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[Illustration: AFTER THE SNOW-STORM.]
ST. NICHOLAS.
VOL. V.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
No. 4.
[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]
THE SHEPHERD-BOY.
BY EMILY S. OAKEY.
Little Roy led his sheep down to pasture,
And his cows, by the side of the brook;
But his cows never drank any water,
And his sheep never needed a crook.
For the pasture was gay as a garden,
And it glowed with a flowery red;
But the meadows had never a grass-blade,
And the brooklet--it slept in its bed;
And it lay without sparkle or murmur,
Nor reflected the blue of the skies.
But the music was made by the shepherd,
And the sparkle was all in his eyes.
Oh, he sang like a bird in the summer!
And, if sometimes you fancied a bleat,
That, too, was the voice of the shepherd,
And not of the lambs at his feet.
And the glossy brown cows were so gentle
That they moved at the touch of his hand
O'er the wonderful rosy-red meadow,
And they stood at his word of command.
So he led all his sheep to the pasture,
And his cows, by the side of the brook;
Though it rained, yet the rain never patter'd
O'er the beautiful way that they took.
And it wasn't in Fairy-land either,
But a house in a commonplace town,
Where Roy as he looked from the window
Saw the silvery drops trickle down.
For his pasture was only a table,
With its cover so flowery fair,
And his brooklet was just a green ribbon
That his sister had lost from her hair.
And his cows they were glossy horse-chestnuts,
That had grown on his grandfather's tree;
And his sheep they were snowy-white pebbles
He had brought from the shore by the sea.
And at length, when the shepherd was weary,
And had taken his milk and his bread,
And his mother had kissed him and tucked him,
And had bid him "good-night" in his bed,
Then there enter'd his big brother Walter,
While the shepherd was soundly asleep,
And he cut up the cows into baskets,
And to jack-stones turned all of the sheep.
THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS.
(_A Story of the Middle Ages._)
BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRONICLES OF THE SCHÖNBERG-COTTA FAMILY."
CHAPTER III.
The next day, Gottlieb began his training among the other choristers.
It was not easy.
The choir-master showed his appreciation of his raw treasure by
straining every nerve to make it as perfect as possible; and therefore
he found more fault with Gottlieb than with any one else.
The other boys might, he could not but observe, sing carelessly enough,
so that the general harmony was pretty good; but every note of his
seemed as if it were a solo which the master's ear never missed, and
not the slightest mistake was allowed to pass.
The other choristers understood very well what this meant, and some of
them were not a little jealous of the new favorite, as they called him.
But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange. He was always
straining to do his very best, and yet he never seemed to satisfy. The
better he did, the better the master wanted him to do, until he grew
almost hopeless.
He would not, for the world, complain to his mother; but on the third
evening she observed that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed
scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen.
She knew it is of little use to ask little children what ails them,
because so often their trouble is that they do not know. Some little
delicate string within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and
think the whole world is out of tune. So she quietly put Lenichen to
bed, and after the boy had said his prayers as usual at her knee, she
laid her hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair curls, and
then she lifted up his face to hers and kissed the little troubled brow
and quivering lips.
"Dear little golden mouth!" she said, fondly, "that earns bread, and
sleep, for the little sister and for me! I heard the sweet notes
to-day, and I thanked God. And I felt as if the dear father was hearing
them too, even through the songs in heaven."
The child's heart was opened, the quivering lips broke into a sob, and
the face was hidden on her knee.
"It will not be for long, mother!" he said. "The master has found fault
with me more than ever to-day. He made me sing passage after passage
over and over, until some of the boys were quite angry, and said,
afterward, they wished I and my voice were with the old hermit who
houses us. Yet he never seemed pleased. He did not even say it was any
better."
"But he never gave you up, darling!" she said.
"No; he only told me to come early, alone, to-morrow, and he would give
me a lesson by myself, and perhaps I should learn better."
A twinkle of joy danced in her eyes, dimmed with so many tears.
"Silly child!" she said, fondly, "as silly as thy poor mother herself!
The master only takes trouble, and chastens and rebukes, because he
thinks it is worth while, because thou art trying and learning, and art
doing a little better day by day. He knows what thy best can be, and
will never be content with anything but thy very best."
"Is it that, mother? Is it indeed that?" said the boy, looking up with
a sudden dawning of hope.
And a sweet dawn of promise met him in his mother's eyes as she
answered:
"It is even that, my own, for thee and for me!"