THE ARGONAUTS

A white tent pitched by a glassy lake,Well under a shady tree,Or by rippling rills from the grand old hills,Is the summer home for me.I fear no blaze of the noontide rays,For the woodland glades are mine,The fragrant air, and that perfume rare,The odour of forest pine.A cooling plunge at the break of day,A paddle, a row, or sail,With always a fish for a mid-day dish,And plenty of Adam's ale.With rod or gun, or in hammock swung,We glide through the pleasant days;When darkness falls on our canvas walls,We kindle the camp fire's blaze.From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon,O'er forests dark and still,Now far, now near, ever sad and clear,Comes the plaint of the whip-poor-will;With song and laugh, and with kindly chaff,We startle the birds above,Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds,To dream of the ones we love.

A cooling plunge at the break of day,A paddle, a row, or sail,With always a fish for a mid-day dish,And plenty of Adam's ale.With rod or gun, or in hammock swung,We glide through the pleasant days;When darkness falls on our canvas walls,We kindle the camp fire's blaze.

From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon,O'er forests dark and still,Now far, now near, ever sad and clear,Comes the plaint of the whip-poor-will;With song and laugh, and with kindly chaff,We startle the birds above,Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds,To dream of the ones we love.

Sir J. D. Edgar: "This Canada of Ours."

Now, when the building of the ship Argo was finished, the fifty heroes came to look upon her, and joy filled their hearts. "Surely," said they, "this is the greatest ship that ever sailed the sea."

So eager were they to make trial of the long oars that some, leaping on the shoulders of their comrades and grasping the shrouds, clambered over the bulwarks upon the thwarts and drew the rest in after them. Orpheus, upon the mighty shoulders of Jason the leader of the expedition, seized hold of the arm of the azure-eyed goddess, the figure-head of the ship, and, as he climbed on board, her whisper reached his ear. "Orpheus, sing me something." This was the song:

"How sweet upon the surge to ride,And leap from wave to wave,While oars flash fast above the tideAnd lordly tempests rave.How sweet it is across the main,In wonder-land to roam,To win rich treasure, endless fame,And earn a welcome home."

Then the good ship Argo stirred in all her timbers and longing for the restless sea came upon her and she rushed headlong down the grooves till the lips of the goddess tasted the salt sea spray.

Many a day they sailed through laughing seas and ever they spoke together of the glory of the Golden Fleece which they hoped to bring home from far off Colchis.

When they were come to the land of Colchis, King Æetes summoned them to his palace. Beside him was seated his daughter, the beautiful witch maiden, Medea. She looked upon the Greeks and upon Jason, fairest and noblest of them all, and her spirit leaped forth to meet his. And knowing what lay before them, "surely," she thought, "it were an evil thing that men so bold and comely should perish."

When Jason demanded the Golden Fleece, the rage of the King rushed up like a whirlwind, but he curbed his speech and spake a fair word. "Choose ye now him who is boldest among you and let him perform the labours I shall set."

That night Medea stole from the palace to warn the hero of the toils and dangers that awaited him,—to tame a span of brazen-footed fire-breathing bulls, with them to plough four acres of unbroken land in the field of Ares, to sow the tilth with serpents' teeth, to slay its crop of warriors, to cross a river, and climb a lofty wall, to snatch the Fleece from a tree round which lay coiled the sleepless dragon. "How can these things be accomplished and that before the setting of another sun?" But Jason used flattering words, singing the song of Chiron:

"No river so deep but an arm may swim,No wall so steep but a foot may climb,No dragon so dread but a sword may slay,No fiend so fierce but your charms may stay."

Medea, seeing that he knew not fear, gave him a magic ointment which should give him the strength of seven men and protect him from fire and steel.

All the people assembled at sunrise in the field of Ares. When the fire-breathing bulls saw Jason standing in the middle of the field, fury shot from their eyes. Fierce was their onset and the multitude waited breathless to see what the end would be. As the bulls came on with lowered heads, and tails in air, Jason leaped nimbly to one side, and the monsters shot past him with bellowings that shook the earth. They turned and Jason poised for the leap. As they passed a second time, he grasped the nearest by the horn and lightly vaulted upon its back. The bull, unused to the burden, sank cowering to the ground. Jason patted its neck caressing it, and gladly it shared the yoke with its fellow.

When the ground was ploughed and sown with the teeth of the serpent, a thousand warriors sprang full-armed from the brown earth. Then King Æetes greatly rejoiced, but Medea, trembling at the sight, laid a spell upon them that they might not clearly distinguish friend from foe.

One among them came forth and Jason advanced to meet him, walking with a halt. His adversary laughed aloud, but Jason with a mighty bound sprang upon the shoulders of his enemy and bore him helmetless to the ground. The hero quickly replaced the fallen helmet with his own, giving a golden helmet for a brazen. The other rose and fled back among his fellows who, thinking it was Jason come among them, fell upon and slew him and strove with each other for the golden helmet until all were slain but one who, wounded unto death, rose up from the fray and shouting "Victory" sank upon knee and elbow never to rise again.

The rest of the task was quickly accomplished, for Medea by her spells cast a deep sleep upon the dragon. So the Golden Fleece was won and brought once more to Iolchos with a prize still more precious, for Jason bore home with him Medea, the beautiful witch maiden, who became his bride and ruled with him, let us hope, many happy years.

John Waugh

In the elder days of Art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the Gods see everywhere.Let us do our work as well,Both the unseen and the seen;Make the house, where Gods may dwell,Beautiful, entire and clean.

Longfellow

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,"Tho' all the world betrays thee,Onesword, at least, thy rights shall guard,Onefaithful 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."

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."

Moore

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside.

Lowell

Mary Elizabeth was a little girl with a long name. She was poor, she was sick, she was ragged, she was dirty, she was cold, she was hungry, she was frightened. She had no home, she had no mother, she had no father. She had no supper, she had had no dinner, she had had no breakfast. She had no place to go and nobody to care where she went.

In fact, Mary Elizabeth had not much of anything but a short pink calico dress, a little red cotton-and-wool shawl, and her long name. Besides this, she had a pair of old rubbers, too large for her.

She was walking up Washington Street. It was late in the afternoon of a bitter January day.

"God made so many people," thought Mary Elizabeth, "He must have made so many suppers. Seems as if there'd ought to be one for one extry little girl."

But she thought this in a gentle way. She was a very gentle little girl. All girls who hadn't anything were not like Mary Elizabeth.

So now she was shuffling up Washington Street, not knowing exactly what to do next,—peeping into people's faces, timidly looking away from them, heart-sick (for a very little girl can be very heart-sick), colder, she thought, every minute, and hungrier each hour than she was the hour before.

The child left Washington Street at last, where everybody had homes and suppers without one extra one to spare for a little girl, and turned into a short, bright, showy street, where stood a great hotel.

Whether the door-keeper was away, or busy, or sick, or careless, or whether the head-waiter at the dining-room was so tall that he couldn't see so short a beggar, or whether the clerk at the desk was so noisy that he couldn't hear so still a beggar, or however it was, Mary Elizabeth did get in; by the door-keeper, past the head-waiter, under the shadow of the clerk, over the smooth, slippery marble floor the child crept on.

She came to the office door and stood still. She looked around her with wide eyes. She had never seen a place like that. Lights flashed over it, many and bright. Gentlemen sat in it smoking and reading. They were all warm. Not one of them looked as if he had had no dinner and no breakfast and no supper.

"How many extry suppers," thought the little girl, "it must ha' taken to feed 'em all. I guess maybe there'll be one for me in here."

Mary Elizabeth stood in the middle of it, in her pink calico dress and red plaid shawl. The shawl was tied over her head and about her neck with a ragged tippet. Her bare feet showed in the old rubbers. She began to shuffle about the room, holding out one purple little hand.

One or two of the gentlemen laughed; some frowned; more did nothing at all; most did not notice, or did not seem to notice, the child. One said: "What's the matter here?"

Mary Elizabeth shuffled on. She went from one to the other, less timidly; a kind of desperation had taken possession of her. The odours from the dining-room came in, of strong, hot coffee, and strange roast meats. Mary Elizabeth thought of Jo.

It seemed to her she was so hungry that, if she could not get a supper, she should jump up and run and rush about and snatch something and steal like Jo. She held out her hand, but only said: "I'm hungry!"

A gentleman called her. He was the gentleman who had asked: "What's the matter here?" He called her in behind his daily paper which was big enough to hide three of Mary Elizabeth, and when he saw that nobody was looking he gave her a five-cent piece in a hurry, as if he had committed a sin, and said quickly: "There, there, child! go now, go!"

Then he began to read his newspaper quite hard and fast and to look severe, as one does who never gives anything to beggars, as a matter of principle.

But nobody else gave anything to Mary Elizabeth. She shuffled from one to another, hopelessly. Every gentleman shook his head. One called for a waiter to put her out. This frightened her and she stood still.

Over by a window, in a lonely corner of the great room, a young man was sitting apart from the others. He sat with his elbows on the table and his face buried in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, with brown, curling hair.

Mary Elizabeth wondered why he looked so miserable and why he sat alone. She thought, perhaps, that if he weren't so happy as the other gentlemen, he would be more sorry for cold and hungry girls. She hesitated, then walked along and directly up to him.

One or two gentlemen laid down their papers and watched this; they smiled and nodded to each other. The child did not see them to wonder why. She went up and put her hand upon the young man's arm.

He started. The brown, curly head lifted itself from the shelter of his arms; a young face looked sharply at the beggar girl,—a beautiful young face it might have been.

It was haggard now and dreadful to look at,—bloated and badly marked with the unmistakable marks of a wicked week's debauch. He roughly said:

"What do you want?"

"I'm hungry," said Mary Elizabeth.

"I can't help that. Go away."

"I haven't had anything to eat for a whole day—a whole day!" repeated the child.

Her lip quivered. But she spoke distinctly. Her voice sounded through the room. One gentleman after another laid down his paper or his pipe. Several were watching this little scene.

"Go away!" repeated the young man, irritably. "Don't bother me. I haven't had anything to eat for three days!"

His face went down into his arms again. Mary Elizabeth stood staring at the brown, curling hair. She stood perfectly still for some moments. She evidently was greatly puzzled. She walked away a little distance, then stopped and thought it over.

And now paper after paper and pipe after cigar went down. Every gentleman in the room began to look on. The young man with the beautiful brown curls, and dissipated, disgraced, and hidden face was not stiller than the rest.

The little figure in the pink calico and the red shawl and big rubbers stood for a moment silent among them all. The waiter came to take her out but the gentlemen motioned him away.

Mary Elizabeth turned her five-cent piece over and over in her purple hand. Her hand shook. The tears came. The smell of the dinner from the dining-room grew savoury and strong. The child put the piece of money to her lips as if she could have eaten it, then turned and, without further hesitation, went back.

She touched the young man—on the bright hair this time—with her trembling little hand.

The room was so still now that what she said rang out to the corridor, where the waiters stood, with the clerk behind looking over the desk to see.

"I'm sorry you are so hungry. If you haven't had anything for three days, you must be hungrier than me. I've got five cents. A gentleman gave it me. I wish you would take it. I've only gone one day. You can get some supper with it, and—maybe—I—can get some somewheres! I wish you'd please to take it!"

Mary Elizabeth stood quite still, holding out her five-cent piece. She did not understand the stir that went all over the bright room. She did not see that some of the gentlemen coughed and wiped their spectacles.

She did not know why the brown curls before her came up with such a start, nor why the young man's wasted face flushed red and hot with a noble shame.

She did not in the least understand why he flung the five-cent piece upon the table, and, snatching her in his arms, held her fast and hid his face on her plaid shawl and sobbed. Nor did she seem to know what could be the reason that nobody seemed amused to see this gentleman cry.

The gentleman who had given her the money came up, and some more came up, and they gathered around, and she in the midst of them, and they all spoke kindly, and the young man with the bad face that might have been so beautiful stood up, still clinging to her, and said aloud:

"She's shamed me before you all, and she's shamed me to myself! I'll learn a lesson from this beggar, so help me God!"

So then he took the child upon his knee, and the gentlemen came up to listen, and the young man asked her what her name was.

"Mary Elizabeth, sir."

"Names used to mean things—in the Bible—when I was as little as you. I read the Bible then. Does Mary Elizabeth mean angel of rebuke?"

"Sir?"

"Where do you live, Mary Elizabeth?"

"Nowhere, sir."

"Where do you sleep?"

"In Mrs. O'Flynn's shed, sir. It's too cold for the cows. She's so kind, she lets us stay."

"Whom do you stay with?"

"Nobody, only Jo."

"Is Jo your brother?"

"No, sir. Jo is a girl. I haven't got only Jo."

"What does Jo do for a living?"

"She—gets it, sir."

"And what do you do?"

"I beg. It's better than to—get it, sir, I think."

"Where's your mother?"

"Dead."

"What did she die of?"

"Drink, sir," said Mary Elizabeth, in her distinct and gentle tone.

"Ah—well. And your father?"

"He is dead. He died in prison."

"What sent him to prison?"

"Drink, sir."

"Oh!"

"I had a brother once," continued Mary Elizabeth, who grew quite eloquent with so large an audience, "but he died, too."

"I do want my supper," she added, after a pause, speaking in a whisper, as if to Jo or to herself, "and Jo'll be wondering for me."

"Wait, then," said the young man. "I'll see if I can't beg enough to get you your supper."

"I thought there must be an extry one among so many folks!" cried Mary Elizabeth; for now, she thought, she should get back her five cents.

And, truly, the young man put the five cents into his hat, to begin with. Then he took out his purse, and put in something that made less noise than the five-cent piece and something more and more and more.

Then he passed around the great room, walking still unsteadily, and the gentleman who gave the five cents and all the gentlemen put something into the young man's hat.

So, when he came back to the table, he emptied the hat and counted the money, and, truly, it was forty dollars.

"Forty dollars!"

Mary Elizabeth looked frightened.

"It's yours," said the young man. "Now come to supper. But see! this gentleman who gave you the five-cent piece shall take care of the money for you. You can trust him. He's got a wife, too. But we'll come to supper now."

So the young man took her by the hand, and the gentleman whose wife knew all about what to do with orphans took her by the other hand, and one or two more gentlemen followed, and they all went into the dining-room, and put Mary Elizabeth in a chair at a clean white table, and asked her what she wanted for her supper.

Mary Elizabeth said that a little dry toast and a cup of milk would do nicely. So all the gentlemen laughed. And she wondered why.

And the young man with the brown curls laughed, too, and began to look quite happy. But he ordered chicken and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and celery and rolls and butter and tomatoes and an ice cream and a cup of tea and nuts and raisins and cake and custard and apples and grapes.

And Mary Elizabeth sat in her pink dress and red shawl and ate the whole; and why it didn't kill her nobody knows; but it didn't.

The young man with the face that might have been beautiful—that might be yet, one would have thought who had seen him then—stood watching the little girl.

"She's preached me the best sermon," he said below his breath, "I ever heard. May God bless her! I wish there were a thousand like her in this selfish world!"

And when I heard about it I wished so, too.

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

Oh, there is nothing on earth half so holyAs the innocent heart of a child.

Dickens

The Frost looked forth, one still clear night,And whispered: "Now I shall be out of sight;So through the valley and over the height,In silence I'll take my way:I will not go on like that blustering train,The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,But I'll be as busy as they."Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressedIn diamond beads—and over the breastOf the quivering lake he spreadA coat of mail, that it need not fearThe downward point of many a spearThat he hung on its margin, far and near,Where a rock could rear its head.He went to the windows of those who slept,And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,By the light of the moon were seenMost beautiful things:—there were flowers and trees;There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees:There were cities with temples and towers; and theseAll pictured in silver sheen.But he did one thing that was hardly fair;He peeped in the cupboard, and finding thereThat all had forgotten for him to prepare—"Now just to set them a-thinking,I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,And the glass of water they've left for meShall 'Tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressedIn diamond beads—and over the breastOf the quivering lake he spreadA coat of mail, that it need not fearThe downward point of many a spearThat he hung on its margin, far and near,Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,By the light of the moon were seenMost beautiful things:—there were flowers and trees;There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees:There were cities with temples and towers; and theseAll pictured in silver sheen.

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;He peeped in the cupboard, and finding thereThat all had forgotten for him to prepare—"Now just to set them a-thinking,I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,And the glass of water they've left for meShall 'Tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

H. F. Gould

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze,From pastures dry and brown,Goes floating, like an idle thought,The fair, white thistle-down,—Oh, then what joy to walk at willUpon the golden harvest-hill!What joy in dreaming ease to lieAmid a field new shorn;And see all round, on sunlit slopes,The piled-up shocks of corn;And send the fancy wandering o'erAll pleasant harvest-fields of yore!I feel the day; I see the field;The quivering of the leaves;And good old Jacob, and his house,—Binding the yellow sheaves!And at this very hour I seemTo be with Joseph in his dream!I see the fields of Bethlehem,And reapers many a oneBending unto their sickles' stroke,And Boaz looking on;And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,Among the gleaners stooping there!Again, I see a little child,His mother's sole delight,—God's living gift of love untoThe kind, good Shunammite;To mortal pangs I see him yield,And the lad bear him from the field.The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,The fields of Galilee,That eighteen hundred years agoWere full of corn, I see;And the dear Saviour take his way'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.Oh, golden fields of bending corn,How beautiful they seem!The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,To me are like a dream;The sunshine, and the very airSeem of old time, and take me there!

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze,From pastures dry and brown,Goes floating, like an idle thought,The fair, white thistle-down,—Oh, then what joy to walk at willUpon the golden harvest-hill!

What joy in dreaming ease to lieAmid a field new shorn;And see all round, on sunlit slopes,The piled-up shocks of corn;And send the fancy wandering o'erAll pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

I feel the day; I see the field;The quivering of the leaves;And good old Jacob, and his house,—Binding the yellow sheaves!And at this very hour I seemTo be with Joseph in his dream!

I see the fields of Bethlehem,And reapers many a oneBending unto their sickles' stroke,And Boaz looking on;And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,Among the gleaners stooping there!

Again, I see a little child,His mother's sole delight,—God's living gift of love untoThe kind, good Shunammite;To mortal pangs I see him yield,And the lad bear him from the field.

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,The fields of Galilee,That eighteen hundred years agoWere full of corn, I see;And the dear Saviour take his way'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.

Oh, golden fields of bending corn,How beautiful they seem!The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,To me are like a dream;The sunshine, and the very airSeem of old time, and take me there!

Mary Howitt

Treasure Valley belonged to three brothers—Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. The two elder brothers were rich, cruel, quarrelsome men who never gave anything in charity. The youngest brother, Gluck, was twelve years old, and kind to everyone. He had to act as cook and servant to his brothers.

One cold, wet day the brothers went out, telling Gluck to roast a leg of mutton on the spit, let nobody into the house, and let nothing out. After a time some one knocked at the door. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-coloured; very round and very red cheeks; merry eyes, long hair, and moustaches that curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth. He was four feet six inches high, and wore a pointed cap as long as himself. It was decorated with a black feather about three feet long. Around his body was folded an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak much too long for him. As he knocked again he caught sight of Gluck.

"Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door; I'm wet, let me in."

To do the little gentleman justice, hewaswet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the ends of his moustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir,—I can't, indeed; my brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly, "I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm myself."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savoury smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. "He does lookverywet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, through the house came a gust of wind that made the old chimneys totter.

"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me."

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?"

"Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown."

Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof. "You'll soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman didnotdry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and began to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the water spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?"

"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.

"Your cap, sir?"

"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

"But—sir—I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly; "but—really, sir—you're putting the fire out."

"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor, dryly.

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behaviour of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string meditatively for another five minutes.

"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman, at length. "Can't you give me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat yesterday, nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but not a bit more."

"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.

Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at exactitude, and ran to open the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.

"Ay! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, "he was soverywet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but at the instant the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor, old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour."

"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house."

"It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs." They hung down to his shoulders.

"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"

"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?"

"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?"

"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with you!"

"A little bit," said the old gentleman.

"Be off!" said Schwartz.

"Pray, gentlemen—"

"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him; clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an additional twist to his corkscrew moustaches, and replied with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good-morning. At twelve o'clock to-night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you."

"If I ever catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming, half-frightened, out of the corner—but before he could finish his sentence, the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a great bang; and past the window, at the same instant, drove a wreath of ragged cloud, that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of shapes; turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in a gush of rain.

"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again—bless me, why the mutton's been cut!"

"You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck.

"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call you."

Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get very drunk after dinner.

Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain, without intermission.

The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters, and double-bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence that shook the house from top to bottom.

"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.

"Only I," said the little gentleman.

The two brothers sat up on their bolster, and stared into the darkness. The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way through a hole in the shutter, they could see, in the midst of it, an enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off.

"Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, ironically. "I'm afraid your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother's room; I've left the ceiling on there."

They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet through, and in an agony of terror.

"You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called after them. "Remember, thelastvisit."

"Pray Heaven it may be!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe disappeared.

Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers crept, shivering and horror-struck, into the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor: corn, money, almost every movable thing had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were engraved the words:—

SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE.

Ruskin: "The King of the Golden River."(Adapted)

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.

Shakespeare

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweetAs that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.Yet itwasnot that Nature had shed o'er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;'Twasnother soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no,—it was something more exquisite still.'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,When we see them reflected from looks that we love.Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I restIn thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

Yet itwasnot that Nature had shed o'er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;'Twasnother soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no,—it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I restIn thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

Moore

Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that love them. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye? for sinners also do even the same. And if ye lend to them of whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again.

St. Luke, VI. 27-38

"When the willows gleam along the brooks,And the grass grows green in sunny nooks,In the sunshine and the rainI hear the robin in the laneSinging, 'Cheerily,Cheer up, cheer up;Cheerily, cheerily,Cheer up.'"But the snow is stillAlong the walls and on the hill.The days are cold, the nights forlorn,For one is here and one is gone.'Tut, tut. Cheerily,Cheer up, cheer up;Cheerily, cheerily,Cheer up.'"When spring hopes seem to wane,I hear the joyful strain—A song at night, a song at morn,A lesson deep to me is borne,Hearing, 'Cheerily,Cheer up, cheer up;Cheerily, cheerily,Cheer up.'"

"But the snow is stillAlong the walls and on the hill.The days are cold, the nights forlorn,For one is here and one is gone.'Tut, tut. Cheerily,Cheer up, cheer up;Cheerily, cheerily,Cheer up.'

"When spring hopes seem to wane,I hear the joyful strain—A song at night, a song at morn,A lesson deep to me is borne,Hearing, 'Cheerily,Cheer up, cheer up;Cheerily, cheerily,Cheer up.'"

Unknown

Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face, and a spring in every step. The locust trees were in bloom, and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and the gladness went out of nature, and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high! It seemed to him that life was hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work—the very thought of it burnt him like fire.

He got out his worldly wealth and examined it—bits of toys, marbles and trash; enough to buy an exchange of work maybe, but not enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys.

At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him. Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration. He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently; the very boy of all boys whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hop, skip, and jump—proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long melodious whoop at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding dong dong, ding dong dong, for he was personating a steamboat.

Tom went on whitewashing—paid no attention to the steamer. Ben stared a moment, and then said—

"Hi-yi! You're a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist; then he gave his brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said—

"Hello, old chap; you got to work, hey?"

"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther work, wouldn't you? 'Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said—

"What do you call work?"

"Why ain't that work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly—

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

"Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the effect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect again, Ben watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said—

"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."

Tom considered; was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "No, no; I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence—right here on the street, you know—but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No—is that so? Oh, come now; lemme just try, only just a little. I'd let you, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed? If you was to tackle this fence, and anything was to happen to it—"

"Oh, shucks; I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say—I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here. No, Ben; now don't; I'm afeard—"

"I'll give you all of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash.

By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor, poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth.

He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew's harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar—but no dog—the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash. He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while—plenty of company—and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it, namely, that, in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, he would have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body isobligedto do, and that Play consists of whatever a body isnotobliged to do.

Mark Twain: "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."

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