magnificent orchard full of the finest fruit trees, so that his skill
and his beautiful trees were famous everywhere.
One day the farmer went into town to visit his brother, and was
astonished at the rows of trees that grew slender and smooth as wax
tapers.
“Look, my brother,” said the gardener; “I will give you an apple tree,
the best from my garden, and you, and your children, and your children's
children shall enjoy it.”
Then the gardener called his workmen and ordered them to take up the
tree and carry it to his brother's farm. They did so, and the next
morning the farmer began to wonder where he should plant it.
“If I plant it on the hill,” said he to himself, “the wind might catch
it and shake down the delicious fruit before it is ripe; if I plant it
close to the road, passers-by will see it and rob me of its luscious
apples; but if I plant it too near the door of my house, my servants or
the children may pick the fruit.”
So, after he had thought the matter over, he planted the tree behind his
barn, saying to himself: “Prying thieves will not think to look for it
here.”
But behold, the tree bore neither fruit nor blossoms the first year
nor the second; then the farmer sent for his brother the gardener, and
reproached him angrily, saying:--
“You have deceived me, and given me a barren tree instead of a fruitful
one. For, behold, this is the third year and still it brings forth
nothing but leaves!”
The gardener, when he saw where the tree was planted, laughed and
said:--
“You have planted the tree where it is exposed to cold winds, and has
neither sun nor warmth. How, then, could you expect flowers and fruit?
You have planted the tree with a greedy and suspicious heart; how, then,
could you expect to reap a rich and generous harvest?”
THE DRYAD OF THE OLD OAK
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (ADAPTED)
In olden times there was a youth named Rhoecus. One day as he wandered
through the wood he saw an ancient oak tree, trembling and about to
fall. Full of pity for so fair a tree, Rhoecus carefully propped up its
trunk, and as he did so he heard a soft voice murmur:--
“Rhoecus!”
It sounded like the gentle sighing of the wind through the leaves; and
while Rhoecus paused bewildered to listen, again he heard the murmur
like a soft breeze:--
“Rhoecus!”
And there stood before him, in the green glooms of the shadowy oak, a
wonderful maiden.
“Rhoecus,” said she, in low-toned words, serene and full, and as clear
as drops of dew, “I am the Dryad of this tree, and with it I am doomed
to live and die. Thou hadst compassion on my oak, and in saving it thou
hast saved my life. Now, ask me what thou wilt that I can give, and it
shall be thine.”
“Beauteous nymph,” answered Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart,
“surely nothing will satisfy the craving of my soul save to be with thee
forever. Give to me thy love!”
“I give it, Rhoecus,” answered she with sadness in her voice, “though it
be a perilous gift. An hour before sunset meet me here.”
And straightway she vanished, and Rhoecus could see nothing but the
green glooms beneath the shadowy oak. Not a sound came to his straining
ears but the low, trickling rustle of the leaves, and, from far away on
the emerald slope, the sweet sound of an idle shepherd's pipe.
Filled with wonder and joy Rhoecus turned his steps homeward. The earth
seemed to spring beneath him as he walked. The clear, broad sky looked
bluer than its wont, and so full of joy was he that he could scarce
believe that he had not wings.
Impatient for the trysting-time, he sought some companions, and to while
away the tedious hours, he played at dice, and soon forgot all else.
The dice were rattling their merriest, and Rhoecus had just laughed in
triumph at a happy throw, when through the open window of the room
there hummed a yellow bee. It buzzed about his ears, and seemed ready
to alight upon his head. At this Rhoecus laughed, and with a rough,
impatient hand he brushed it off and cried:--
“The silly insect! does it take me for a rose?”
But still the bee came back. Three times it buzzed about his head, and
three times he rudely beat it back. Then straight through the window
flew the wounded bee, while Rhoecus watched its fight with angry eyes.
And as he looked--O sorrow!--the red disk of the setting sun descended
behind the sharp mountain peak of Thessaly.
Then instantly the blood sank from his heart, as if its very walls had
caved in, for he remembered the trysting-hour-now gone by! Without a
word he turned and rushed forth madly through the city and the gate,
over the fields into the wood.
Spent of breath he reached the tree, and, listening fearfully, he heard
once more the low voice murmur:--
“Rhoecus!”
But as he looked he could see nothing but the deepening glooms beneath
the oak.
Then the voice sighed: “O Rhoecus, nevermore shalt thou behold me by day
or night! Why didst thou fail to come ere sunset? Why didst thou scorn
my humble messenger, and send it back to me with bruised wings? We
spirits only show ourselves to gentle eyes! And he who scorns the
smallest thing alive is forever shut away from all that is beautiful in
woods and fields. Farewell! for thou canst see me no more!”
Then Rhoecus beat his breast and groaned aloud. “Be pitiful,” he cried.
“Forgive me yet this once!”
“Alas,” the voice replied, “I am not unmerciful! I can forgive! But I
have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes, nor can I change the temper of
thy heart.” And then again she murmured, “Nevermore!”
And after that Rhoecus heard no other sound, save the rustling of the
oak's crisp leaves, like surf upon a distant shore.
DAPHNE
BY OVID (ADAPTED)
In ancient times, when Apollo, the god of the shining sun, roamed the
earth, he met Cupid, who with bended bow and drawn string was seeking
human beings to wound with the arrows of love.
“Silly boy,” said Apollo, “what dost thou with the warlike bow? Such
burden best befits my shoulders, for did I not slay the fierce serpent,
the Python, whose baleful breath destroyed all that came nigh him?
Warlike arms are for the mighty, not for boys like thee! Do thou carry a
torch with which to kindle love in human hearts, but no longer lay claim
to my weapon, the bow!”
But Cupid replied in anger: “Let thy bow shoot what it will, Apollo, but
my bow shall shoot THEE!” And the god of love rose up, and beating the
air with his wings, he drew two magic arrows from his quiver. One was
of shining gold and with its barbed point could Cupid inflict wounds of
love; the other arrow was of dull silver and its wound had the power to
engender hate.
The silver arrow Cupid fixed in the breast of Daphne, the daughter of
the river-god Peneus; and forthwith she fled away from the homes of men,
and hunted beasts in the forest.
With the golden arrow Cupid grievously wounded Apollo, who fleeing to
the woods saw there the Nymph Daphne pursuing the deer; and straightway
the sun-god fell in love with her beauty. Her golden locks hung down
upon her neck, her eyes were like stars, her form was slender and
graceful and clothed in clinging white. Swifter than the light wind she
flew, and Apollo followed after.
“O Nymph! daughter of Peneus,” he cried, “stay, I entreat thee! Why dost
thou fly as a lamb from the wolf, as a deer from the lion, or as a dove
with trembling wings Bees from the eagle! I am no common man! I am no
shepherd! Thou knowest not, rash maid, from whom thou art flying! The
priests of Delphi and Tenedos pay their service to me. Jupiter is my
sire. Mine own arrow is unerring, but Cupid's aim is truer, for he has
made this wound in my heart! Alas! wretched me! though I am that great
one who discovered the art of healing, yet this love may not be healed
by my herbs nor my skill!”
But Daphne stopped not at these words, she flew from him with timid
step. The winds fluttered her garments, the light breezes spread her
flowing locks behind her. Swiftly Apollo drew near even as the keen
greyhound draws near to the frightened hare he is pursuing. With
trembling limbs Daphne sought the river, the home of her father, Peneus.
Close behind her was Apollo, the sun-god. She felt his breath on her
hair and his hand on her shoulder. Her strength was spent, she grew
pale, and in faint accents she implored the river:--
“O save me, my father, save me from Apollo, the sun-god!”
Scarcely had she thus spoken before a heaviness seized her limbs. Her
breast was covered with bark, her hair grew into green leaves, and her
arms into branches. Her feet, a moment before so swift, became rooted to
the ground. And Daphne was no longer a Nymph, but a green laurel tree.
When Apollo beheld this change he cried out and embraced the tree, and
kissed its leaves.
“Beautiful Daphne,” he said, “since thou cannot be my bride, yet shalt
thou be my tree. Henceforth my hair, my lyre, and my quiver shall be
adorned with laurel. Thy wreaths shall be given to conquering chiefs,
to winners of fame and joy; and as my head has never been shorn of its
locks, so shalt thou wear thy green leaves, winter and summer--forever!”
Apollo ceased speaking and the laurel bent its new-made boughs in
assent, and its stem seemed to shake and its leaves gently to murmur.
BIRD DAY
THE OLD WOMAN WHO BECAME A WOODPECKER
BY PHOEBE CARY (ADAPTED)
Afar in the Northland, where the winter days are so short and the nights
so long, and where they harness the reindeer to sledges, and where the
children look like bear's cubs in their funny, furry clothes, there,
long ago, wandered a good Saint on the snowy roads.
He came one day to the door of a cottage, and looking in saw a little
old woman making cakes, and baking them on the hearth.
Now, the good Saint was faint with fasting, and he asked if she would
give him one small cake wherewith to stay his hunger.
So the little old woman made a VERY SMALL cake and placed it on the
hearth; but as it lay baking she looked at it and thought: “That is a
big cake, indeed, quite too big for me to give away.”
Then she kneaded another cake, much smaller, and laid that on the hearth
to cook, but when she turned it over it looked larger than the first.
So she took a tiny scrap of dough, and rolled it out, and rolled it out,
and baked it as thin as a wafer; but when it was done it looked so large
that she could not bear to part with it; and she said: “My cakes are
much too big to give away,”--and she put them on the shelf.
Then the good Saint grew angry, for he was hungry and faint. “You are
too selfish to have a human form,” said he. “You are too greedy to
deserve food, shelter, and a warm fire. Instead, henceforth, you shall
build as the birds do, and get your scanty living by picking up nuts and
berries and by boring, boring all the day long, in the bark of trees.”
Hardly had the good Saint said this when the little old woman went
straight up the chimney, and came out at the top changed into a
red-headed woodpecker with coal-black feathers.
And now every country boy may see her in the woods, where she lives in
trees boring, boring, boring for her food.
THE BOY WHO BECAME A ROBIN
AN OJIBBEWAY LEGEND
BY HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT (ADAPTED)
Once upon a time there was an old Indian who had an only son, whose name
was Opeechee. The boy had come to the age when every Indian lad makes a
long fast, in order to secure a Spirit to be his guardian for life.
Now, the old man was very proud, and he wished his son to fast longer
than other boys, and to become a greater warrior than all others. So he
directed him to prepare with solemn ceremonies for the fast.
After the boy had been in the sweating lodge and bath several times,
his father commanded him to lie down upon a clean mat, in a little lodge
apart from the rest.
“My son,” said he, “endure your hunger like a man, and at the end of
TWELVE DAYS, you shall receive food and a blessing from my hands.”
The boy carefully did all that his father commanded, and lay quietly
with his face covered, awaiting the arrival of his guardian Spirit who
was to bring him good or bad dreams.
His father visited him every day, encouraging him to endure with
patience the pangs of hunger and thirst. He told him of the honor and
renown that would be his if he continued his fast to the end of the
twelve days.
To all this the boy replied not, but lay on his mat without a murmur of
discontent, until the ninth day; when he said:--
“My father, the dreams tell me of evil. May I break my fast now, and at
a better time make a new one?”
“My son,” replied the old man, “you know not what you ask. If you get
up now, all your glory will depart. Wait patiently a little longer. You
have but three days more to fast, then glory and honor will be yours.”
The boy said nothing more, but, covering himself closer, he lay until
the eleventh day, when he spoke again:--
“My father,” said he, “the dreams forebode evil. May I break my fast
now, and at a better time make a new one?”
“My son,” replied the old man again, “you know not what you ask. Wait
patiently a little longer. You have but one more day to fast. To-morrow
I will myself prepare a meal and bring it to you.”
The boy remained silent, beneath his covering, and motionless except for
the gentle heaving of his breast.
Early the next morning his father, overjoyed at having gained his end,
prepared some food. He took it and hastened to the lodge intending to
set it before his son.
On coming to the door of the lodge what was his surprise to hear the boy
talking to some one. He lifted the curtain hanging before the doorway,
and looking in saw his son painting his breast with vermilion. And as
the lad laid on the bright color as far back on his shoulders as he
could reach, he was saying to himself:--
“My father has destroyed my fortune as a man. He would not listen to my
requests. I shall be happy forever, because I was obedient to my parent;
but he shall suffer. My guardian Spirit has given me a new form, and now
I must go!”
At this his father rushed into the lodge, crying:
“My son! my son! I pray you leave me not!”
But the boy, with the quickness of a bird, flew to the top of the lodge,
and perching upon the highest pole, was instantly changed into a most
beautiful robin redbreast.
He looked down on his father with pity in his eyes, and said:--
“Do not sorrow, O my father, I am no longer your boy, but Opeechee the
robin. I shall always be a friend to men, and live near their dwellings.
I shall ever be happy and content. Every day will I sing you songs of
joy. The mountains and fields yield me food. My pathway is in the bright
air.”
Then Opeechee the robin stretched himself as if delighting in his new
wings, and caroling his sweetest song, he flew away to the near-by
trees.
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW
BY A. B. MITFORD (ADAPTED)
Once upon a time there lived a little old man and a little old woman.
The little old man had a kind heart, and he kept a young sparrow, which
he cared for tenderly. Every morning it used to sing at the door of his
house.
Now, the little old woman was a cross old thing, and one day when she
was going to starch her linen, the sparrow pecked at her paste. Then she
flew into a great rage and cut the sparrow's tongue and let the bird fly
away.
When the little old man came home from the hills, where he had been
chopping wood, he found the sparrow gone.
“Where is my little sparrow?” asked he.
“It pecked at my starching-paste,” answered the little old woman, “so I
cut its evil tongue and let it fly away.”
“Alas! Alas!” cried the little old man. “Poor thing! Poor thing! Poor
little tongue-cut sparrow! Where is your home now?”
And then he wandered far and wide seeking his pet and crying:--
“Mr. Sparrow, Mr. Sparrow, where are you living?”
And he wandered on and on, over mountain and valley, and dale and river,
until one day at the foot of a certain mountain he met the lost bird.
The little old man was filled with joy and the sparrow welcomed him with
its sweetest song.
It led the little old man to its nest-house, introduced him to its wife
and small sparrows, and set before him all sorts of good things to eat
and drink.
“Please partake of our humble fare,” sang the sparrow; “poor as it is,
you are welcome.”
“What a polite sparrow,” answered the little old man, and he stayed for
a long time as the bird's guest. At last one day the little old man said
that he must take his leave and return home.
“Wait a bit,” said the sparrow.
And it went into the house and brought out two wicker baskets. One was
very heavy and the other light.
“Take the one you wish,” said the sparrow, “and good fortune go with
you.”
“I am very feeble,” answered the little old man, “so I will take the
light one.”
He thanked the sparrow, and, shouldering the basket, said good-bye. Then
he trudged off leaving the sparrow family sad and lonely.
When he reached home the little old woman was very angry, and began to
scold him, saying:--
“Well, and pray where have you been all these days? A pretty thing,
indeed, for you to be gadding about like this!”
“Oh,” he replied, “I have been on a visit to the tongue-cut sparrow, and
when I came away it gave me this wicker basket as a parting gift.”
Then they opened the basket to see what was inside, and lo and behold!
it was full of gold, silver, and other precious things!
The little old woman was as greedy as she was cross, and when she saw
all the riches spread before her, she could not contain herself for joy.
“Ho! Ho!” cried she. “Now I'll go and call on the sparrow, and get a
pretty present, too!”
She asked the old man the way to the sparrow's house and set forth on
her journey. And she wandered on and on over mountain and valley, and
dale and river, until at last she saw the tongue-cut sparrow.
“Well met, well met, Mr. Sparrow,” cried she. “I have been looking
forward with much pleasure to seeing you.” And then she tried to flatter
it with soft, sweet words.
So the bird had to invite her to its nest-house, but it did not feast
her nor say anything about a parting gift. At last the little old woman
had to go, and she asked for something to carry with her to remember the
visit by. The sparrow, as before, brought out two wicker baskets. One
was very heavy and the other light.
The greedy little old woman, choosing the heavy one, carried it off with
her.
She hurried home as fast as she was able, and closing her doors and
windows so that no one might see, opened the basket. And, lo and behold!
out jumped all sorts of wicked hobgoblins and imps, and they scratched
and pinched her to death.
As for the little old man he adopted a son, and his family grew rich and
prosperous.
THE QUAILS--A LEGEND OF THE JATAKA
FROM THE RIVERSIDE FOURTH READER
Ages ago a flock of more than a thousand quails lived together in a
forest in India. They would have been happy, but that they were in great
dread of their enemy, the quail-catcher. He used to imitate the call
of the quail; and when they gathered together in answer to it, he would
throw a great net over them, stuff them into his basket, and carry them
away to be sold.
Now, one of the quails was very wise, and he said:--
“Brothers! I've thought of a good plan. In future, as soon as the fowler
throws his net over us, let each one put his head through a mesh in the
net and then all lift it up together and fly away with it. When we have
flown far enough, we can let the net drop on a thorn bush and escape
from under it.”
All agreed to the plan; and next day when the fowler threw his net, the
birds all lifted it together in the very way that the wise quail had
told them, threw it on a thorn bush and escaped. While the fowler tried
to free his net from the thorns, it grew dark, and he had to go home.
This happened many days, till at last the fowler's wife grew angry and
asked her husband:--
“Why is it that you never catch any more quail?”
Then the fowler said: “The trouble is that all the birds work together
and help one another. If they would only quarrel, I could catch them
fast enough.”
A few days later, one of the quails accidentally trod on the head of one
of his brothers, as they alighted on the feeding-ground.
“Who trod on my head?” angrily inquired the quail who was hurt.
“Don't be angry, I didn't mean to tread on you,” said the first quail.
But the brother quail went on quarreling.
“I lifted all the weight of the net; you didn't help at all,” he cried.
That made the first quail angry, and before long all were drawn into
the dispute. Then the fowler saw his chance. He imitated the cry of the
quail and cast his net over those who came together. They were still
boasting and quarreling, and they did not help one another lift the net.
So the hunter lifted the net himself and crammed them into his basket.
But the wise quail gathered his friends together and flew far away, for
he knew that quarrels are the root of misfortune.
THE MAGPIE'S NEST
BY JOSEPH JACOBS
All the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach
them how to build nests. For the magpie is the cleverest bird of all
at building nests. So she put all the birds round her and began to show
them how to do it. First of all she took some mud and made a sort of
round cake with it.
“Oh, that's how it's done!” said the thrush, and away it flew; and so
that's how thrushes build their nests.
Then the magpie took some twigs and arranged them round in the mud.
“Now I know all about it!” said the blackbird, and off it flew; and
that's how the blackbirds make their nests to this very day.
Then the magpie put another layer of mud over the twigs.
“Oh, that 's quite obvious!” said the wise owl, and away it flew; and
owls have never made better nests since.
After this the magpie took some twigs and twined them round the outside.
“The very thing!” said the sparrow, and off he went; so sparrows make
rather slovenly nests to this day.
Well, then Madge magpie took some feathers and stuff, and lined the nest
very comfortably with it.
“That suits me!” cried the starling, and off it flew; and very
comfortable nests have starlings.
So it went on, every bird taking away some knowledge of how to build
nests, but none of them waiting to the end.
Meanwhile Madge magpie went on working and working without looking up,
till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't
paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry:
“Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o!”
At last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across, so
she said: “One's enough.”
But the turtle-dove kept on saying: “Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o!”
Then the magpie got angry and said: “One's enough, I tell you!”
Still the turtle-dove cried: “Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o!”
At last, and at last, the magpie looked up and saw nobody near her but
the silly turtle-dove, and then she got rarely angry and flew away and
refused to tell the birds how to build nests again.
And that is why different birds build their nests differently.
THE GREEDY GEESE
FROM IL LIBRO D'ORO (ADAPTED)
Many years ago there was near the sea a convent famed for the rich crops
of grain that grew on its farm. On a certain year a large flock of wild
geese descended on its fields and devoured first the corn, and then the
green blades.
The superintendent of the farm hastened to the convent and called the
lady abbess.
“Holy mother,” said he, “this year the nuns will have to fast
continually, for there will be no food.”
“Why is that?” asked the abbess.
“Because,” answered the superintendent, “a flood of wild geese has
rained upon the land, and they have eaten up the corn, nor have they
left a single green blade.”
“Is it possible,” said the abbess, “that these wicked birds have no
respect for the property of the convent! They shall do penance for their
misdeeds. Return at once to the fields, and order the geese from me to
come without delay to the convent door, so that they may receive just
punishment for their greediness.”
“But, mother,” said the superintendent, “this is not a time for jesting!
These are not sheep to be guided into the fold, but birds with long,
strong wings, to fly away with.”
“Do you understand me!” answered the abbess. “Go at once, and bid them
come to me without delay, and render an account of their misdeeds.”
The superintendent ran back to the farm, and found the flock of
evildoers still there. He raised his voice and clapping his hands,
cried:--
“Come, come, ye greedy geese! The lady abbess commands you to hasten to
the convent door!”
Wonderful sight! Hardly had he uttered these words than the geese raised
their necks as if to listen, then, without spreading their wings, they
placed themselves in single file, and in regular order began to march
toward the convent. As they proceeded they bowed their heads as if
confessing their fault and as though about to receive punishment.