the spring was the strawberry plant. When the ground softened from the
frost, the Fruit-Elves loosened the earth around each strawberry root,
that its shoots might push through to the light. They shaped the plant's
leaves, and turned its blossoms toward the warm rays of the sun. They
trained its runners, and assisted the timid fruit to form. They painted
the luscious berry, and bade it ripen. And when the first strawberries
blushed on the vines, these guardian Elves protected them from the evil
insects that had escaped from the world of darkness underground.
And the old Iroquois grandmother tells, how once, when the fruit first
came to earth, the Evil Spirit, Hahgwehdaetgah, stole the strawberry
plant, and carried it to his gloomy cave, where he hid it away. And
there it lay until a tiny sunbeam pierced the damp mould, and finding
the little vine carried it back to its sunny fields. And ever since then
the strawberry plant has lived and thrived in the fields and woods. But
the Fruit-Elves, fearing lest the Evil One should one day steal the
vine again, watch day and night over their favorite. And when the
strawberries ripen they give the juicy, fragrant fruit to the Iroquois
children as they gather the spring flowers in the woods.
THE CANYON FLOWERS
BY RALPH CONNOR (ADAPTED)
At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One
day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where
were only grasses, asked the Prairie: “Where are your flowers?”
And the Prairie said: “Master, I have no seeds.”
Then he spoke to the birds, and they carried seeds of every kind of
flower and strewed them far and wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with
crocuses and roses and buffalo beans and the yellow crowfoot and the
wild sunflowers and the red lilies, all the summer long.
Then the Master came and was well pleased; but he missed the flowers he
loved best of all, and he said to the Prairie: “Where are the clematis
and the columbine, the sweet violets and wind-flowers, and all the ferns
and flowering shrubs?”
And again the Prairie answered: “Master, I have no seeds.”
And again he spoke to the birds and again they carried all the seeds and
strewed them far and wide.
But when next the Master came, he could not find the flowers he loved
best of all, and he said: “Where are those, my sweetest flowers?”
And the Prairie cried sorrowfully: “O Master, I cannot keep the flowers,
for the winds sweep fiercely, and the sun beats upon my breast, and they
wither up and fly away.”
Then the Master spoke to the Lightning, and with one swift blow the
Lightning cleft the Prairie to the heart. And the Prairie rocked and
groaned in agony, and for many a day moaned bitterly over its black,
jagged, gaping wound.
But a little river poured its waters through the cleft, and carried down
deep, black mould, and once more the birds carried seeds and strewed
them in the canyon. And after a long time the rough rocks were decked
out with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the nooks were hung
with clematis and columbine, and great elms lifted their huge tops high
up into the sunlight, and down about their feet clustered the low cedars
and balsams, and everywhere the violets and wind-flowers and maiden-hair
grew and bloomed till the canyon became the Master's place for rest and
peace and joy.
CLYTIE, THE HELIOTROPE
BY OVID (ADAPTED)
There was once a Nymph named Clytie, who gazed ever at Apollo as he
drove his sun-chariot through the heavens. She watched him as he rose in
the east attended by the rosy-fingered Dawn and the dancing Hours. She
gazed as he ascended the heavens, urging his steeds still higher in
the fierce heat of the noonday. She looked with wonder as at evening
he guided his steeds downward to their many-colored pastures under the
western sky, where they fed all night on ambrosia.
Apollo saw not Clytie. He had no thought for her, but he shed his
brightest beams upon her sister the white Nymph Leucothoe. And when
Clytie perceived this she was filled with envy and grief.
Night and day she sat on the bare ground weeping. For nine days and nine
nights she never raised herself from the earth, nor did she take food
or drink; but ever she turned her weeping eyes toward the sun-god as he
moved through the sky.
And her limbs became rooted to the ground. Green leaves enfolded her
body. Her beautiful face was concealed by tiny flowers, violet-colored
and sweet with perfume. Thus was she changed into a flower and her roots
held her fast to the ground; but ever she turned her blossom-covered
face toward the sun, following with eager gaze his daily flight. In vain
were her sorrow and tears, for Apollo regarded her not.
And so through the ages has the Nymph turned her dew-washed face toward
the heavens, and men no longer call her Clytie, but the sun-flower,
heliotrope.
HYACINTHUS
BY OVID (ADAPTED)
Once when the golden-beamed Apollo roamed the earth, he made a companion
of Hyacinthus, the son of King Amyclas of Lacedaemon; and him he loved
with an exceeding great love, for the lad was beautiful beyond compare.
The sun-god threw aside his lyre, and became the daily comrade of
Hyacinthus. Often they played games, or climbed the rugged mountain
ridges. Together they followed the chase or fished in the quiet and
shadowy pools; and the sun-god, unmindful of his dignity, carried the
lad's nets and held his dogs.
It happened on a day that the two friends stripped off their garments,
rubbed the juice of the olive upon their bodies, and engaged in throwing
the quoit. First Apollo poised it and tossed it far. It cleaved the air
with its weight and fell heavily to earth. At that moment Hyacinthus ran
forwards and hastened to take up the disc, but the hard earth sent
it rebounding straight into his face, so that he fell wounded to the
ground.
Ah! then, pale and fearful, the sun-god hastened to the side of his
fallen friend. He bore up the lad's sinking limbs and strove to stanch
his wound with healing herbs. All in vain! Alas! the wound would not
close. And as violets and lilies, when their stems are crushed,
hang their languid blossoms on their stalks and wither away, so did
Hyacinthus droop his beautiful head and die.
Then the sun-god, full of grief, cried aloud in his anguish: “O Beloved!
thou fallest in thy early youth, and I alone am the cause of thy
destruction! Oh, that I could give my life for thee or with thee! but
since Fate will not permit this, thou shalt ever be with me, and thy
praise shall dwell on my lips. My lyre struck with my hand, my songs,
too, shall celebrate thee! And thou, dear lad, shalt become a new
flower, and on thy leaves will I write my lamentations.”
And even as the sun-god spoke, behold! the blood that had flowed from
Hyacinthus's wound stained the grass, and a flower, like a lily in
shape, sprang up, more bright than Tyrian purple. On its leaves did
Apollo inscribe the mournful characters: “ai, ai,” which mean “alas!
alas!”
And as oft as the spring drives away the winter, so oft does Hyacinthus
blossom in the fresh, green grass.
ECHO AND NARCISSUS
BY OVID (ADAPTED)
Long ago, in the ancient world, there was born to the blue-eyed Nymph
Liriope, a beautiful boy, whom she called Narcissus. An oracle foretold
at his birth that he should be happy and live to a good old age if he
“never saw himself.” As this prophecy seemed ridiculous his mother soon
forgot all about it.
Narcissus grew to be a stately, handsome youth. His limbs were firm and
straight. Curls clustered about his white brow, and his eyes shone
like two stars. He loved to wander among the meadow flowers and in the
pathless woodland. But he disdained his playmates, and would not listen
to their entreaties to join in their games. His heart was cold, and in
it was neither hate nor love. He lived indifferent to youth or maid, to
friend or foe.
Now, in the forest near by dwelt a Nymph named Echo. She had been a
handmaiden of the goddess Juno. But though the Nymph was beautiful
of face, she was not loved. She had a noisy tongue. She told lies and
whispered slanders, and encouraged the other Nymphs in many misdoings.
So when Juno perceived all this, she ordered the troublesome Nymph away
from her court, and banished her to the wildwood, bidding her never
speak again except in imitation of other peoples' words. So Echo dwelt
in the woods, and forever mocked the words of youths and maidens.
One day as Narcissus was wandering alone in the pathless forest, Echo,
peeping from behind a tree, saw his beauty, and as she gazed her heart
was filled with love. Stealthily she followed his footsteps, and often
she tried to call to him with endearing words, but she could not speak,
for she no longer had a voice of her own.
At last Narcissus heard the sound of breaking branches, and he cried
out: “Is there any one here?”
And Echo answered softly: “Here!”
Narcissus, amazed, looking about on all sides and seeing no one, cried:
“Come!”
And Echo answered: “Come!”
Narcissus cried again: “Who art thou? Whom seekest thou?”
And Echo answered: “Thou!”
Then rushing from among the trees she tried to throw her arms about his
neck, but Narcissus fled through the forest, crying: “Away! away! I will
die before I love thee!”
And Echo answered mournfully: “I love thee!”
And thus rejected, she hid among the trees, and buried her blushing face
in the green leaves. And she pined, and pined, until her body wasted
quite away, and nothing but her voice was left. And some say that even
to this day her voice lives in lonely caves and answers men's words from
afar.
Now, when Narcissus fled from Echo, he came to a clear spring, like
silver. Its waters were unsullied, for neither goats feeding upon the
mountains nor any other cattle had drunk from it, nor had wild beasts or
birds disturbed it, nor had branch or leaf fallen into its calm waters.
The trees bent above and shaded it from the hot sun, and the soft, green
grass grew on its margin.
Here Narcissus, fatigued and thirsty after his flight, laid himself down
beside the spring to drink. He gazed into the mirror-like water, and saw
himself reflected in its tide. He knew not that it was his own image,
but thought that he saw a youth living in the spring.
He gazed on two eyes like stars, on graceful slender fingers, on
clustering curls worthy of Apollo, on a mouth arched like Cupid's bow,
on blushing cheeks and ivory neck. And as he gazed his cold heart grew
warm, and love for this beautiful reflection rose up and filled his
soul.
He rained kisses on the deceitful stream. He thrust his arms into the
water, and strove to grasp the image by the neck, but it fled away.
Again he kissed the stream, but the image mocked his love. And all day
and all night, lying there without food or drink, he continued to gaze
into the water. Then raising himself, he stretched out his arms to the
trees about him, and cried:--
“Did ever, O ye woods, one love as much as I! Have ye ever seen a lover
thus pine for the sake of unrequited affection?”
Then turning once more, Narcissus addressed his reflection in the limpid
stream:--
“Why, dear youth, dost thou flee away from me? Neither a vast sea, nor
a long way, nor a great mountain separates us! only a little water keeps
us apart! Why, dear lad, dost thou deceive me, and whither dost thou go
when I try to grasp thee? Thou encouragest me with friendly looks. When
I extend my arms, thou extendest thine; when I smile, thou smilest in
return; when I weep, thou weepest; but when I try to clasp thee beneath
the stream, thou shunnest me and fleest away! Grief is taking my
strength, and my life will soon be over! In my early days am I cut off,
nor is Death grievous to me, now that he is about to remove my sorrows!”
Thus mourned Narcissus, lying beside the woodland spring. He disturbed
the water with his tears, and made the woods to resound with his sighs.
And as the yellow wax is melted by the fire, or the hoar frost is
consumed by the heat of the sun, so did Narcissus pine away, his body
wasting by degrees.
And often as he sighed: “Alas!” the grieving Echo from the wood
answered: “Alas!”
With his last breath he looked into the water and sighed: “Ah, youth
beloved, farewell!” and Echo sighed: “Farewell!”
And Narcissus, laying his weary head upon the grass, closed his eyes
forever. The Water-Nymphs wept for him, and the Wood-Dryads lamented
him, and Echo resounded their mourning. But when they sought his body
it had vanished away, and in its stead had grown up by the brink of the
stream a little flower, with silver leaves and golden heart,--and thus
was born to earth the woodland flower, Narcissus.
MOTHERS' DAY
(SECOND SUNDAY IN MAY)
THE LARK AND ITS YOUNG ONES
A HINDU FABLE
BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU (ADAPTED)
A child went up to a lark and said: “Good lark, have you any young
ones?”
“Yes, child, I have,” said the mother lark, “and they are very pretty
ones, indeed.” Then she pointed to the little birds and said: “This is
Fair Wing, that is Tiny Bill, and that other is Bright Eyes.”
“At home, we are three,” said the child, “myself and two sisters. Mother
says that we are pretty children, and she loves us.”
To this the little larks replied: “Oh, yes, OUR mother is fond of us,
too.”
“Good mother lark,” said the child, “will you let Tiny Bill go home with
me and play?”
Before the mother lark could reply, Bright Eyes said: “Yes, if you will
send your little sister to play with us in our nest.”
“Oh, she will be so sorry to leave home,” said the child; “she could not
come away from our mother.”
“Tiny Bill will be so sorry to leave our nest,” answered Bright Eyes,
“and he will not go away from OUR mother.”
Then the child ran away to her mother, saying: “Ah, every one is fond of
home!”
CORNELIA'S JEWELS
BY JAMES BALDWIN [3]
[Footnote 3: From Fifty Famous Stories Retold. Copyright, 1896, by
American Book Company.]
It was a bright morning in the old city of Rome many hundred years ago.
In a vine-covered summer-house in a beautiful garden, two boys were
standing. They were looking at their mother and her friend, who were
walking among the flowers and trees.
“Did you ever see so handsome a lady as our mother's friend?” asked the
younger boy, holding his tall brother's hand. “She looks like a queen.”
“Yet she is not so beautiful as our mother,” said the elder boy. “She
has a fine dress, it is true; but her face is not noble and kind. It is
our mother who is like a queen.”
“That is true,” said the other. “There is no woman in Rome so much like
a queen as our own dear mother.”
Soon Cornelia, their mother, came down the walk to speak with them. She
was simply dressed in a plain, white robe. Her arms and feet were bare,
as was the custom in those days; and no rings or chains glittered about
her hands and neck. For her only crown, long braids of soft brown hair
were coiled about her head; and a tender smile lit up her noble face as
she looked into her sons' proud eyes.
“Boys,” she said, “I have something to tell you.”
They bowed before her, as Roman lads were taught to do, and said: “What
is it, mother?”
“You are to dine with us to-day, here in the garden; and then our friend
is going to show us that wonderful casket of jewels of which you have
heard so much.”
The brothers looked shyly at their mother's friend. Was it possible that
she had still other rings besides those on her fingers? Could she have
other gems besides those which sparkled in the chains about her neck?
When the simple outdoor meal was over, a servant brought the casket from
the house. The lady opened it. Ah, how those jewels dazzled the eyes
of the wondering boys! There were ropes of pearls, white as milk, and
smooth as satin; heaps of shining rubies, red as the glowing coals;
sapphires as blue as the sky that summer day; and diamonds that flashed
and sparkled like the sunlight.
The brothers looked long at the gems. “Ah!” whispered the younger; “if
our mother could only have such beautiful things!”
At last, however, the casket was closed and carried carefully away.
“Is it true, Cornelia, that you have no jewels?” asked her friend. “Is
it true, as I have heard it whispered, that you are poor?”
“No, I am not poor,” answered Cornelia, and as she spoke she drew her
two boys to her side; “for here are my jewels. They are worth more than
all your gems.”
The boys never forgot their mother's pride and love and care; and in
after years, when they had become great men in Rome, they often thought
of this scene in the garden. And the world still likes to hear the story
of Cornelia's jewels.
QUEEN MARGARET AND THE ROBBERS
BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL (ADAPTED)
One day when roses were in bloom, two noblemen came to angry words in
the Temple Gardens, by the side of the river Thames. In the midst of
their quarrel one of them plucked a white rose from a bush, and, turning
to those who were near him, said:--
“He who will stand by me in this quarrel, let him pluck a white rose
with me, and wear it in his hat.”
Then the other gentleman tore a red rose from another bush, and said:--
“Let him who will stand by me pluck a red rose, and wear it as his
badge.”
Now this quarrel led to a great civil war, which was called “The War of
the Roses,” for every soldier wore a white or red rose in his helmet to
show to which side he belonged.
The leaders of the “Red Rose” sided with King Henry the Sixth and his
wife, Queen Margaret, who were fighting for the English throne. Many
great battles were fought, and wicked deeds were done in those dreadful
times.
In a battle at a place called Hexham, the king's party was beaten, and
Queen Margaret and her little son, the Prince of Wales, had to flee for
their lives. They had not gone far before they met a band of robbers,
who stopped the queen and stole all her rich jewels, and, holding a
drawn sword over her head, threatened to take her life and that of her
child.
The poor queen, overcome by terror, fell upon her knees and begged them
to spare her only son, the little prince. But the robbers, turning from
her, began to fight among themselves as to how they should divide the
plunder, and, drawing their weapons, they attacked one another. When
the queen saw what was happening she sprang to her feet, and, taking the
prince by the hand, made haste to escape.
There was a thick wood close by, and the queen plunged into it, but she
was sorely afraid and trembled in every limb, for she knew that this
wood was the hiding-place of robbers and outlaws. Every tree seemed to
her excited fancy to be an armed man waiting to kill her and her little
son.
On and on she went through the dark wood, this way and that, seeking
some place of shelter, but not knowing where she was going. At last she
saw by the light of the moon a tall, fierce-looking man step out from
behind a tree. He came directly toward her, and she knew by his dress
that he was an outlaw. But thinking that he might have children of his
own, she determined to throw herself and her son upon his mercy.
When he came near she addressed him in a calm voice and with a stately
manner.
“Friend,” said she, “I am the queen. Kill me if thou wilt, but spare my
son, thy prince. Take him, I will trust him to thee. Keep him safe from
those that seek his life, and God will have pity on thee for all thy
sins.”
The words of the queen moved the heart of the outlaw. He told her that
he had once fought on her side, and was now hiding from the soldiers
of the “White Rose.” He then lifted the little prince in his arms, and,
bidding the queen follow, led the way to a cave in the rocks. There he
gave them food and shelter, and kept them safe for two days, when the
queen's friends and attendants, discovering their hiding-place, came and
took them far away.
If you ever go to Hexham Forest, you may see this robber's cave. It is
on the bank of a little stream that flows at the foot of a hill, and to
this day the people call it “Queen Margaret's Cave.”
THE REVENGE OF CORIOLANUS
BY CHARLES MORRIS (ADAPTED)
Caius Marcius was a noble Roman youth, who fought valiantly, when but
seventeen years of age, in the battle of Lake Regillus, and was there
crowned with an oaken wreath, the Roman reward for saving the life of a
fellow soldier. This he showed with joy to his mother, Volumnia, whom he
loved exceedingly, it being his greatest pleasure to receive praise from
her lips.
He afterward won many more crowns in battle, and became one of the
most famous of Roman soldiers. One of his memorable exploits took place
during a war with the Volscians, in which the Romans attacked the city
of Corioli. Through Caius's bravery the place was taken, and the Roman
general said: “Henceforth, let him be called after the name of this
city.” So ever after he was known as Caius Marcius Coriolanus.
Courage was not the only marked quality of Coriolanus. His pride was
equally great. He was a noble of the nobles, so haughty in demeanor and
so disdainful of the commons that they grew to hate him bitterly.
At length came a time of great scarcity of food. The people were on
the verge of famine, to relieve which shiploads of corn were sent from
Sicily to Rome. The Senate resolved to distribute this corn among the
suffering people, but Coriolanus opposed this, saying: “If they want
corn, let them promise to obey the Patricians, as their fathers did. Let
them give up their tribunes. If they do this we will let them have corn,
and take care of them.”
When the people heard of what the proud noble had said, they broke
into a fury, and a mob gathered around the doors of the Senate house,
prepared to seize and tear him in pieces when he came out. But the
tribunes prevented this, and Coriolanus fled from Rome, exiled from his
native land by his pride and disdain of the people.
The exile made his way to the land of the Volscians and became the
friend of Rome's great enemy, whom he had formerly helped to conquer.
He aroused the Volscians' ire against Rome, to a greater degree than
before, and placing himself at the head of a Volscian army greater
than the Roman forces, marched against his native city. The army swept
victoriously onward, taking city after city, and finally encamping
within five miles of Rome.
The approach of this powerful host threw the Romans into dismay. They
had been assailed so suddenly that they had made no preparations for
defense, and the city seemed to lie at the mercy of its foes. The
women ran to the temples to pray for the favor of the gods. The people
demanded that the Senate should send deputies to the invading army to
treat for peace.
The Senate, no less frightened than the people, obeyed, sending five
leading Patricians to the Volscian camp. These deputies were haughtily
received by Coriolanus, who offered them such severe terms that they
were unable to accept them. They returned and reported the matter, and
the Senate was thrown into confusion. The deputies were sent again,
instructed to ask for gentler terms, but now Coriolanus refused even
to let them enter his camp. This harsh repulse plunged Rome into mortal
terror.
All else having failed, the noble women of Rome, with Volumnia, the
mother of Coriolanus, at their head, went in procession from the city to
the Volscian camp to pray for mercy.
It was a sad and solemn spectacle, as this train of noble ladies, clad
in their habiliments of woe, and with bent heads and sorrowful faces,
wound through the hostile camp, from which they were not excluded as the
deputies had been. Even the Volscian soldiers watched them with pitying
eyes, and spoke no scornful word as they moved slowly past.
On reaching the midst of the camp, they saw Coriolanus on the general's
seat, with the Volscian chiefs gathered around him. At first he wondered
who these women could be; but when they came near, and he saw his mother
at the head of the train, his deep love for her welled up so strongly in
his heart that he could not restrain himself, but sprang up and ran to
meet and kiss her.
The Roman matron stopped him with a dignified gesture. “Ere you kiss
me,” she said, “let me know whether I speak to an enemy or to my son;
whether I stand here as your prisoner or your mother.”
He stood before her in silence, with bent head, and unable to answer.
“Must it, then, be that if I had never borne a son, Rome would have
never seen the camp of an enemy?” said Volumnia, in sorrowful tones.
“But I am too old to endure much longer your shame and my misery. Think
not of me, but of your wife and children, whom you would doom to death
or to life in bondage.”
Then Virgilia, his wife, and his children, came forward and kissed him,
and all the noble ladies in the train burst into tears and bemoaned the
peril of their country.
Coriolanus still stood silent, his face working with contending
thoughts. At length he cried out in heart-rending accents: “O mother!
What have you done to me?”
Then clasping her hand he wrung it vehemently, saying: “Mother, the
victory is yours! A happy victory for you and Rome! but shame and ruin
for your son.”