GRASS AND ROSES

He who has a thousand friends,Has not a friend to spare;But he who has one enemy,Will meet him everywhere.

He who has a thousand friends,

Has not a friend to spare;

But he who has one enemy,

Will meet him everywhere.

I looked where the roses were blooming,They stood among grasses and weeds:I said, “Where such beauties are growing,Why suffer these paltry weeds?”Weeping, the poor things faltered:“We have neither beauty nor bloom,We are grass in the roses’ garden,But the Master gives us room.“Slaves of a generous master,Born from a world above,We came to this place in His wisdom,We stay to this hour from His love.“We have fed His humblest creatures,We have served Him truly and long;He gave no grace to our features,We have neither color nor song.“Yet He who has made the flowersPlaceduson the selfsame sod;Heknows our reason for being,—We are grass in the garden of God.”—James Freeman Clarke.

I looked where the roses were blooming,They stood among grasses and weeds:I said, “Where such beauties are growing,Why suffer these paltry weeds?”

I looked where the roses were blooming,

They stood among grasses and weeds:

I said, “Where such beauties are growing,

Why suffer these paltry weeds?”

Weeping, the poor things faltered:“We have neither beauty nor bloom,We are grass in the roses’ garden,But the Master gives us room.

Weeping, the poor things faltered:

“We have neither beauty nor bloom,

We are grass in the roses’ garden,

But the Master gives us room.

“Slaves of a generous master,Born from a world above,We came to this place in His wisdom,We stay to this hour from His love.

“Slaves of a generous master,

Born from a world above,

We came to this place in His wisdom,

We stay to this hour from His love.

“We have fed His humblest creatures,We have served Him truly and long;He gave no grace to our features,We have neither color nor song.

“We have fed His humblest creatures,

We have served Him truly and long;

He gave no grace to our features,

We have neither color nor song.

“Yet He who has made the flowersPlaceduson the selfsame sod;Heknows our reason for being,—We are grass in the garden of God.”—James Freeman Clarke.

“Yet He who has made the flowers

Placeduson the selfsame sod;

Heknows our reason for being,—

We are grass in the garden of God.”

—James Freeman Clarke.

By yonder sandy cove where, every day,The tide flows in and out,A lonely bird in sober brown and grayLimps patiently about;And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,And many a fringing weed,He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,Crying, with none to heed.But sometimes from the distance he can hearHis comrades’ swift reply;Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,Sounding from sea and sky.And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet,Is shaken with his pain,For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,Never to soar again.Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,Once glad and blithe and free,And in prison limits frets and strivesHis ancient self to be.The little sandpipers about him play,The shining waves they skim,Or round his feet they seek their food and stayAs if to comfort him.My pity cannot help him, though his plaintBrings tears of wistfulness;Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,None may his wrong redress.Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better wayA moment’s joy to gainThan to make sorrow that must mar the dayWith such despairing pain?Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone!Oh, listen to my words,And hear with me the wounded curlew moan—Have mercy on the birds!—Celia Thaxter.

By yonder sandy cove where, every day,The tide flows in and out,A lonely bird in sober brown and grayLimps patiently about;

By yonder sandy cove where, every day,

The tide flows in and out,

A lonely bird in sober brown and gray

Limps patiently about;

And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,And many a fringing weed,He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,Crying, with none to heed.

And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,

And many a fringing weed,

He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,

Crying, with none to heed.

But sometimes from the distance he can hearHis comrades’ swift reply;Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,Sounding from sea and sky.

But sometimes from the distance he can hear

His comrades’ swift reply;

Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,

Sounding from sea and sky.

And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet,Is shaken with his pain,For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,Never to soar again.

And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet,

Is shaken with his pain,

For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,

Never to soar again.

Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,Once glad and blithe and free,And in prison limits frets and strivesHis ancient self to be.

Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,

Once glad and blithe and free,

And in prison limits frets and strives

His ancient self to be.

The little sandpipers about him play,The shining waves they skim,Or round his feet they seek their food and stayAs if to comfort him.

The little sandpipers about him play,

The shining waves they skim,

Or round his feet they seek their food and stay

As if to comfort him.

My pity cannot help him, though his plaintBrings tears of wistfulness;Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,None may his wrong redress.

My pity cannot help him, though his plaint

Brings tears of wistfulness;

Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,

None may his wrong redress.

Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better wayA moment’s joy to gainThan to make sorrow that must mar the dayWith such despairing pain?

Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better way

A moment’s joy to gain

Than to make sorrow that must mar the day

With such despairing pain?

Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone!Oh, listen to my words,And hear with me the wounded curlew moan—Have mercy on the birds!—Celia Thaxter.

Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone!

Oh, listen to my words,

And hear with me the wounded curlew moan—

Have mercy on the birds!

—Celia Thaxter.

In the olden times a British prince set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, at a point where four roads met. In her right hand she held a spear, and her left rested upon a shield. The outside of this shield was of gold, and the inside of silver, and on each side was an inscription.

The Gold and Silver Shield

It happened one day that two knights—one in black armor, the other in white—arrived at the same time, butfrom opposite directions, at the statue. As neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to examine the beautiful workmanship and read the inscription.

“This golden shield,” said the Black Knight, after examining it for some time,—”this golden shield—”

“Golden shield!” cried the White Knight, who was as closely observing the other side; “why, if I have my eyes, it is silver.”

“Eyes you have, but they see not,” replied the Black Knight; “for if ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one.”

“Oh, yes, it is so likely that any one would expose a golden shield on the public road!” said the White Knight, with a sarcastic smile. “For my part I wonder that even a silver one is not too strong a temptation for some people who pass this way.”

The Black Knight could not bear the sarcastic smile with which this was spoken, and the dispute grew so warm that it ended in a challenge.

The knights turned their horses, and rode back to have sufficient space; then fixing their lances in their rests, they charged at each other with the greatest fury. The shock was so violent, and the blows on each side were so heavy, that they both fell to the ground, bleeding and stunned.

In this condition a good Druid who was travelling that way found them. He was a skilful physician, and had withhim a balsam of wonderful healing power. This he applied to their wounds, and when the knights had recovered their senses, he began to inquire into the cause of their quarrel.

“Why, this man,” cried the Black Knight, “will have it that yonder shield is silver!”

“And he will have it that it is gold!” cried the White Knight.

“Ah,” said the Druid, with a sigh, “you are both in the right, and both in the wrong. If either of you had taken time to look at both sides of the shield, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoided.

“However, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils that have befallen you. In the future, never enter into any dispute till you have fairly considered both sides of the question.”—Selected.

From the leafy maple ridges,From the thickets of the cedar,From the alders by the river,From the bending willow branches,From the hollows and the hillsides,Through the lone Canadian forest,Comes the melancholy music,Oft repeated,—never changing,—“All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,Sowing seed with hope of harvest,In the orchard white with blossom,In the early field of clover,Comes the little brown-clad singerFlitting in and out of bushes,Hiding well behind the fences,Piping forth his song of sadness,—“Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”—Sir James D. Edgar.

From the leafy maple ridges,

From the thickets of the cedar,

From the alders by the river,

From the bending willow branches,

From the hollows and the hillsides,

Through the lone Canadian forest,

Comes the melancholy music,

Oft repeated,—never changing,—

“All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”

Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,Sowing seed with hope of harvest,In the orchard white with blossom,In the early field of clover,Comes the little brown-clad singerFlitting in and out of bushes,Hiding well behind the fences,Piping forth his song of sadness,—“Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”—Sir James D. Edgar.

Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,

Sowing seed with hope of harvest,

In the orchard white with blossom,

In the early field of clover,

Comes the little brown-clad singer

Flitting in and out of bushes,

Hiding well behind the fences,

Piping forth his song of sadness,—

“Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”

—Sir James D. Edgar.

Across the narrow beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I,And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky;Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong;He scans me with a fearless eye.Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God’s children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?—Celia Thaxter.

Across the narrow beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,

And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it,

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As up and down the beach we flit,—

One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky;Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud black and swift across the sky;

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach

I see the close-reefed vessels fly,

As fast we flit along the beach,—

One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong;He scans me with a fearless eye.Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.

He starts not at my fitful song,

Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye.

Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God’s children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?—Celia Thaxter.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night

When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky:

For are we not God’s children both,

Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

—Celia Thaxter.

A kind face is a beautiful face.

Some thousands of years ago there lived in Asia a king whose name was Crœsus. The country over which he ruled was not very large, but its people were prosperous and famed for their wealth. Crœsus himself was said to be the richest man in the world; and so well known is his name that, to this day, it is not uncommon to say of a very wealthy person that he is “as rich as Crœsus.”

King Crœsus had everything that could make him happy—lands and houses and slaves, fine clothing to wear, and beautiful things to look at. He could not think of anything that he needed to make him more comfortable or contented. “I am the happiest man in the world,” he said.

It happened one summer that a great man from across the sea was travelling in Asia. The name of this man was Solon, and he was the lawmaker of Athens in Greece. He was noted for his wisdom; and, centuries after his death, the highest praise that could be given to a learned man was to say, “He is as wise as Solon.”

Solon had heard of Crœsus, and so one day he visited him in his beautiful palace. Crœsus was now happier and prouder than ever before, for the wisest man in the world was his guest. He led Solon through his palace and showed him the grand rooms, the fine carpets, the soft couches, the rich furniture, the pictures, the books. Then he invited him out to see his gardens and his orchards and his stables; and he showed him thousands of rare and beautiful things that he had collected from all parts of the world.

In the evening as the wisest of men and the richest of men were dining together, the king said to his guest, “Tell me now, O Solon, who do you think is the happiest of all men?” He expected that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

The wise man was silent for a minute, and then he said, “I have in mind a poor man who once lived in Athens and whose name was Tellus. He, I doubt not, is the happiest of all men.”

This was not the answer that Crœsus wished; but he hid his disappointment and asked, “Why do you think so?”

“Because,” answered his guest, “Tellus was an honest man who labored hard for many years to bring up his children and to give them a good education; and when they were grown and able to do for themselves, he joined the Athenian army and gave his life bravely in the defence of his country. Can you think of any one who is more deserving of happiness?”

“Perhaps not,” answered Crœsus, half choking with disappointment. “But who do you think ranks next to Tellus in happiness?” He was quite sure now that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

“I have in mind,” said Solon, “two young men whom I knew in Greece. Their father died when they were merechildren, and they were very poor. But they worked manfully to keep the house together and to support their mother, who was in feeble health. Year after year they toiled, nor thought of anything but their mother’s comfort. When at length she died, they gave all their love to Athens, their native city, and nobly served her as long as they lived.”

Then Crœsus was angry. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you make me of no account and think that my wealth and power are nothing? Why is it that you place these poor working people above the richest king in the world?”

“O king,” said Solon, “no man can say whether you are happy or not until you die. For no man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.”

Many years after this there arose in Asia a powerful king whose name was Cyrus. At the head of a great army he marched from one country to another, overthrowing many a kingdom and attaching it to his great empire of Babylon. King Crœsus with all his wealth was not able to stand against this mighty warrior. He resisted as long as he could. Then his city was taken, his beautiful palace was burned, his orchards and gardens were destroyed, his treasures were carried away, and he himself was made prisoner.

“The stubbornness of this man Crœsus,” said King Cyrus, “has caused us much trouble and the loss of many goodsoldiers. Take him and make an example of him for other petty kings who may dare to stand in our way.”

Thereupon the soldiers seized Crœsus and dragged him to the market-place, handling him roughly all the time. Then they built up a great pile of dry sticks and timber taken from the ruins of his once beautiful palace. When this was finished, they tied the unhappy king in the midst of it, and one ran for a torch to set it on fire.

“Now we shall have a merry blaze,” said the savage fellows. “What good can all his wealth do him now?”

As poor Crœsus, bruised and bleeding, lay upon the pyre without a friend to soothe his misery, he thought of the words which Solon had spoken to him years before: “No man can say whether you are happy or not until you die,” and he moaned, “O Solon! O Solon! Solon!”

It so happened that Cyrus was riding by at that very moment and heard his moans. “What does he say?” he asked of the soldiers.

“He says, ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’” answered one.

Then the king rode nearer and asked Crœsus, “Why do you call on the name of Solon?”

Crœsus was silent at first; but after Cyrus had repeated his question kindly, he told all about Solon’s visit at his palace and what he had said.

The story affected Cyrus deeply. He thought of the words, “No man knows what misfortunes may overtakeyou, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.” And he wondered if some time he, too, would lose all his power and be helpless in the hands of his enemies.

“After all,” said he, “ought not men to be merciful and kind to those who are in distress? I shall do to Crœsus as I would have others do to me.” And he caused Crœsus to be given his freedom; and ever afterwards treated him as one of his most honored friends.

—James Baldwin.

From “Thirty More Famous Stories,” by permission of the American Book Company.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—You may trace his footsteps nowOn the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s withered brow.He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth,And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador—From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear wanders o’er,Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms belowIn the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the rushing Northern blast,And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glowOn the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—and the quiet lake shall feelThe torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel;And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us meet him as we may,And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—You may trace his footsteps now

On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s withered brow.

He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth,

And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador—From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear wanders o’er,Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms belowIn the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador—

From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear wanders o’er,

Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below

In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the rushing Northern blast,And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glowOn the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the rushing Northern blast,

And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.

With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow

On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—and the quiet lake shall feelThe torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel;And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—and the quiet lake shall feel

The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel;

And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,

Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us meet him as we may,And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us meet him as we may,

And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;

And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,

And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snowWhen moonbeams sparkle round;When hoofs keep time to music’s chime,As merrily on we bound.On a winter’s night, when hearts are light,And health is on the wind,We loose the rein and sweep the plain,And leave our cares behind.With a laugh and song we glide alongAcross the fleeting snow!With friends beside, how swift we rideOn the beautiful track below!Oh, the raging sea has joys for me,When gale and tempests roar;But give me the speed of a foaming steed,And I’ll ask for the waves no more.—James T. Fields.

Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snowWhen moonbeams sparkle round;When hoofs keep time to music’s chime,As merrily on we bound.

Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snow

When moonbeams sparkle round;

When hoofs keep time to music’s chime,

As merrily on we bound.

On a winter’s night, when hearts are light,And health is on the wind,We loose the rein and sweep the plain,And leave our cares behind.

On a winter’s night, when hearts are light,

And health is on the wind,

We loose the rein and sweep the plain,

And leave our cares behind.

With a laugh and song we glide alongAcross the fleeting snow!With friends beside, how swift we rideOn the beautiful track below!

With a laugh and song we glide along

Across the fleeting snow!

With friends beside, how swift we ride

On the beautiful track below!

Oh, the raging sea has joys for me,When gale and tempests roar;But give me the speed of a foaming steed,And I’ll ask for the waves no more.—James T. Fields.

Oh, the raging sea has joys for me,

When gale and tempests roar;

But give me the speed of a foaming steed,

And I’ll ask for the waves no more.

—James T. Fields.

Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.

“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half an hour.”

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’ssucha goose, Martha!”

Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim

“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her.

“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”

“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”

“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.

“Hide, Martha, hide!”

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs supported by an iron frame!

“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.

“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”

Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him off into thewash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the kettle.

“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.

“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire. Then Master Peter and the two young Cratchits went to bring the goose, with which they soon returned in high glee.

Such excitement followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy, ready beforehand in a little saucepan, hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table.

The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves. Then climbing into their chairs, they held their fingers over their lips, lest they should call for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. When she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, and size were wonderful to think of. With apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was enough dinner for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight, looking at one small bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten all of it yet. But every one had had enough, even the youngest Cratchits. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have climbed over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose! The two youngCratchits almost went black in the face when they thought of what might have happened.

Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the kettle. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a baker’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered—flushed, but smiling proudly—with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, and decked with Christmas holly. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said it was the best pudding he had ever seen. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.

At last the dinner was all done, the hearth swept, and the fire made. All the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, and watched the chestnuts on the fire as they sputtered and cracked. Then Bob said, “Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

Which all the family re-echoed.

“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

—Charles Dickens.

Darkness before, all joy behind!Yet keep thy courage, do not mind:He soonest reads the lesson rightWho reads with back against the light.

Darkness before, all joy behind!

Yet keep thy courage, do not mind:

He soonest reads the lesson right

Who reads with back against the light.

The earth has grown old with its burden of care,But at Christmas it always is young;The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air,When the song of the angels is sung.It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night:On the snowflakes which cover thy sodThe feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delightThat mankind are the children of God.On the sad and the lonely, the wretched, and poor,That voice of the Christ Child shall fall,And to every blind wanderer opens the doorOf a hope that he dared not to dream of before,With a sunshine of welcome for all.The feet of the humblest may walk in the fieldWhere the feet of the Holiest have trod.This, this is the marvel to mortals revealedWhen the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed,That mankind are the children of God.—Phillips Brooks.

The earth has grown old with its burden of care,

But at Christmas it always is young;

The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,

And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air,

When the song of the angels is sung.

It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night:On the snowflakes which cover thy sodThe feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delightThat mankind are the children of God.

It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night:

On the snowflakes which cover thy sod

The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,

And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight

That mankind are the children of God.

On the sad and the lonely, the wretched, and poor,That voice of the Christ Child shall fall,And to every blind wanderer opens the doorOf a hope that he dared not to dream of before,With a sunshine of welcome for all.

On the sad and the lonely, the wretched, and poor,

That voice of the Christ Child shall fall,

And to every blind wanderer opens the door

Of a hope that he dared not to dream of before,

With a sunshine of welcome for all.

The feet of the humblest may walk in the fieldWhere the feet of the Holiest have trod.This, this is the marvel to mortals revealedWhen the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed,That mankind are the children of God.—Phillips Brooks.

The feet of the humblest may walk in the field

Where the feet of the Holiest have trod.

This, this is the marvel to mortals revealed

When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed,

That mankind are the children of God.

—Phillips Brooks.

BlashfieldChristmas Chimes

Blashfield

Christmas Chimes

Old Bergetta lay asleep on the doorstep in the sun. Her two little white fore paws were gathered in under her chin, and she had encircled herself with her tail in the most compact and comfortable way. Her three companion cats were all out of her way at that moment. She forgot their existence. She was only conscious of the kindly rays that sank into her soft fur and made her so very sleepy and comfortable.

Presently a sound broke the stillness, very slight and far off, but she heard it, and pricked up her pretty pink-lined ears and listened intently. Two men, bearing a large basket between them, came in sight, approaching the house from the beach. The basket seemed heavy; the men each held a handle of it, and very silently went with it round to the back entrance of the house.

Bergetta settled her head once more upon her folded paws, and tried to go to sleep again. But the thought of the basket prevented. She got up, stretched herself, and lightly and noiselessly made her way round the house to the back door and went in. The basket stood in the middle of the floor, and the three other cats sat at a respectful distance from it near each other, surveying it doubtfully.

Bergetta wasn’t afraid; she went slowly towards it to find out what it contained, but when quite close to it shebecame aware of a curious noise—a rustling, crunching, dull, clashing sound which was as peculiar as alarming. She stopped and listened; all the other cats listened. Suddenly a queer object thrust itself up over the edge, and a most extraordinary shape began to rise gradually into sight. Two long, dark, slender feelers waved about aimlessly in the air for a moment; two clumsy claws grasped the rim of the basket, and by their help a hideous dark bottle-green-colored body patched with vermilion, bristling with points and knobs, and cased in hard, strong, jointed armor, with eight legs flying in all directions, each fringed at the foot with short yellowish hair, and with the inner edges of the huge misshapen claws lined with a row of sharp, uneven teeth, opening and shutting with the grasp of a vise,—this ugly body rose into view before the eyes of the astonished cats. It was a living lobster.

As the hard and horny monster raised itself out of the basket, it fell with a loud noise all in a heap on the floor before Bergetta. She drew back in alarm, and then sat down at a safe distance to observe this strange creature. The other cats also sat down to watch, farther off than Bergetta, but quite as much interested.

For a long time all was still. The lobster, probably rather shocked by its fall, lay just where it had dropped. Inside the basket a faint stirring and wrestling and clashing was heard from the other lobsters,—that was all.Very soon Bergetta felt herself becoming extremely bored with this state of things. She crept a little nearer the basket.

“I needn’t be afraid of that thing,” thought she; “it doesn’t move any more.”

Cat with lobster

Nearer and nearer she crept, the other cats watching her, but not stirring. At last she reached the lobster, that in its wrath and discomfort sat blowing a cloud of rainbow bubbles from its mouth, but making no other movement. Bergetta ventured to put out her paw and touch its hard shell. It took no notice of this, though it saw Bergetta with its queer eyes on stilts, which it wheeled about on all sides to see what she was doing.

She tried another little pat, whereat the lobster waved its long feelers, that streamed away over its back in the air, far beyond its tail. That was charming! Bergetta wasdelighted. The monster was really playful! She gave him another little pat with her soft paw, and then coquettishly boxed his ears, or the place where his ears ought to be. There was a movement of the curious shelly machinery about his mouth, but he was yet too indifferent to mind anything much.

Bergetta continued to tease him. This was fun! First with the right and then with the left paw she gave him little cuffs and pushes and pats which moved him no more than a rock. At last he seemed to become aware that he was being treated with somewhat more familiarity than was agreeable from an entire stranger, and began to move his ponderous front claws uneasily.

Still Bergetta continued to frisk about him, till he thrust out his eight smaller claws with a gesture of displeasure, and opened and shut the clumsy teeth of the larger ones in a way that was quite dreadful to behold. “This is very funny,” thought Bergetta. “I wonder what it means!” and she pushed her little white paw directly between the teeth of the larger claw which was opening and shutting slowly. Instantly the two sides snapped together with a tremendous grip, and Bergetta uttered a scream of pain,—her paw was caught as in a vise and cut nearly through with the uneven toothed edge.

Alas, alas! Here was a situation. In vain she tried to get away; the lobster’s claw clasped her delicate paw in agrasp altogether too close for comfort. Crying with fear and distress, Bergetta danced about all over the room; and everywhere Bergetta danced, the lobster was sure to go, too, clinging for dear life; up and down, over and across, they went in the wildest kind of a jig, while all the other cats made themselves as small as they could in the remotest corners, and watched the performance with mingled awe and consternation. Such a noise! Bergetta crying and the lobster clattering, and the two cutting such capers together! At last some one heard the noise, and coming to the rescue thrust a stick between the clumsy teeth and loosened the grip of the merciless claw; and poor Bergetta, set at liberty, limped off to console herself as best she might.

—Celia Thaxter.

The clouds are scudding across the moon;A misty light is on the sea;The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune,And the foam is flying free.Brothers, a night of terror and gloomSpeaks in the cloud and gathering roar:Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room,A thousand miles from shore.Down with the hatches on those who sleep!The wild and whistling deck have we;Good watch, my brothers, to-night we’ll keep,While the tempest is on the sea!Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip,And the naked spars be snapped away,Lashed to the helm, we’ll drive our shipIn the teeth of the whelming spray!Hark! how the surges o’erleap the deck!Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves!Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck,Drifting over the desert waves.Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave,With God above us, our guiding chart:So, whether to harbor or ocean grave,Be it still with a cheery heart.—Bayard Taylor.

The clouds are scudding across the moon;A misty light is on the sea;The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune,And the foam is flying free.

The clouds are scudding across the moon;

A misty light is on the sea;

The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune,

And the foam is flying free.

Brothers, a night of terror and gloomSpeaks in the cloud and gathering roar:Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room,A thousand miles from shore.

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom

Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar:

Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room,

A thousand miles from shore.

Down with the hatches on those who sleep!The wild and whistling deck have we;Good watch, my brothers, to-night we’ll keep,While the tempest is on the sea!

Down with the hatches on those who sleep!

The wild and whistling deck have we;

Good watch, my brothers, to-night we’ll keep,

While the tempest is on the sea!

Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip,And the naked spars be snapped away,Lashed to the helm, we’ll drive our shipIn the teeth of the whelming spray!

Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip,

And the naked spars be snapped away,

Lashed to the helm, we’ll drive our ship

In the teeth of the whelming spray!

Hark! how the surges o’erleap the deck!Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves!Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck,Drifting over the desert waves.

Hark! how the surges o’erleap the deck!

Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves!

Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck,

Drifting over the desert waves.

Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave,With God above us, our guiding chart:So, whether to harbor or ocean grave,Be it still with a cheery heart.—Bayard Taylor.

Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave,

With God above us, our guiding chart:

So, whether to harbor or ocean grave,

Be it still with a cheery heart.

—Bayard Taylor.

I am glad a task to me is given,To labor at day by day;For it brings me health and strength and hope,And I cheerfully learn to say:“Head, you may think; Heart, you may feel;But Hand, you shall work alway.”

I am glad a task to me is given,

To labor at day by day;

For it brings me health and strength and hope,

And I cheerfully learn to say:

“Head, you may think; Heart, you may feel;

But Hand, you shall work alway.”

RuysdaelMarine View

Ruysdael

Marine View

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee!“O for a soft and gentle wind!”I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free,—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners,The wind is piping loud!The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free,—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.—Allan Cunningham.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee!

“O for a soft and gentle wind!”I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free,—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.

“O for a soft and gentle wind!”

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free,—

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners,The wind is piping loud!The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free,—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.—Allan Cunningham.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud!

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free,—

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

—Allan Cunningham.

When the people from the Old World first settled in this country, they found a race here whom they called Indians. This same race still inhabit this country, but they are few in numbers as compared with the whites, and they live mostly in the far West.

The Indians then did not dress like those you may seenow, but their faces and figures have not changed very much. They have a dark skin, straight, black hair, black eyes, high cheek-bones, flat noses, white teeth, and wear no beards. In stature they are tall and straight.

The houses in which the Indians lived were not at all like our homes, and they were called huts or wigwams. These wigwams were sometimes made of poles set in the ground in a circle. But when a large hut was wanted, the poles were planted in two long rows. The poles were bent over at the top, then fastened together and all covered with bark. Sometimes the poles were driven into the ground in such a way that they met at the top. A hole was left for smoke near the top, and the rest of the pole frame was covered with bark on the outside and with skins on the inside.

The Indians had no furniture, not even beds, and every one sat and slept on skins or on mats made from rushes by the squaws. These mats and skins were kept upon the ground, but each person had a place for his own.

The food of the Indians consisted of fish and game, together with such fruits and nuts as they were able to pick and gather, besides the corn for cakes. Potatoes and corn are both natives of this country and were first used by the Indians. For drinking purposes, water was commonly used, but they made a great many drinks with berries, leaves, and roots.

The faces of the Indians were frequently painted in manycolors, and to make the paint last long, holes were sometimes pricked into the skin by means of thorns. The painting then was much like the tattooing done now in many islands of the sea. Sometimes they tattooed in this way nearly the whole of their bodies.

In the warm parts of the country they wore little in the way of dress, often no more than a kind of short skirt which did not reach to the knees; but they took great delight in having large strings of beads round their necks, besides birds’ claws, squirrels’ heads, and the like. Where it was colder, bearskins were worn in winter, with the fur left on the pelt. In summer lighter skins were chosen, and sometimes the fur was taken off. Large garments were, in the main, made from the skins of the otter, beaver, or raccoon. The men had a sort of leather breeches which they used when hunting, and they wore moccasins for shoes.

Feathers, sometimes in head-dresses, sometimes in garments, were used by the Indians, to show degrees of honor won in war. Bows and arrows were used by them for hunting, and likewise for weapons to defend themselves. The work of making bows and arrows must have taken a great deal of time, for the arrow shafts were whittled out of wood, and the arrow-heads were chipped out of flint and other stones. They used spears with which to fish, as well as hooks and lines.

The wood for their boats was obtained by burning downtrees near the ground, and then burning off the branches and tops. In this way they managed to get logs the right length, and then they burned them out on one side, after which they scraped out the charred parts with shells. These made very strong boats. A lighter canoe was built of a frame covered with bark.

In times of peace the Indians hunted and fished. Such a thing as a store or market was not needed. Each family had to catch all the fish or kill all the game that might be required for its wants. The boys early learned the art of fishing and hunting, and in summer they fished from the shore or from a canoe. In winter they bored holes through the ice and used a hook and line or a long spear. This spear, at the pointed end, was shaped like a fish.

Many stories are told how these hunters and fishermen by tricks took their game. Sometimes they would drive a whole herd of deer or buffalo out upon a narrow neck of land running far into the water, and then cut off all escape by building a row of fires across the neck. In this way they kept the herd together until they killed all they wanted.

The war-dance was a great thing among Indians, and they thought the only way to get honor was by following the war-path. Therefore many hours were spent in learning war-dances and in being able to hit a small mark a great way off with the bow and arrow. By the time an Indian lad reached sixteen and was able to do these things well, hewas old enough to go to war and to help fight the battles which so often took place among the tribes.

Hunting and fishing and going to war were, however, not all the things that the Indians did. They had many sports and games for children, and also many for those who were grown up. They played ball on the grass, a game like hockey with sticks on the ice, and lacrosse, which we have now adopted as our national game.—Selected.

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