wandering all the world over,
Hither and thither, and to and fro,
Free as the wind—the rollicking rover,
Lightly humming and thrumming I go.
Free as the wind to linger and tarry,Free as the wind to hasten afar,All my wealth in my hands I carry—Look, behold it—my gay guitar!
Free as the wind to linger and tarry,
Free as the wind to hasten afar,
All my wealth in my hands I carry—
Look, behold it—my gay guitar!
Gold and houses and lands encumber,Never king, in his palace high,Slumber’d as sweetly as I slumber,Under the clear, unclouded sky.
Gold and houses and lands encumber,
Never king, in his palace high,
Slumber’d as sweetly as I slumber,
Under the clear, unclouded sky.
Free as the wind, the rollicking rover,Little of trouble or care I know,Wandering, wandering all the world over,Hither and thither, and to and fro.
Free as the wind, the rollicking rover,
Little of trouble or care I know,
Wandering, wandering all the world over,
Hither and thither, and to and fro.
And off he goes with his merry song, and his weary smile, and his pockets jingling with pennies; and is succeeded by a fair-haired Norwegian, with a basket on his head, crying, “Oranges, oranges!”
Harry rushes down, and buys him out of the stock in hand, and before any one has time to protest, begins to treat the assembled company. So it was for this feast that the round, golden fruit has been, all these months, basking and ripening and gathering fragrance and sweetness from the rays that gladden a land of perpetual summer.
“What’s this—a picnic?” asks a gentleman in uniform, who has come to call upon the Lieutenant. The youngsters follow with their eyes the blue coat and bright buttons disappearing through the open doorway, then they slowly disperse; and Ponto, the great shaggy Newfoundlander, is left alone, dozing upon the mat. And the wee, gray sparrow returns with a wisp of horse-hair, and commences to build her nest.