JEANNETTE AND JO

Hans Andersen

One day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up by the roots; this was painful. Then it was laid in water as if they intended to drown it, and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were to be roasted; all this was very shocking.

“I cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “I must have my trials, and so learn what life really is.” And certainly there were plenty of trials in store for the flax.It was steeped, and roasted, and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.

At last it was put on the spinning-wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the wheel, so quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts.

“Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain, “and must be contented with the past;” and contented he remained till he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen. All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one piece. “How wonderful it is that, after all I have suffered, I am made something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world—so strong and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. I cannot be happier than I am now.”

After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles. This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into garments.

“See now, then,” said the flax, “I have become something of importance. This was my destiny; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way to be happy.”

Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other. “We would gladly have held together a little longer, but we must not forget that there is an end to all things.” And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water and made into a pulp, and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves beautiful white paper.

“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise, too,” said the paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful luck!” And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were written upon it. Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all that was written was sensible and good, and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.

“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I imagine that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. I suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than probable, for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever.”

But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book, or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could gain pleasure from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before it had got half through its journey.

“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor, like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They shall do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”

Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into a tub that stood in the wash-house. “After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper. “Now I am able for the first time to think of my life and all the good that I have done. What shall be done with me now, I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”

Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they wished to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.

The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon alight. “Oh, oh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame. It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and they gleamed as the white linen had never been able to gleam. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts turned into fire.

“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames, and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Nothing remained of the paper but black ashes with the red sparks dancing over them. The children thought that this was the end, but the sparks sang, “The most beautiful is yet to come.”

—Hans Christian Andersen.

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,And find a harvest-home of light.

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;

Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;

Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,

And find a harvest-home of light.

Two girls I know—Jeannette and Jo,And one is always moping;The other lassie, come what may,Is ever bravely hoping.Beauty of face and girlish graceAre theirs, for joy or sorrow;Jeannette takes brightly every day,And Jo dreads each to-morrow.One early morn they watched the dawn—I saw them stand together;Their whole day’s sport, ’twas very plain,Depended on the weather.“‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low:“Yes, but ’twill soon be over.”And, as she spoke, the sudden showerCame, beating down the clover.“I told you so!” cried angry Jo:“It always is a-raining!”Then hid her face in dire despair,Lamenting and complaining.But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,—I tell it to her honor,—Looked up and waited till the sunCame streaming in upon her.The broken clouds sailed off in crowds,Across a sea of glory.Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in—Which ends my simple story.Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,The hopeful are the gladdest;And doubt and dread, children, believeOf all things are the saddest.In morning’s light, let youth be bright;Take in the sunshine tender;Then, at the close, shall life’s declineBe full of sunset splendor.And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,To shun all weak complaining;And not, like Jo, cry out too soon—“It always is a-raining!”—Mary Mapes Dodge.

Two girls I know—Jeannette and Jo,And one is always moping;The other lassie, come what may,Is ever bravely hoping.

Two girls I know—Jeannette and Jo,

And one is always moping;

The other lassie, come what may,

Is ever bravely hoping.

Beauty of face and girlish graceAre theirs, for joy or sorrow;Jeannette takes brightly every day,And Jo dreads each to-morrow.

Beauty of face and girlish grace

Are theirs, for joy or sorrow;

Jeannette takes brightly every day,

And Jo dreads each to-morrow.

One early morn they watched the dawn—I saw them stand together;Their whole day’s sport, ’twas very plain,Depended on the weather.

One early morn they watched the dawn—

I saw them stand together;

Their whole day’s sport, ’twas very plain,

Depended on the weather.

“‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low:“Yes, but ’twill soon be over.”And, as she spoke, the sudden showerCame, beating down the clover.

“‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low:

“Yes, but ’twill soon be over.”

And, as she spoke, the sudden shower

Came, beating down the clover.

“I told you so!” cried angry Jo:“It always is a-raining!”Then hid her face in dire despair,Lamenting and complaining.

“I told you so!” cried angry Jo:

“It always is a-raining!”

Then hid her face in dire despair,

Lamenting and complaining.

But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,—I tell it to her honor,—Looked up and waited till the sunCame streaming in upon her.

But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,—

I tell it to her honor,—

Looked up and waited till the sun

Came streaming in upon her.

The broken clouds sailed off in crowds,Across a sea of glory.Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in—Which ends my simple story.

The broken clouds sailed off in crowds,

Across a sea of glory.

Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in—

Which ends my simple story.

Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,The hopeful are the gladdest;And doubt and dread, children, believeOf all things are the saddest.

Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,

The hopeful are the gladdest;

And doubt and dread, children, believe

Of all things are the saddest.

In morning’s light, let youth be bright;Take in the sunshine tender;Then, at the close, shall life’s declineBe full of sunset splendor.

In morning’s light, let youth be bright;

Take in the sunshine tender;

Then, at the close, shall life’s decline

Be full of sunset splendor.

And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,To shun all weak complaining;And not, like Jo, cry out too soon—“It always is a-raining!”—Mary Mapes Dodge.

And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,

To shun all weak complaining;

And not, like Jo, cry out too soon—

“It always is a-raining!”

—Mary Mapes Dodge.

A kindly act is a kernel sown,That will grow to a goodly tree,Shedding its fruit when time has flown,Down the gulf of eternity.

A kindly act is a kernel sown,

That will grow to a goodly tree,

Shedding its fruit when time has flown,

Down the gulf of eternity.

In the midst of those terrible times, during which for one hundred years England and France were at war, there was born in the little village of Domrémy a peasant girl, named Jeanne d’Arc. When she was old enough she used to tend her father’s sheep, and as she sat on the hillside, watching them day by day, she often looked out over the ruined houses and blackened fields and wondered if the English would ever come again to frighten her people and burn their peaceful homes. Her father, too, feared the same, and so taught his little daughter to ride a horse and to use simple weapons.

Later she heard that the dreaded English were back in France, not in her own village, but besieging the brave town of Orleans. News came that the Dauphin, who was now governing France, dared not go to Rheims to be crowned, because the English troops held the place. One day as Jeanne sat musing over all these rumors, wishing that she were a man so that she might go and fight for her country, she saw a vision and heard voices bidding her leave her home and deliver the Dauphin from his enemies, so that he might be crowned king. So loudly and so plainly did she hear these voices that she felt she must go to the French court at once. She was so poor that she thought at first that she must go afoot, but some kind neighbors gave her a horse. Then she put on men’s clothing, instead of her coarse reddress, cut off her long black hair, and rode bravely off alone.

IngresJeanne d’Arc

Ingres

Jeanne d’Arc

The journey was long and perilous, for the country was still full of robbers and free lances, but when it was over she found that her troubles had only begun. The nobles met her strange story with laughter and scorn, and refused to let her see the king. But finally her sweetness and gentle manner prevailed, and she was led into the presence of her sovereign. The story runs that the king, to test her, had put on the simple robe of a courtier, and stood among the rest of the nobles when Jeanne entered. But Jeanne went to him, without hesitation, saluted, and said:—

“In God’s name, it is you, sire, and none other.”

There she stood, a simple shepherd lass, who could neither read nor write, before a roomful of men of noble birth; but she was not afraid, for she brought with her the faith that she was to save France. Gradually, her soft voice, ringing with enthusiasm and loyalty, aroused the king and his lords, and he granted Jeanne her request—she was to go and relieve Orleans.

He gave her a big horse and pure white armor, and she herself sent for a sword having five crosses on the blade, that she had seen in a dream lying behind an altar in a certain church.

But at Orleans the people who were defending the city mistrusted her. They tried to hide their plans from her,and made a secret attack in the night on the enemy. But the shouts of war woke her from her sleep. She hastily called for her horse and galloped into the midst of the fight. The soldiers cheered her wildly, and now even the unwilling captains were forced to listen to her. In the days that followed, Jeanne, though twice wounded, was always at the front, urging on the French and terrifying the English, who took her for a witch. She entered Orleans on Friday, and a week from the following Sunday the English had turned their backs forever on the city.

Jeanne did not linger to enjoy her triumph. Amid the tears of joy and the cheering of the people, she rode out of the city the next day to perform the rest of her task,—to crown the Dauphin king of France. From far and near people came to see her, and a large army sprang up around her and the king, eager to march towards Rheims. Still the court delayed, for the nobles were jealous of Jeanne’s glory, but she was firm in her faith and the people were with her.

The French first attacked the English who were holding Troyes. After a six days’ siege the king was discouraged, for the food was growing very scarce, but Jeanne begged him to hold out two days longer. When he agreed, she mounted her horse and led the attack against the town. The English, in terror, opened their gates before the assault began. Thus the last difficulty was surmounted and the army marched safelyto Rheims. Here the king was crowned in the big cathedral, the brave young peasant girl standing by his side.

Jeanne was now ready to go back to her father and mother, and the tending of her sheep, but the voices still called her to drive the English from the land. She stayed with the king and army, trying to hasten an attack on the English. But the indolent king, listening to idle tales from his jealous nobles, forgot all Jeanne had done for him and France, and began to believe that she was a witch. At last Jeanne was captured by the enemy. The English believed her to be a witch and tried her for sorcery. The French king made no effort to ransom her, and she was condemned to be burned at the stake. The sentence was carried out, and thus the poor peasant girl gave up her life for the ungrateful country she had saved from ruin.

—Maude Barrow Dutton.

From “Little Stories of France,” by permission of the American Book Company.

Birds—birds, ye are beautiful things,With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.Beautiful birds, ye come thickly aroundWhen the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.—Eliza Cook.

Birds—birds, ye are beautiful things,With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Birds—birds, ye are beautiful things,

With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;

Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,

Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.

Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;

Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;

Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,

And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.

Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;

Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;

Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;

Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Beautiful birds, ye come thickly aroundWhen the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.—Eliza Cook.

Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around

When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;

Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,

And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.

—Eliza Cook.

When cats run home and light is come,And dew is cold upon the ground,And the far-off stream is dumb,And the whirring sail goes round;And the whirring sail goes round;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay;Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

When cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay;Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Afar off upon a large level land, a summer sun was shining bright. Here and there over the rolling green were tall bunches of coarse gray weeds. Iktomi in his fringed buckskins walked alone across the prairie with a black bare head glossy in the sunlight. He walked through the grass without following any well-worn footpath.

From one large bunch of coarse weeds to another he wound his way about the great plain. He lifted his foot lightly and placed it gently forward like a wildcat prowling noiselessly through the thick grass. He stopped a few steps away from a very large bunch of wild sage. From shoulder to shoulder he tilted his head. Still farther he bent from side to side. Far forward he stooped, stretching his long thin neck like a duck, to see what lay under a fur coat beyond the bunch of coarse grass.

A sleek gray-faced prairie wolf! his pointed black nose tucked in between his four feet drawn snugly together; his handsome bushy tail wound over his nose and feet; a coyotefast asleep in the shadow of a bunch of grass!—this is what Iktomi spied. Carefully he raised one foot and cautiously reached out with his toes. Gently, gently he lifted the foot behind and placed it before the other. Thus he came nearer and nearer to the round fur ball lying motionless under the sage grass.

Now Iktomi stood beside it, looking at the closed eyelids that did not quiver the least bit. Pressing his lips into straight lines and nodding his head slowly, he bent over the wolf. He held his ear close to the coyote’s nose, but not a breath of air stirred from it.

“Dead!” said he at last. “Dead, but not long since he ran over these plains! See! there in his paw is caught a fresh feather. He is nice fat meat!” Taking hold of the paw with the bird feather fast on it, he exclaimed, “Why, he is still warm! I’ll carry him to my dwelling and have a roast for my evening meal. Ah-ha!” he laughed, as he seized the coyote by its two fore paws and its two hind feet and swung him overhead across his shoulders. The wolf was large and the teepee was far across the prairie. Iktomi trudged along with his burden, smacking his hungry lips together. He blinked his eyes hard to keep out the salty perspiration streaming down his face.

All the while the coyote on his back lay gazing into the sky with wide-open eyes. His long white teeth fairly gleamed as he smiled and smiled.

“To ride on one’s own feet is tiresome, but to be carried like a warrior from a brave fight is great fun!” said the coyote in his heart. He had never been borne on any one’s back before and the new experience delighted him. He lay there lazily on Iktomi’s shoulders, now and then blinking blue winks. Did you never see a bird blink a blue wink? This is how it first became a saying among the plains people. When a bird stands aloof watching your strange ways, a thin bluish white tissue slips quickly over his eyes and as quickly off again; so quick that you think it was only a mysterious blue wink. Sometimes when children grow drowsy they blink blue winks, while others who are too proud to look with friendly eyes upon people blink in this cold bird-manner.

The coyote was affected by both sleepiness and pride. His winks were almost as blue as the sky. In the midst of his new pleasure the swaying motion ceased. Iktomi had reached his dwelling-place. The coyote felt drowsy no longer, for in the next instant he was slipping out of Iktomi’s hands. He was falling, falling through space, and then he struck the ground with such a bump he did not wish to breathe for a while. He wondered what Iktomi would do, so he lay still where he fell. Humming a dance-song, Iktomi hopped and darted about at an imaginary dance and feast. He gathered dry willow sticks and broke them in two against his knee. He built a large fire out-of-doors.

The flames leaped up high in red and yellow streaks. Now Iktomi returned to the coyote, who had been looking on through his eyelashes.

Taking him again by his paws and hind feet, he swung him to and fro. Then as the wolf swung towards the red flames, Iktomi let him go. Once again the coyote fell through space. Hot air smote his nostrils. He saw red dancing fire, and now he struck a bed of crackling embers. With a quick turn he leaped out of the flames. From his heels were scattered a shower of red coals upon Iktomi’s bare arms and shoulders. Dumfounded, Iktomi thought he saw a spirit walk out of his fire. His jaws fell apart. He thrust a palm to his face, hard over his mouth! He could scarce keep from shrieking.

Rolling over and over on the grass and rubbing the sides of his head against the ground, the coyote soon put out the fire on his fur. Iktomi’s eyes were almost ready to jump out of his head as he stood cooling a burn on his brown arm with his breath.

Sitting on his haunches, on the opposite side of the fire from where Iktomi stood, the coyote began to laugh at him. “Another day, my friend, do not take too much for granted. Make sure the enemy is stone dead before you make a fire!”

Then off he ran so swiftly that his long bushy tail hung out in a straight line with his back.

—Zitkala-S¨a.

From “Old Indian Legends,” by permission of Ginn and Company.

Golden Rod

Spring is the morning of the year,And summer is the noontide bright;The autumn is the evening clearThat comes before the winter’s night,And in the evening, everywhereAlong the roadside, up and down,I see the golden torches flareLike lighted street lamps in the town.I think the butterfly and bee,From distant meadows coming back,Are quite contented when they seeThese lamps along the homeward track.But those who stay too late get lost;For when the darkness falls about,Down every lighted street the FrostWill go and put the torches out!—Frank Dempster Sherman.

Spring is the morning of the year,And summer is the noontide bright;The autumn is the evening clearThat comes before the winter’s night,

Spring is the morning of the year,

And summer is the noontide bright;

The autumn is the evening clear

That comes before the winter’s night,

And in the evening, everywhereAlong the roadside, up and down,I see the golden torches flareLike lighted street lamps in the town.

And in the evening, everywhere

Along the roadside, up and down,

I see the golden torches flare

Like lighted street lamps in the town.

I think the butterfly and bee,From distant meadows coming back,Are quite contented when they seeThese lamps along the homeward track.

I think the butterfly and bee,

From distant meadows coming back,

Are quite contented when they see

These lamps along the homeward track.

But those who stay too late get lost;For when the darkness falls about,Down every lighted street the FrostWill go and put the torches out!—Frank Dempster Sherman.

But those who stay too late get lost;

For when the darkness falls about,

Down every lighted street the Frost

Will go and put the torches out!

—Frank Dempster Sherman.

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

November woods are bare and still;November days are clear and bright;Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;The morning’s snow is gone by night;Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,As through the woods I reverent creep,Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”I never knew before what beds,Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;I never knew before how muchOf human sound there is in suchLow tones as through the forest sweepWhen all wild things lie “down to sleep.”Each day I find new coverlidsTucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;Sometimes the viewless mother bidsHer ferns kneel down, full in my sight;I hear their chorus of “good-night”;And half I smile, and half I weep,Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”November woods are bare and still;November days are bright and good;Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,The mother will not fail to keep,Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”—Helen Hunt Jackson.

November woods are bare and still;

November days are clear and bright;

Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;

The morning’s snow is gone by night;

Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,

As through the woods I reverent creep,

Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds,Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;I never knew before how muchOf human sound there is in suchLow tones as through the forest sweepWhen all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds,

Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,

The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;

I never knew before how much

Of human sound there is in such

Low tones as through the forest sweep

When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

Each day I find new coverlidsTucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;Sometimes the viewless mother bidsHer ferns kneel down, full in my sight;I hear their chorus of “good-night”;And half I smile, and half I weep,Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”

Each day I find new coverlids

Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;

Sometimes the viewless mother bids

Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight;

I hear their chorus of “good-night”;

And half I smile, and half I weep,

Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”

November woods are bare and still;November days are bright and good;Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,The mother will not fail to keep,Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”—Helen Hunt Jackson.

November woods are bare and still;

November days are bright and good;

Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;

Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;

Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,

The mother will not fail to keep,

Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”

—Helen Hunt Jackson.

In the great South Kensington Museum in England there are many beautiful pictures, painted by famous artists. In one corner there is a little lead-pencil sketch of a donkey’s head, and visitors to the gallery used to ask the guide how it came there. The old man would point to the name below the sketch and say, “Why, that is Sir Edwin Landseer’s, and done when he was only five years old.” This is true, for the little drawing is marked, “E. Landseer, five years old.”

The little boy who did such wonderful work lived in a happy home in the great city of London. Not far from his home was a beautiful field called Hampstead Heath, and it was on this delightful playground that Edwin and his older brothers spent some of the happiest hours of their lives. While the others were burying each other in the grass,riding the old horse, or romping with the dogs, little curly-headed Edwin would be sitting under a tree, trying to make pictures. Sometimes his sister would sit by his side and watch the pencil as his baby fingers guided it. Very soon she would see a horse’s head on the paper and would recognize their own old Dobbin. “How good it is!” she would exclaim, “What a famous little artist you are!”

Sir Edwin Landseer

Edwin learned some wonderful lessons on Hampstead Heath. When he would beg to be taught to draw, his father would say: “Study things as God has made them, my boy. Your own eyes must be your first teachers.”

Of course the little boy was sent to school. He loved to read, but did not like to study. Sometimes his teacher would see him with his eyes shut and his hand moving on the desk. He was thinking of a picture. Drawing was not taught in the schools in those days and boys were punished if they were caught drawing pictures during school hours; so Edwin often ran away from his teachers, and they would find him in a quiet corner, with his slate, drawing the picture of some animal.

Wherever animals were to be seen in London, there Edwin was to be found. He generally carried his sketch book with him, and pictured the animals eating, walking about, asleep, or at play. Sometimes he would go to the London Zoölogical Gardens, and after he had watched the wild beasts for hours he would come away with many sketches. There was also a great market in London where wild animals were to be seen, and the boy, who was generally followed by two or more dogs, became very familiar to the people who came to the market.

Sir Edwin LandseerThe Highland Shepherd’s Chief Mourner

When he was old enough Edwin was sent to the Artists’ Academy in London. He was a great favorite in the school, and one famous artist always called him the “Dog-boy.” He was very happy here and for the next few years devoted his time to the study of animals and how to paint them.

After a time Landseer had so many pictures, and wished to keep so many dogs, sheep, and deer, that it seemed necessary that he should have a home of his own where he could receive his friends. A pretty little cottage in St. John’s Wood near London was found to be just the place he desired. There was an old-fashioned garden filled with large trees and beautiful flowers. The new home was named “Maida Vale,” in honor of Sir Walter Scott’s favorite dog.

An old barn was fitted up for a studio, which was soon made beautiful with pictures of all kinds of animals. There were graceful greyhounds, kind-faced sheep dogs, faithful terriers, soft rabbits, cunning kittens, spirited race horses, and fleet-footed deer. The pictures looked so real that a witty friend of the artist used to call out before he entered the studio, “Landseer, keep your dogs off me; I want to come in.” On another occasion this same friend said, “O, give me a pin to take the thorn out of that dog’s foot! See what pain he is suffering!”

Everybody wished to visit this delightful studio, and meet the great painter who was so kind and witty, who loved flowers and children so well, and who had so many interesting friends around him. His visitors were astonished at hisgreat power in training dogs, and gaining their love. When asked the secret, he would smile and say, “I just peep into their hearts.” One day he was entertaining some friends at Maida Vale when the door was pushed open and four great dogs bounded in. One lady was frightened, and as a fierce-looking dog ran past her and put his nose in Landseer’s hand, she said, “How fond of you that dog is!” “Yes,” said the artist, quietly, “but I never saw this dog before in my life.”

Landseer was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he often visited at his home. How he loved the wild scenery and the tender-hearted fearless people of that North Country! How he loved to climb the mountains and watch the shy, beautiful deer as they bounded over the crags! No artist ever painted deer like Landseer.

One day when he was at work in his studio, Landseer was told that Queen Victoria was riding up the garden path. He went to meet her, and she told him she wished him to see her mounted on her horse, so that he might paint her picture. She invited him to be her guest, and he painted a great many pictures of her children and their pets. In 1850, the Queen decided to confer on him the honor of knighthood; so the artist, who was now known all over the world, became Sir Edwin Landseer.

After this he received many great honors. He spent the last years of a happy, busy life in the pretty Maida Valecottage. As he grew old he talked about his “worn-out, old pencil,” and complained that drawing tired him. It was a trial for him to give up his work, and his eyes were often sad as he looked at his beautiful pictures.

Landseer died in 1873, and was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in London. Copies of his pictures are in every land and in almost every home. He will always be remembered as a lover of animals as well as a great artist.

—Selected.

A famous king would build a church,A temple vast and grand;And, that the praise might be his own,He gave a strict commandThat none should add the smallest giftTo aid the work he planned.And when the mighty dome was done,Within the noble frame,Upon a tablet broad and fair,In letters all aflameWith burnished gold, the people readThe royal builder’s name.Now when the king, elate with pride,That night had sought his bed,He dreamed he saw an angel come(A halo round his head),Erase the royal name, and writeAnother in its stead.What could it mean? Three times that nightThat wondrous vision came;Three times he saw that angel handErase the royal name,And write a woman’s in its stead,In letters all aflame.Whose could it be? He gave commandTo all about his throneTo seek the owner of the nameThat on the tablet shone;And so it was the courtiers foundA widow poor and lone.The king, enraged at what he heard,Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”And to the woman, trembling sore,He said, “’Tis very clearThat you have broken my command;Now, let the truth appear!”“Your Majesty,” the widow said,“I can’t deny the truth;I love the Lord—my Lord and yours—And so, in simple sooth,I broke Your Majesty’s command(I crave your royal ruth),“And since I had no money, sire,Why, I could only prayThat God would bless Your Majesty;And when along the wayThe horses drew the stones, I gaveTo one a wisp of hay.”“Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed:“Self-glory was my aim;The woman gave for love of God,And not for worldly fame.’Tis my command the tablet bearThe pious widow’s name.”—John Godfrey Saxe.

A famous king would build a church,A temple vast and grand;And, that the praise might be his own,He gave a strict commandThat none should add the smallest giftTo aid the work he planned.

A famous king would build a church,

A temple vast and grand;

And, that the praise might be his own,

He gave a strict command

That none should add the smallest gift

To aid the work he planned.

And when the mighty dome was done,Within the noble frame,Upon a tablet broad and fair,In letters all aflameWith burnished gold, the people readThe royal builder’s name.

And when the mighty dome was done,

Within the noble frame,

Upon a tablet broad and fair,

In letters all aflame

With burnished gold, the people read

The royal builder’s name.

Now when the king, elate with pride,That night had sought his bed,He dreamed he saw an angel come(A halo round his head),Erase the royal name, and writeAnother in its stead.

Now when the king, elate with pride,

That night had sought his bed,

He dreamed he saw an angel come

(A halo round his head),

Erase the royal name, and write

Another in its stead.

What could it mean? Three times that nightThat wondrous vision came;Three times he saw that angel handErase the royal name,And write a woman’s in its stead,In letters all aflame.

What could it mean? Three times that night

That wondrous vision came;

Three times he saw that angel hand

Erase the royal name,

And write a woman’s in its stead,

In letters all aflame.

Whose could it be? He gave commandTo all about his throneTo seek the owner of the nameThat on the tablet shone;And so it was the courtiers foundA widow poor and lone.

Whose could it be? He gave command

To all about his throne

To seek the owner of the name

That on the tablet shone;

And so it was the courtiers found

A widow poor and lone.

The king, enraged at what he heard,Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”And to the woman, trembling sore,He said, “’Tis very clearThat you have broken my command;Now, let the truth appear!”

The king, enraged at what he heard,

Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”

And to the woman, trembling sore,

He said, “’Tis very clear

That you have broken my command;

Now, let the truth appear!”

“Your Majesty,” the widow said,“I can’t deny the truth;I love the Lord—my Lord and yours—And so, in simple sooth,I broke Your Majesty’s command(I crave your royal ruth),

“Your Majesty,” the widow said,

“I can’t deny the truth;

I love the Lord—my Lord and yours—

And so, in simple sooth,

I broke Your Majesty’s command

(I crave your royal ruth),

“And since I had no money, sire,Why, I could only prayThat God would bless Your Majesty;And when along the wayThe horses drew the stones, I gaveTo one a wisp of hay.”

“And since I had no money, sire,

Why, I could only pray

That God would bless Your Majesty;

And when along the way

The horses drew the stones, I gave

To one a wisp of hay.”

“Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed:“Self-glory was my aim;The woman gave for love of God,And not for worldly fame.’Tis my command the tablet bearThe pious widow’s name.”—John Godfrey Saxe.

“Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed:

“Self-glory was my aim;

The woman gave for love of God,

And not for worldly fame.

’Tis my command the tablet bear

The pious widow’s name.”

—John Godfrey Saxe.

Teach me to feel another’s woe,To hide the fault I see;That mercy I to others show,That mercy show to me.

Teach me to feel another’s woe,

To hide the fault I see;

That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.

In Saxon land there once lived a young prince named Siegfried. His father, who was renowned for his wisdom and good deeds, was king of a rich and happy country that reached to the great North Sea. His mother, the gentle queen, was beloved by all, both high and low, for her goodness of heart and her kindly charity to all who were in distress. Both the king and the queen left nothing undone to fit the young prince for a happy and useful life. They chose for him the best and wisest teachers; every day they saw that something was added to his store of knowledge and his stock of happiness. As he grew in stature it was their concern that he should grow in skill and strength also. No other youth of his age could run more swiftly or ride more easily; no other youth could shoot the arrow with surer aim or throw the spear with greater force.

But the wise old king knew that a good man’s life consisted of more than learning lessons and playing games. “All work is noble,” said he to Siegfried; “he who yearns to win fame must not shun toil. Even princes should learn how to earn their bread by the labor of their hands.” So the king sent his son to live with a smith called Mimer, that he might learn the smith’s trade and hear his words of wisdom.

This Mimer had built his smithy among the hills by the edge of a great forest. On the side of one of the hills overlooking the forest there was a fountain in which skill and wisdom lay hidden. By drinking daily at this fountain as the sun was rising, Mimer had become the most skilful of smiths and the wisest of men.

Siegfried had now to lay aside his courtly garments and put on a coarse blouse and leathern apron; for the dainties of a king’s table he had to exchange the humble fare of a smith’s apprentice. But he did not complain. His days were mirthful and happy; the sound of his hammer echoed musically among the hills, and the sparks from his forge flew like showers of stars from morn till night. He took such delight in his work that he soon became the cleverest workman in the smithy except Mimer himself. He could twist the links of the heaviest chains and fashion the most delicate ornaments of steel.

One morning the apprentices saw that their master wore a troubled look. He told them that Amilias, the chief smith in another land, had made a coat of armor which he boasted that neither sword could pierce, nor spear could scratch, and he had sent a challenge to the chief smiths of all other lands to equal his workmanship, or acknowledge him as their master. He had been toiling all the day and night to forge a sword that would pierce the armor, but he had failed. He asked, “Is there any one here skilful enough to forge such a sword?”

All the apprentices shook their heads. But Siegfriedspoke up: “Give me leave; I shall try to forge the sword that shall cut the armor of Amilias.” All the others laughed at him in scorn, but Mimer said to them, “Let us see what he can do; if he fail, I shall make him repent his pride.”

Siegfried went to his task. For seven days the sparks flew from his anvil. On the eighth day the sword was tempered and he brought it to Mimer. “This seems, indeed,” said Mimer, “a fair edge. Let us try its keenness.” Then he threw a thread upon the water, and as it lay there he struck it with the sword. The blade passed through the thread without disturbing the ends or the surface of the water. “Well done, lad!” exclaimed the smith; “never have I seen a keener edge.”

But Siegfried said to himself, “I can make a better sword than that, and there yet is time.” So for three days more he welded it in a white hot fire and tempered it in buttermilk and oatmeal. Then in sight of Mimer and the apprentices he threw a ball of wool upon the water, and whirling the blade in air brought it down upon the ball and parted it clean in two without moving a thread out of place.

Still there was time, and back to his corner of the smithy went Siegfried again. His hammer rang with a cheerier sound than ever. For seven weeks he worked at the forge, and at last, pale but smiling, he stood before Mimer with the finished gleaming sword. Mimer looked at the edge whichgleamed like a ray of light, but he said nothing, and seemed lost in thought. Then Siegfried, taking the weapon in his own hand, swung the blade high over his head, and brought it down upon the anvil. The huge iron block was divided in two. Then to the brook they went, and throwing a fleece of wool upon the water the sword stroke separated it as easily as the ball had been cut before. “With that sword,” cried Mimer, “I shall not fear to meet Amilias.”

Heralds were sent abroad through the two kingdoms to proclaim the day when the test would be made. Other kings heard of the contest and came with their retinues of warriors to witness the trial. There were four kings with their queens and many fair ladies and courtly knights in armor. Multitudes gathered to the height of land that separated the kingdoms.

When everything was ready, Amilias clad in the coat of armor went to the top of the hill and sat upon a great rock, where he was in full sight of all the people. He smiled to see Mimer toiling up the steep hill with that slight sword by his side; the countrymen of Amilias gave a shout of triumph, so sure were they of their champion’s success. But Mimer’s countrymen waited in breathless silence. They had faith in Mimer, but they greatly feared. Only Siegfried’s father seemed confident. He whispered to his queen, “Wisdom and skill are stronger than steel.”

When Mimer reached the top of the hill, he paused a moment to take breath and to cast a glance on the crowds below.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” answered Amilias, with a composed smile, so little did he fear; “strike your strongest!”

Mimer swung the gleaming blade,—for a moment the lightning seemed to play around his head, and then descending, it made a sweep through the air from right to left. The spectators thought to hear the clash of steel, but no sound came to their ears save a hiss like that which a hot poker would make in a bucket of water.

“Stand!” cried Mimer.

Amilias began to obey when, lo! he fell in halves, for the sword had cut through the war coat and the body incased within. One half rolled down the steep hill and fell into the river, fathoms deep, where for many a day, when the water was clear, it could be seen lying among the gravel and rocks.

The king was right: wisdom and skill had proved themselves stronger than steel.—Selected.

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