A workman plied his clumsy spadeAs the sun was going down;The German king with his cavalcadeWas coming into town.The king stopped short when he saw the man—“My worthy friend,” said he,“Why not cease work at eventide,When the laborer should be free?”“I do not slave,” the old man said,“And I am always free;Though I work from the time I leave my bedTill I can hardly see.”“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”“Eight groschen,” the man replied.“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”—“Like a king,” he said with pride.“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,And two for a debt I owe;Two groschen to lend and two to spendFor those who can’t labor, you know.”“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,To my mother with age oppressed,Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,And now hath need of rest.”“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”“To my three boys at school. You see,When I am too feeble to toil any more,They will care for their mother and me.”“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.“My sisters are old and lame;I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,All in the Father’s name.”Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes—“Thou knowest me not,” said he;“As thou hast given me one surprise,Here is another for thee.“I am thy king; give me thy hand”—And he heaped it high with gold—“When more thou needest, I commandThat I at once be told.“For I would bless with rich rewardThe man who can proudly say,That eight souls he doth keep and guardOn eight poor groschen a day.”—Anonymous.
A workman plied his clumsy spadeAs the sun was going down;The German king with his cavalcadeWas coming into town.The king stopped short when he saw the man—“My worthy friend,” said he,“Why not cease work at eventide,When the laborer should be free?”“I do not slave,” the old man said,“And I am always free;Though I work from the time I leave my bedTill I can hardly see.”“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”“Eight groschen,” the man replied.“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”—“Like a king,” he said with pride.“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,And two for a debt I owe;Two groschen to lend and two to spendFor those who can’t labor, you know.”“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,To my mother with age oppressed,Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,And now hath need of rest.”“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”“To my three boys at school. You see,When I am too feeble to toil any more,They will care for their mother and me.”“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.“My sisters are old and lame;I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,All in the Father’s name.”Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes—“Thou knowest me not,” said he;“As thou hast given me one surprise,Here is another for thee.“I am thy king; give me thy hand”—And he heaped it high with gold—“When more thou needest, I commandThat I at once be told.“For I would bless with rich rewardThe man who can proudly say,That eight souls he doth keep and guardOn eight poor groschen a day.”—Anonymous.
A workman plied his clumsy spadeAs the sun was going down;The German king with his cavalcadeWas coming into town.
A workman plied his clumsy spade
As the sun was going down;
The German king with his cavalcade
Was coming into town.
The king stopped short when he saw the man—“My worthy friend,” said he,“Why not cease work at eventide,When the laborer should be free?”
The king stopped short when he saw the man—
“My worthy friend,” said he,
“Why not cease work at eventide,
When the laborer should be free?”
“I do not slave,” the old man said,“And I am always free;Though I work from the time I leave my bedTill I can hardly see.”
“I do not slave,” the old man said,
“And I am always free;
Though I work from the time I leave my bed
Till I can hardly see.”
“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”“Eight groschen,” the man replied.“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”—“Like a king,” he said with pride.
“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”
“Eight groschen,” the man replied.
“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”—
“Like a king,” he said with pride.
“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,And two for a debt I owe;Two groschen to lend and two to spendFor those who can’t labor, you know.”
“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,
And two for a debt I owe;
Two groschen to lend and two to spend
For those who can’t labor, you know.”
“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,To my mother with age oppressed,Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,And now hath need of rest.”
“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,
To my mother with age oppressed,
Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,
And now hath need of rest.”
“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”“To my three boys at school. You see,When I am too feeble to toil any more,They will care for their mother and me.”
“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”
“To my three boys at school. You see,
When I am too feeble to toil any more,
They will care for their mother and me.”
“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.“My sisters are old and lame;I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,All in the Father’s name.”
“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.
“My sisters are old and lame;
I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,
All in the Father’s name.”
Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes—“Thou knowest me not,” said he;“As thou hast given me one surprise,Here is another for thee.
Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes—
“Thou knowest me not,” said he;
“As thou hast given me one surprise,
Here is another for thee.
“I am thy king; give me thy hand”—And he heaped it high with gold—“When more thou needest, I commandThat I at once be told.
“I am thy king; give me thy hand”—
And he heaped it high with gold—
“When more thou needest, I command
That I at once be told.
“For I would bless with rich rewardThe man who can proudly say,That eight souls he doth keep and guardOn eight poor groschen a day.”—Anonymous.
“For I would bless with rich reward
The man who can proudly say,
That eight souls he doth keep and guard
On eight poor groschen a day.”
—Anonymous.
In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his hammer or his needle.
The Rich Man and his Friend
The Rich Man and his Friend
Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was—so rich that he could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had, and if it were quite safe.
Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that wakened him this time—it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.
The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man, and told him of a plan.
Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the cobbler’s door.
“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”
But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give, not to get. In his hand he had a leatherbag filled with something that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a present of a hundred crowns.”
“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do you give me this money?”
“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”
“And you’ll never ask it back?”
“Never.”
“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”
“No, no. Why should I?”
“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”
Cobbler sitting at a table
When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.
Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poorcobbler such a fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never done in his life.
Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.
Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.
On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room. When he hadentered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag, and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”
Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are not so happy.
—From the French ofJean de la Fontaine.
Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?There is no sacred rain by day,No beaded dew at dawn.How can Thy helpless creatures liveWhen drought destroys the sod?Upon our knees we pray Thee giveThy creatures food, O God!The little stream hath ceased to run,The clover-bloom is dead,The meadows redden in the sun,The very weeds are fled.Their heads the mournful cattle shakeBeside the thirsting wood.Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,To give Thy creatures food.The panting sheep gasp in the shade,Their matted wool is wet,And where the cruel share is laidThe striving horses sweat;They welcome death—’tis pain to live—Restore Thy blessed sod;Oh, hear our humble prayer and giveThy creatures food, O God!—R. K. Kernighan.
Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?There is no sacred rain by day,No beaded dew at dawn.How can Thy helpless creatures liveWhen drought destroys the sod?Upon our knees we pray Thee giveThy creatures food, O God!The little stream hath ceased to run,The clover-bloom is dead,The meadows redden in the sun,The very weeds are fled.Their heads the mournful cattle shakeBeside the thirsting wood.Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,To give Thy creatures food.The panting sheep gasp in the shade,Their matted wool is wet,And where the cruel share is laidThe striving horses sweat;They welcome death—’tis pain to live—Restore Thy blessed sod;Oh, hear our humble prayer and giveThy creatures food, O God!—R. K. Kernighan.
Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?There is no sacred rain by day,No beaded dew at dawn.How can Thy helpless creatures liveWhen drought destroys the sod?Upon our knees we pray Thee giveThy creatures food, O God!
Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?
The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?
There is no sacred rain by day,
No beaded dew at dawn.
How can Thy helpless creatures live
When drought destroys the sod?
Upon our knees we pray Thee give
Thy creatures food, O God!
The little stream hath ceased to run,The clover-bloom is dead,The meadows redden in the sun,The very weeds are fled.Their heads the mournful cattle shakeBeside the thirsting wood.Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,To give Thy creatures food.
The little stream hath ceased to run,
The clover-bloom is dead,
The meadows redden in the sun,
The very weeds are fled.
Their heads the mournful cattle shake
Beside the thirsting wood.
Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,
To give Thy creatures food.
The panting sheep gasp in the shade,Their matted wool is wet,And where the cruel share is laidThe striving horses sweat;They welcome death—’tis pain to live—Restore Thy blessed sod;Oh, hear our humble prayer and giveThy creatures food, O God!—R. K. Kernighan.
The panting sheep gasp in the shade,
Their matted wool is wet,
And where the cruel share is laid
The striving horses sweat;
They welcome death—’tis pain to live—
Restore Thy blessed sod;
Oh, hear our humble prayer and give
Thy creatures food, O God!
—R. K. Kernighan.
By special permission.
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Men must reap the things they sow,Force from force must ever flow.
Men must reap the things they sow,Force from force must ever flow.
Men must reap the things they sow,Force from force must ever flow.
Men must reap the things they sow,
Force from force must ever flow.
Boy walking and seeing golden widows in distance
All day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed, for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had given it to him. Then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and look across at another hill that rose some miles away. On this far hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds. They shone and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them; but after a while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then it looked like any common farm-house. The boy supposed they did this because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and have his supper of bread and milk and so to bed.
One day the boy’s father called him and said: “You have been a good boy, and have earned a holiday. Take this day for your own; but remember that God gave it, and try to learn some good thing.”
The boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece of bread in his pocket, and set out to find the house with the golden windows.
It was pleasant walking. His bare feet made marks in the white dust, and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and making company for him. His shadow, too, kept beside him, and would dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful. By and by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear water. Then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had taught him to do, and went on his way.
After a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows. He came up to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.
A woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him what he wanted.
“I saw the golden windows from our hilltop,” he said, “and I came to see them, but now they are only glass.”
The woman shook her head and laughed.
“We are poor farming people,” she said, “and are not likely to have gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through.”
She told the boy to sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the two, and went back to her work.
The little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her eyes were blue like the sky at noon. She led the boy about the farm, and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with four white feet. Then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows. The little girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the house.
“You have come quite the wrong way!” she said. “Come with me, and I shall show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see for yourself.”
They went to a knoll that rose behind the farm-house,and as they went the little girl told him that the golden windows could be seen only at a certain hour, about sunset.
“Yes, I know that!” said the boy.
When they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed; and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamond, just as he had seen them. And when they looked again, the boy saw that it was his own home.
Then he told the little girl that he must go. He promised to come again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and watched him.
The way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his father’s house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.
“Have you had a good day?” asked his mother.
Yes, the boy had had a very good day.
“And have you learned anything?” asked his father.
“Yes,” said the boy. “I have learned that our house has windows of gold and diamond.”
—Laura E. Richards.
From “The Golden Windows,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company.
Sing a song of Spring-time!Catkins by the brook,Adder’s-tongues uncounted,Ferns in every nook;The cataract on the hillsideLeaping like a fawn;Sing a song of Spring-time,—Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!Sing a song of Summer!Flowers among the grass,Clouds like fairy frigates,Pools like looking-glass,Moonlight through the branches,Voices on the lawn;Sing a song of Summer,—Ah, but Summer’s gone!Sing a song of Autumn!Grain in golden sheaves,Woodbine’s crimson clustersRound the cottage eaves,Days of crystal clearness,Frosted fields at dawn;Sing a song of Autumn,—Ah, but Autumn’s gone!Sing a song of Winter!North-wind’s bitter chill,Home and ruddy firelight,Kindness and good-will,Hemlock in the churches,Daytime soon withdrawn;Sing a song of Winter,—Ah, but Winter’s gone!Sing a song of loving!Let the seasons go;Hearts can make their gardensUnder sun or snow;Fear no fading blossom,Nor the dying day;Sing a song of loving,—That will last for aye!—Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald.
Sing a song of Spring-time!Catkins by the brook,Adder’s-tongues uncounted,Ferns in every nook;The cataract on the hillsideLeaping like a fawn;Sing a song of Spring-time,—Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!Sing a song of Summer!Flowers among the grass,Clouds like fairy frigates,Pools like looking-glass,Moonlight through the branches,Voices on the lawn;Sing a song of Summer,—Ah, but Summer’s gone!Sing a song of Autumn!Grain in golden sheaves,Woodbine’s crimson clustersRound the cottage eaves,Days of crystal clearness,Frosted fields at dawn;Sing a song of Autumn,—Ah, but Autumn’s gone!Sing a song of Winter!North-wind’s bitter chill,Home and ruddy firelight,Kindness and good-will,Hemlock in the churches,Daytime soon withdrawn;Sing a song of Winter,—Ah, but Winter’s gone!Sing a song of loving!Let the seasons go;Hearts can make their gardensUnder sun or snow;Fear no fading blossom,Nor the dying day;Sing a song of loving,—That will last for aye!—Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald.
Sing a song of Spring-time!Catkins by the brook,Adder’s-tongues uncounted,Ferns in every nook;The cataract on the hillsideLeaping like a fawn;Sing a song of Spring-time,—Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!
Sing a song of Spring-time!
Catkins by the brook,
Adder’s-tongues uncounted,
Ferns in every nook;
The cataract on the hillside
Leaping like a fawn;
Sing a song of Spring-time,—
Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!
Sing a song of Summer!Flowers among the grass,Clouds like fairy frigates,Pools like looking-glass,Moonlight through the branches,Voices on the lawn;Sing a song of Summer,—Ah, but Summer’s gone!
Sing a song of Summer!
Flowers among the grass,
Clouds like fairy frigates,
Pools like looking-glass,
Moonlight through the branches,
Voices on the lawn;
Sing a song of Summer,—
Ah, but Summer’s gone!
Sing a song of Autumn!Grain in golden sheaves,Woodbine’s crimson clustersRound the cottage eaves,Days of crystal clearness,Frosted fields at dawn;Sing a song of Autumn,—Ah, but Autumn’s gone!
Sing a song of Autumn!
Grain in golden sheaves,
Woodbine’s crimson clusters
Round the cottage eaves,
Days of crystal clearness,
Frosted fields at dawn;
Sing a song of Autumn,—
Ah, but Autumn’s gone!
Sing a song of Winter!North-wind’s bitter chill,Home and ruddy firelight,Kindness and good-will,Hemlock in the churches,Daytime soon withdrawn;Sing a song of Winter,—Ah, but Winter’s gone!
Sing a song of Winter!
North-wind’s bitter chill,
Home and ruddy firelight,
Kindness and good-will,
Hemlock in the churches,
Daytime soon withdrawn;
Sing a song of Winter,—
Ah, but Winter’s gone!
Sing a song of loving!Let the seasons go;Hearts can make their gardensUnder sun or snow;Fear no fading blossom,Nor the dying day;Sing a song of loving,—That will last for aye!—Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald.
Sing a song of loving!
Let the seasons go;
Hearts can make their gardens
Under sun or snow;
Fear no fading blossom,
Nor the dying day;
Sing a song of loving,—
That will last for aye!
—Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald.
By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston.
Striving not to be rich or great,Never questioning fortune or fate,Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
Striving not to be rich or great,Never questioning fortune or fate,Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
Striving not to be rich or great,Never questioning fortune or fate,Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
Striving not to be rich or great,
Never questioning fortune or fate,
Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that he would gladly have given his life for him.
This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town, not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.
He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe, far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.
All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests, became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long time.
But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.
At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost treasure.
His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness for the now desolate man. But hewould have nothing to do with any of them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any interest in life.
One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark. This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.
When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold, hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.
Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.
That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a deep, fatherly tenderness.
He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl; and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.
Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly replaced by the golden-haired child.
—Grace H. Kupfer.
From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the American Book Company.
Two little ones, grown tired of play,Roamed by the sea, one summer day,Watching the great waves come and go,Prattling, as children will, you know,Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;Sometimes hinting at graver things.At last they spied within their reachAn old boat cast upon the beach;Helter-skelter, with merry din,Over its sides they scrambled in,—Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.Rolling in from the briny deep,Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,Higher, higher, upon the sands,Reaching out with their giant hands,Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,Tossing it up and out to sea.The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;And now across the sunny skyA black cloud stretches far away,And shuts the golden gates of day.A storm comes on, with flash and roar,While all the sky is shrouded o’er;The great waves rolling from the west,Bring night and darkness on their breast.Still floats the boat through driving storm,Protected by God’s powerful arm.The home-bound vessel,Sea-bird, liesIn ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:Her captain paces, restless now,A troubled look upon his brow,While all his nerves with terror thrill,—The shadow of some coming ill.The mate comes up to where he stands,And grasps his arm with eager hands.“A boat has just swept past,” says he,“Bearing two children out to sea;’Tis dangerous now to put about,Yet they cannot be saved without.”“Nought but their safety will suffice!They must be saved!” the captain cries.“By every thought that’s just and right,By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,And God will not forsake us then.”With anxious faces, one and all,Each man responded to the call;And when at last, through driving storm,They lifted up each little form,The captain started with a groan:“My God is good, they are my own!”—Rosa Hartwick Thorpe.
Two little ones, grown tired of play,Roamed by the sea, one summer day,Watching the great waves come and go,Prattling, as children will, you know,Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;Sometimes hinting at graver things.At last they spied within their reachAn old boat cast upon the beach;Helter-skelter, with merry din,Over its sides they scrambled in,—Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.Rolling in from the briny deep,Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,Higher, higher, upon the sands,Reaching out with their giant hands,Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,Tossing it up and out to sea.The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;And now across the sunny skyA black cloud stretches far away,And shuts the golden gates of day.A storm comes on, with flash and roar,While all the sky is shrouded o’er;The great waves rolling from the west,Bring night and darkness on their breast.Still floats the boat through driving storm,Protected by God’s powerful arm.The home-bound vessel,Sea-bird, liesIn ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:Her captain paces, restless now,A troubled look upon his brow,While all his nerves with terror thrill,—The shadow of some coming ill.The mate comes up to where he stands,And grasps his arm with eager hands.“A boat has just swept past,” says he,“Bearing two children out to sea;’Tis dangerous now to put about,Yet they cannot be saved without.”“Nought but their safety will suffice!They must be saved!” the captain cries.“By every thought that’s just and right,By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,And God will not forsake us then.”With anxious faces, one and all,Each man responded to the call;And when at last, through driving storm,They lifted up each little form,The captain started with a groan:“My God is good, they are my own!”—Rosa Hartwick Thorpe.
Two little ones, grown tired of play,Roamed by the sea, one summer day,Watching the great waves come and go,Prattling, as children will, you know,Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;Sometimes hinting at graver things.
Two little ones, grown tired of play,
Roamed by the sea, one summer day,
Watching the great waves come and go,
Prattling, as children will, you know,
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;
Sometimes hinting at graver things.
At last they spied within their reachAn old boat cast upon the beach;Helter-skelter, with merry din,Over its sides they scrambled in,—Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.
At last they spied within their reach
An old boat cast upon the beach;
Helter-skelter, with merry din,
Over its sides they scrambled in,—
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.
Rolling in from the briny deep,Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,Higher, higher, upon the sands,Reaching out with their giant hands,Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,Tossing it up and out to sea.
Rolling in from the briny deep,
Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,
Higher, higher, upon the sands,
Reaching out with their giant hands,
Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,
Tossing it up and out to sea.
The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;And now across the sunny skyA black cloud stretches far away,And shuts the golden gates of day.
The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;
Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;
Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;
And now across the sunny sky
A black cloud stretches far away,
And shuts the golden gates of day.
A storm comes on, with flash and roar,While all the sky is shrouded o’er;The great waves rolling from the west,Bring night and darkness on their breast.Still floats the boat through driving storm,Protected by God’s powerful arm.
A storm comes on, with flash and roar,
While all the sky is shrouded o’er;
The great waves rolling from the west,
Bring night and darkness on their breast.
Still floats the boat through driving storm,
Protected by God’s powerful arm.
The home-bound vessel,Sea-bird, liesIn ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:Her captain paces, restless now,A troubled look upon his brow,While all his nerves with terror thrill,—The shadow of some coming ill.
The home-bound vessel,Sea-bird, lies
In ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:
Her captain paces, restless now,
A troubled look upon his brow,
While all his nerves with terror thrill,—
The shadow of some coming ill.
The mate comes up to where he stands,And grasps his arm with eager hands.“A boat has just swept past,” says he,“Bearing two children out to sea;’Tis dangerous now to put about,Yet they cannot be saved without.”
The mate comes up to where he stands,
And grasps his arm with eager hands.
“A boat has just swept past,” says he,
“Bearing two children out to sea;
’Tis dangerous now to put about,
Yet they cannot be saved without.”
“Nought but their safety will suffice!They must be saved!” the captain cries.“By every thought that’s just and right,By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,And God will not forsake us then.”
“Nought but their safety will suffice!
They must be saved!” the captain cries.
“By every thought that’s just and right,
By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,
I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,
And God will not forsake us then.”
With anxious faces, one and all,Each man responded to the call;And when at last, through driving storm,They lifted up each little form,The captain started with a groan:“My God is good, they are my own!”—Rosa Hartwick Thorpe.
With anxious faces, one and all,
Each man responded to the call;
And when at last, through driving storm,
They lifted up each little form,
The captain started with a groan:
“My God is good, they are my own!”
—Rosa Hartwick Thorpe.
By permission of the publishers.
In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy. The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the large and beautiful garden flowers.
The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom. She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted herface towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened to the lark singing high in the air.
Cottage, lark on fence
One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday, and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem, was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!” said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!” But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.
The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I can live near them.”
Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her: “Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up into the blue air above.
The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a prisoner in a cagethat hung by the open window. He sang of the happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.
Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and placed it in the lark’s cage.
“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.
“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”
“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill the air with perfume.
The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him, and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.
The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.
—Hans Christian Andersen.
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and leanPipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green.O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!Mark the warm October haze!Mark the splendor of the days!And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low—“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.Share my beauty and my cheerWhile we rest together here,In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,O the warm October haze!O the splendor of the days!O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!—Jean Blewett.
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and leanPipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green.O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!Mark the warm October haze!Mark the splendor of the days!And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low—“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.Share my beauty and my cheerWhile we rest together here,In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,O the warm October haze!O the splendor of the days!O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!—Jean Blewett.
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and leanPipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green.O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!Mark the warm October haze!Mark the splendor of the days!And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low—“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.Share my beauty and my cheerWhile we rest together here,In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”
See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low—
“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”
“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”
All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,O the warm October haze!O the splendor of the days!O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!—Jean Blewett.
All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;
And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
—Jean Blewett.
We knew it would rain, for all the mornA spirit, on slender ropes of mist,Was lowering its golden buckets downInto the vapory amethystOf marshes and swamps and dismal fens—Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,Dipping the jewels out of the sea,To scatter them over the land in showers.We knew it would rain, for the poplars showedThe white of their leaves; the amber grainShrunk in the wind—and the lightning nowIs tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
We knew it would rain, for all the mornA spirit, on slender ropes of mist,Was lowering its golden buckets downInto the vapory amethystOf marshes and swamps and dismal fens—Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,Dipping the jewels out of the sea,To scatter them over the land in showers.We knew it would rain, for the poplars showedThe white of their leaves; the amber grainShrunk in the wind—and the lightning nowIs tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
We knew it would rain, for all the mornA spirit, on slender ropes of mist,Was lowering its golden buckets downInto the vapory amethyst
We knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit, on slender ropes of mist,
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethyst
Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens—Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,Dipping the jewels out of the sea,To scatter them over the land in showers.
Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens—
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out of the sea,
To scatter them over the land in showers.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showedThe white of their leaves; the amber grainShrunk in the wind—and the lightning nowIs tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves; the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind—and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire, in the United States, there once lived a boy whose name was Daniel Webster. He was a tiny fellow for one of his age. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were so dark and wonderful that nobody who once saw them could ever forget them. He was not strong enough to help much on the farm; and so he spent much of his time in playing in the woods and fields. He loved the trees and flowers and the harmless wild creatures that made their homes among them.
But he did not play all the time. Long before he was old enough to go to school, he learned to read; and he read so well that everybody liked to hear him. The neighbors, when driving past his father’s house, would stop their horses and call for the boy to come out and read to them.
It happened one summer that a woodchuck made its burrow in the side of a hill near Mr. Webster’s house. On warm, dark nights it would come down into the garden and eat the tender leaves of the cabbages and other plants that were growing there. Nobody knew how much harm it might do in the end. Daniel and his elder brother Ezekiel made up their minds to catch the little thief. They tried this thing and that, but for a long time he was too cunning for them. Then they built a strong trap where the woodchuckwould be sure to walk into it; and the next morning, there he was.
“We have him at last!” cried Ezekiel. “Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you’ve done mischief enough, and I’m going to kill you.” But Daniel pitied the little animal. “No, don’t hurt him,” he said. “Let us carry him over the hills, far into the woods, and let him go.” Ezekiel, however, would not agree to this. His heart was not so tender as his little brother’s. He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed at the thought of letting it go.
“Let us ask father about it,” said Daniel.
“All right,” said Ezekiel; “I know what he will decide.”
They carried the trap, with the woodchuck in it, to their father, and asked what they should do.
“Well, boys,” said Mr. Webster, “we shall settle the question in this way. We shall hold a court here. I shall be the judge, and you shall be the lawyers. You shall each plead your case, for or against the prisoner, and I shall decide what his punishment shall be.”
Ezekiel, as the prosecutor, made the first speech. He told about the mischief that had been done. He showed that all woodchucks are bad and cannot be trusted. He spoke of the time and labor that had been spent in trying to catch the thief, and declared that if they should now set him free he would be a worse thief than before.
“A woodchuck’s skin,” he said, “may perhaps be sold forten cents. Small as that sum is, it will go a little way towards paying for the cabbages he has eaten. But, if we set him free, how shall we ever recover even a penny of what we have lost? Clearly, he is of more value dead than alive, and therefore he ought to be put out of the way at once.”
Ezekiel’s speech was a good one, and it pleased Mr. Webster very much. What he said was true and to the point, and it would be hard for Daniel to make any answer to it.
Daniel began by pleading for the poor animal’s life. He looked up into his father’s face, and said:—
“God made the woodchuck. He made him to live in the bright sunlight and the pure air. He made him to enjoy the free fields and the green woods. The woodchuck has a right to his life, for God gave it to him.
“God gives us our food. He gives us all that we have. And shall we refuse to share a little of it with this poor dumb creature who has as much right to God’s gifts as we have?
“The woodchuck is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. He lives in quiet and peace. A hole in the side of a hill, and a little food, is all he wants. He has harmed nothing but a few plants, which he ate to keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food, to liberty; and we have no right to say he shall not have them.
“Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble with fear. He cannot speak for himself, and this is the only wayin which he can plead for the life that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so cruel as to kill him? Shall we be so selfish as to take from him the life that God gave him?”
The father’s eyes were filled with tears as he listened. His heart was stirred. He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech, but sprang to his feet, and as he wiped the tears from his eyes, he cried out, “Ezekiel, let the woodchuck go!”
—Selected.
“And where have you been, my Mary,And where have you been from me?”“I’ve been to the top of Caldon LowThe midsummer night to see!”“And what did you see, my Mary,All up on the Caldon Low?”“I saw the glad sunshine come down,And I saw the merry winds blow.”“And what did you hear, my Mary,All up on the Caldon hill?”“I heard the drops the water made,And the oars of the green corn fill.”“Oh! tell me all, my Mary—All, all that ever you know;For you must have seen the fairiesLast night on the Caldon Low.”“Then take me on your knee, mother;And listen, mother of mine;A hundred fairies danced last night,And the harpers they were nine;“And their harp-strings rang so merrilyTo their dancing feet so small;But oh! the words of their talkingWere merrier far than all.”“And what were the words, my Mary,That then you heard them say?”—“I’ll tell you all, my mother;But let me have my way.“Some of them played with the water,And rolled it down the hill;‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turnThe poor old miller’s mill;“‘For there has been no waterEver since the first of May;And a busy man will the miller beAt the dawning of the day.“‘Oh! the miller, how he will laughWhen he sees the mill-dam rise!The jolly old miller, how he will laughTill the tears fill both his eyes!’“And some they seized the little windsThat sounded over the hill;And each put a horn unto his mouth,And blew both loud and shrill;“‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds goAway from every horn;And they shall clear the mildew dankFrom the blind old widow’s corn.“‘Oh! the poor blind widow,Though she has been blind so long,She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone,And the corn stands tall and strong.’“And some they brought the brown lint-seed,And flung it down from the Low;‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,In the weaver’s croft shall grow.“‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver,How he will laugh outrightWhen he sees his dwindling flax-fieldAll full of flowers by night!’“And then outspoke a brownie,With a long beard on his chin;‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,‘And I want some more to spin.“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,And I want to spin another;A little sheet for Mary’s bed,And an apron for her mother.’“With that I could not help but laugh,And I laughed out loud and free;And then on the top of the Caldon LowThere was no one left but me.“And all on the top of the Caldon LowThe mists were cold and gray,And nothing I saw but the mossy stonesThat round about me lay.“But, coming down from the hilltop,I heard afar below,How busy the jolly miller was,And how the wheel did go.“And I peeped into the widow’s field,And, sure enough, were seenThe yellow ears of the mildewed corn,All standing stout and green.“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,To see if the flax were sprung;And I met the weaver at his gate,With the good news on his tongue.“Now this is all I heard, mother,And all that I did see;So, prithee, make my bed, mother,For I’m tired as I can be.”—Mary Howitt.
“And where have you been, my Mary,And where have you been from me?”“I’ve been to the top of Caldon LowThe midsummer night to see!”“And what did you see, my Mary,All up on the Caldon Low?”“I saw the glad sunshine come down,And I saw the merry winds blow.”“And what did you hear, my Mary,All up on the Caldon hill?”“I heard the drops the water made,And the oars of the green corn fill.”“Oh! tell me all, my Mary—All, all that ever you know;For you must have seen the fairiesLast night on the Caldon Low.”“Then take me on your knee, mother;And listen, mother of mine;A hundred fairies danced last night,And the harpers they were nine;“And their harp-strings rang so merrilyTo their dancing feet so small;But oh! the words of their talkingWere merrier far than all.”“And what were the words, my Mary,That then you heard them say?”—“I’ll tell you all, my mother;But let me have my way.“Some of them played with the water,And rolled it down the hill;‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turnThe poor old miller’s mill;“‘For there has been no waterEver since the first of May;And a busy man will the miller beAt the dawning of the day.“‘Oh! the miller, how he will laughWhen he sees the mill-dam rise!The jolly old miller, how he will laughTill the tears fill both his eyes!’“And some they seized the little windsThat sounded over the hill;And each put a horn unto his mouth,And blew both loud and shrill;“‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds goAway from every horn;And they shall clear the mildew dankFrom the blind old widow’s corn.“‘Oh! the poor blind widow,Though she has been blind so long,She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone,And the corn stands tall and strong.’“And some they brought the brown lint-seed,And flung it down from the Low;‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,In the weaver’s croft shall grow.“‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver,How he will laugh outrightWhen he sees his dwindling flax-fieldAll full of flowers by night!’“And then outspoke a brownie,With a long beard on his chin;‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,‘And I want some more to spin.“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,And I want to spin another;A little sheet for Mary’s bed,And an apron for her mother.’“With that I could not help but laugh,And I laughed out loud and free;And then on the top of the Caldon LowThere was no one left but me.“And all on the top of the Caldon LowThe mists were cold and gray,And nothing I saw but the mossy stonesThat round about me lay.“But, coming down from the hilltop,I heard afar below,How busy the jolly miller was,And how the wheel did go.“And I peeped into the widow’s field,And, sure enough, were seenThe yellow ears of the mildewed corn,All standing stout and green.“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,To see if the flax were sprung;And I met the weaver at his gate,With the good news on his tongue.“Now this is all I heard, mother,And all that I did see;So, prithee, make my bed, mother,For I’m tired as I can be.”—Mary Howitt.
“And where have you been, my Mary,And where have you been from me?”“I’ve been to the top of Caldon LowThe midsummer night to see!”
“And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?”
“I’ve been to the top of Caldon Low
The midsummer night to see!”
“And what did you see, my Mary,All up on the Caldon Low?”“I saw the glad sunshine come down,And I saw the merry winds blow.”
“And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon Low?”
“I saw the glad sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.”
“And what did you hear, my Mary,All up on the Caldon hill?”“I heard the drops the water made,And the oars of the green corn fill.”
“And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon hill?”
“I heard the drops the water made,
And the oars of the green corn fill.”
“Oh! tell me all, my Mary—All, all that ever you know;For you must have seen the fairiesLast night on the Caldon Low.”
“Oh! tell me all, my Mary—
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies
Last night on the Caldon Low.”
“Then take me on your knee, mother;And listen, mother of mine;A hundred fairies danced last night,And the harpers they were nine;
“Then take me on your knee, mother;
And listen, mother of mine;
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine;
“And their harp-strings rang so merrilyTo their dancing feet so small;But oh! the words of their talkingWere merrier far than all.”
“And their harp-strings rang so merrily
To their dancing feet so small;
But oh! the words of their talking
Were merrier far than all.”
“And what were the words, my Mary,That then you heard them say?”—“I’ll tell you all, my mother;But let me have my way.
“And what were the words, my Mary,
That then you heard them say?”—
“I’ll tell you all, my mother;
But let me have my way.
“Some of them played with the water,And rolled it down the hill;‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turnThe poor old miller’s mill;
“Some of them played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill;
‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn
The poor old miller’s mill;
“‘For there has been no waterEver since the first of May;And a busy man will the miller beAt the dawning of the day.
“‘For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man will the miller be
At the dawning of the day.
“‘Oh! the miller, how he will laughWhen he sees the mill-dam rise!The jolly old miller, how he will laughTill the tears fill both his eyes!’
“‘Oh! the miller, how he will laugh
When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
Till the tears fill both his eyes!’
“And some they seized the little windsThat sounded over the hill;And each put a horn unto his mouth,And blew both loud and shrill;
“And some they seized the little winds
That sounded over the hill;
And each put a horn unto his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill;
“‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds goAway from every horn;And they shall clear the mildew dankFrom the blind old widow’s corn.
“‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds go
Away from every horn;
And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow’s corn.
“‘Oh! the poor blind widow,Though she has been blind so long,She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone,And the corn stands tall and strong.’
“‘Oh! the poor blind widow,
Though she has been blind so long,
She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone,
And the corn stands tall and strong.’
“And some they brought the brown lint-seed,And flung it down from the Low;‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,In the weaver’s croft shall grow.
“And some they brought the brown lint-seed,
And flung it down from the Low;
‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,
In the weaver’s croft shall grow.
“‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver,How he will laugh outrightWhen he sees his dwindling flax-fieldAll full of flowers by night!’
“‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver,
How he will laugh outright
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!’
“And then outspoke a brownie,With a long beard on his chin;‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,‘And I want some more to spin.
“And then outspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin;
‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,
‘And I want some more to spin.
“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,And I want to spin another;A little sheet for Mary’s bed,And an apron for her mother.’
“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another;
A little sheet for Mary’s bed,
And an apron for her mother.’
“With that I could not help but laugh,And I laughed out loud and free;And then on the top of the Caldon LowThere was no one left but me.
“With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon Low
There was no one left but me.
“And all on the top of the Caldon LowThe mists were cold and gray,And nothing I saw but the mossy stonesThat round about me lay.
“And all on the top of the Caldon Low
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.
“But, coming down from the hilltop,I heard afar below,How busy the jolly miller was,And how the wheel did go.
“But, coming down from the hilltop,
I heard afar below,
How busy the jolly miller was,
And how the wheel did go.
“And I peeped into the widow’s field,And, sure enough, were seenThe yellow ears of the mildewed corn,All standing stout and green.
“And I peeped into the widow’s field,
And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn,
All standing stout and green.
“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,To see if the flax were sprung;And I met the weaver at his gate,With the good news on his tongue.
“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,
To see if the flax were sprung;
And I met the weaver at his gate,
With the good news on his tongue.
“Now this is all I heard, mother,And all that I did see;So, prithee, make my bed, mother,For I’m tired as I can be.”—Mary Howitt.
“Now this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I’m tired as I can be.”
—Mary Howitt.
I was very late that morning on my way to school, and was afraid of being scolded, as the master had told us he should question us on the verbs, and I did not know the first word, for I had not studied my lesson. For a moment I thought of playing truant. The air was so warm and bright, and I could hear the blackbirds whistling in the edge of the woods, and the Prussians who were drilling in the meadow behind the sawmill. I liked this much better than learning the rules for verbs, but I did not dare to stop, so I ran quickly towards school.
As I passed the mayor’s office, I saw people standing before the little bulletin-board. For two years it was there that we received all the news of battles, of victories, and defeats. “What is it now?” I thought, without stoppingto look at the bulletin. Then, as I ran along, the blacksmith, who was there reading the bill, cried out to me, “Not so fast, little one, you shall reach your school soon enough.” I thought he was laughing at me and ran faster than ever, reaching the school yard quite out of breath.
Usually, at the beginning of school, a loud noise could be heard from the street. Desks were being opened and closed, and lessons repeated at the top of the voice. Occasionally the heavy ruler of the master beat the table, as he cried, “Silence, please, silence!” I hoped to be able to take my seat in all this noise without being seen; but that morning the room was quiet and orderly. Through the open window I saw my schoolmates already in their places. The master was walking up and down the room with the iron ruler under his arm and a book in his hand. As I entered he looked at me kindly, and said, without scolding, “Go quickly to your place, little Franz; we were just going to begin without you. You should have been here five minutes ago.”
I climbed over my bench and sat down at once at my desk. Just then I noticed, for the first time, that our master wore his fine green coat with the ruffled frills, and his black silk embroidered cap. But what surprised me more was to see some of the village people seated on the benches at the end of the room. One of them was holding an old spelling-book on his knee; and they all looked sadly at the master.
While I was wondering at this, our schoolmaster took hisplace, and in the same kind tone in which he had received me, he said: “My children, this is the last time that I shall give you a lesson. An order has come from Berlin that no language but German may be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. A new master will come to-morrow who shall teach you in German. To-day is your last lesson in French. I beg of you to pay good attention.”
These words frightened me. This is what they had posted on the bulletin-board, then! This is what the blacksmith was reading. My last lesson in French! I hardly knew how to write, and I never should learn now. How I longed for lost time, for hours wasted in the woods and fields, for days when I had played and should have studied. My books that a short time ago had seemed so tiresome, so heavy to carry, now seemed to me like old friends. I was thinking of this when I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say the rules without a mistake? But I could not say a word and stood at my bench without daring to lift my head. Then I heard the master speaking to me.
“I shall not scold you, little Franz. You are punished enough now. Every day you have said to yourself: ‘I have plenty of time. I shall learn my lesson to-morrow.’ Now you see what has happened.”
Then he began to talk to us about the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful tongue in the world,and that we must keep it among us and never forget it. Finally he took the grammar and read us the lesson. I was surprised to see how I understood. Everything seemed easy. I believe, too, that I never listened so well; and it seemed almost as if the good man were trying to teach us all he knew in this last lesson.