lake, twinkling with stars, sang a lullaby as it lifted its weary
little waves upon the shore: there was no other sound.
It seemed that daylight never would come; but at last the trees
turned slowly from black to green, and the lake put out its stars,
one by one, and waited for the new day.
Cora, who had been wandering restlessly in every direction, now went
weeping into the cottage. “Poor boy!” she sobbed; “he had no
supper.” Then she scattered breadcrumbs near the doorway, hoping
that Ruky would come for them; but only a few timid little songsters
hovered about, and, while Cora wept, picked up the food daintily, as
though it burned their bills. When she reached forth her hand,
though there were no crows among them, and called “Ruky! Ruky!” they
scattered and flew away in an instant.
Next she went to the steep-roofed barn, and, bringing out an
apronful of grain, scattered it all around his favorite tree. Before
long, to her great joy, a flock of crows came by. They spied the
grain, and soon were busily picking it up with their short,
feathered bills. One even came near the mound where she sat. Unable
to restrain herself longer, she fell upon her knees with an
imploring cry:
“Oh, Ruky! is this you?”
Instantly the entire flock set up an angry “caw,” and, surrounding
the crow, who was hopping closer and closer to Cora, hurried him
off, until they all looked like mere specks against the summer sky.
Every day, rain or shine, she scattered the grain, trembling with
dread lest Nep should leap among the hungry crows, and perhaps kill
her “little bird” first. But Nep knew better; he never stirred when
the noisy crowd settled around the cottage, excepting once, when one
of them pounced upon his back. Then he started up, wagging his tail,
and barking with uproarious delight. The crow flew off in a flutter,
and did not venture near him again.
Poor Cora felt sure that this could be no other than Ruky. Oh, if
she only could have caught him then! Perhaps with kisses and prayers
she might have won him back to Ruky’s shape; but now the chance was
lost.
There was no one to help her; for the nearest neighbor dwelt miles
away, and her uncle had not yet returned.
After a-while she remembered the little cup, and, filling it with
grain, stood it upon a grassy mound. When the crows came, they
fought and struggled for its contents with many an angry cry. One of
them made no effort to seize the grain. He was content to peck at
the berries painted upon its sides, as he hopped joyfully around it
again and again. Nep lay very quiet. Only the tip of his tail
twitched with an eager, wistful motion. But Cora sprang joyfully
toward the bird.
“It _is_ Ruky!” she cried, striving to catch it.
Alas! the cup lay shattered beneath her hand, as, with a taunting
“caw, caw,” the crow joined its fellows and flew away.
Next, gunners came. They were looking for other birds; but they
hated the crows, Cora knew, and she trembled for Ruky. She heard the
sharp crack of fowling-pieces in the forest, and shuddered whenever
Nep, pricking up his ears, darted with an angry howl in the
direction of the sound. She knew, too, that her uncle had set traps
for the crows, and it seemed to her that the whole world was against
the poor birds, plotting their destruction.
Time flew by. The leaves seemed to flash into bright colors and fall
off almost in a day. Frost and snow came. Still the uncle had not
returned, or, if he had, she did not know it. Her brain was
bewildered. She knew not whether she ate or slept. Only the terrible
firing reached her ears, or that living black cloud came and went
with its ceaseless “caw.”
At last, during a terrible night of wind and storm, Cora felt that
she must go forth and seek her poor bird.
“Perhaps he is freezing—dying!” she cried, springing frantically
from the bed, and casting her long cloak over her night-dress.
In a moment, she was trudging barefooted through the snow. It was so
deep she could hardly walk, and the sleet was driving into her face;
still she kept on, though her numbed feet seemed hardly to belong to
her. All the way she was praying in her heart; promising never,
never to be passionate again, if she only could find her bird—not
Ruky the boy, but whatever he might be. She was willing to accept
her punishment. Soon a faint cry reached her ear. With eager haste,
she peered into every fold of the drifted snow. A black object
caught her eye. It was a poor storm-beaten crow, lying there
benumbed and stiff.
For Ruky’s sake she folded it closely to her bosom, and plodded back
to the cottage. The fire cast a rosy light on its glossy wing as she
entered, but the poor thing did not stir. Softly stroking and
warming it, she wrapped the frozen bird in soft flannel and blew
into its open mouth. Soon, to her great relief, it revived, and even
swallowed a few grains of wheat.
Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still folding the
bird to her heart. “It may be Ruky! It is all I ask,” she sobbed. “I
dare not ask for more.”
Suddenly she felt a peculiar stirring. The crow seemed to grow
larger. Then, in the dim light, she felt its feathers pressing
lightly against her cheek. Next, something soft and warm wound
itself tenderly about her neck, and she heard a sweet voice saying:
“Don’t cry, Cor,—I’ll be good.”
She started up. It was, indeed, her own darling! The starlight shone
into the room. Lighting her candle, she looked at the clock.
It was just two hours since she had uttered those cruel words!
Sobbing, she asked:
“Have I been asleep, Ruky, dear?”
“I don’t know, Cor. Do people cry when they’re asleep?”
“Sometimes, Ruky,” clasping him very close.
“Then you have been asleep. But Cor, please don’t let Uncle whip
Ruky.”
“No, no, my little bird—I mean, my brother. Good night, darling!”
“Good night.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL[2]
By LAFCADIO HEARN
_She hath spoken, and her words still resound in his ears._
_Hao-Khieou-Tchouan: c. ix._
Footnote 2:
From _Some Chinese Ghosts_. Copyright, 1887, by Little, Brown &
Company.
THE water-clock marks the hour in the _Ta-chung sz’_,—in the Tower
of the Great Bell: now the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the
metal monster,—the vast lips inscribed with Buddhist texts from the
sacred _Fa-hwa-King_, from the chapters of the holy _Ling-yen-King_!
Hear the great bell responding!—how mighty her voice, though
tongueless!—_KO-NGAI!_ All the little dragons on the high-tilted
eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of their gilded tails
under that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble
on their carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the pagodas
quiver with desire to speak. _KO-NGAI_!—all the green-and-gold tiles
of the temple are vibrating; the wooden goldfish above them are
writhing against the sky; the uplifted finger of Fo shakes high over
the heads of the worshippers through the blue fog of incense!
_KO-NGAI!_—What a thunder tone was that! All the lacquered goblins
on the palace cornices wriggle their fire-colored tongues! And after
each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden
moan and, at last, the sudden sibilant sobbing in the ears when the
immense tone faints away in broken whispers of silver,—as though a
woman should whisper, “_Hiai!_” Even so the great bell hath sounded
every day for well-nigh five hundred years,—_Ko-Ngai_: first with
stupendous clang, then with immeasurable moan of gold, then with
silver murmuring of “_Hiai!_” And there is not a child in all the
many-colored ways of the old Chinese city who does not know the
story of the great bell,—who cannot tell you why the great bell says
_Ko-Ngai_ and _Hiai!_
* * * * *
Now, this is the story of the great bell in the Ta-chung sz’, as the
same is related in the _Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue_, written by the learned
Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu.
Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the Son of
Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the “Illustrious,” or Ming dynasty, commanded
the worthy official, Kouan-Yu, that he should have a bell made of
such size that the sound thereof might be heard for one hundred
_li_. And he further ordained that the voice of the bell should be
strengthened with brass, and deepened with gold, and sweetened with
silver; and that the face and the great lips of it should be graven
with blessed sayings from the sacred books, and that it should be
suspended in the centre of the imperial capital, to sound through
all the many-colored ways of the City of Pe-king.
Therefore the worthy mandarin, Kouan-Yu, assembled the
master-moulders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire, and all
men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; and they measured
the materials for the alloy, and treated them skilfully, and
prepared the moulds, the fires, the instruments, and the monstrous
melting-pot for fusing the metal. And they labored exceedingly, like
giants,—neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life;
toiling both night and day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in
all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.
But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated
from the glowing casting, it was discovered that, despite their
great labor and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for
the metals had rebelled one against the other,—the gold had scorned
alliance with the brass, the silver would not mingle with the molten
iron. Therefore the moulds had to be once more prepared, and the
fires rekindled, and the metal remelted, and all the work tediously
and toilsomely repeated. The Son of Heaven heard, and was angry, but
spake nothing.
A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even worse.
Still the metals obstinately refused to blend one with the other;
and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the sides of it were
cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were slagged and split
asunder; so that all the labor had to be repeated even a third time,
to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard
these things, he was angrier than before; and sent his messenger to
Kouan-Yu with a letter, written upon lemon-colored silk, and sealed
with the seal of the Dragon, containing these words:—
... “_From the Mighty Yong-Lo, the Sublime Tait-Sung, the
Celestial and August,—whose reign is called ‘Ming,’—to
Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we
have deigned graciously to place in thee; if thou fail a
third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be
severed from thy neck. Tremble, and obey!_”
Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness, whose
name—Ko-Ngai—was ever in the mouths of poets, and whose heart was
even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved her father with
such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than
make his home desolate by her absence; and when she had seen the
awful yellow missive, sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she fainted away
with fear for her father’s sake. And when her senses and her
strength returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking
of her parent’s danger, until she had secretly sold some of her
jewels, and with the money so obtained had hastened to an
astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise her by what means
her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the
astrologer made observations of the heavens, and marked the aspect
of the Silver Stream (which we call the Milky Way), and examined the
signs of the Zodiac,—the _Hwang-tao_, or Yellow Road,—and consulted
the table of the Five _Hin_, or Principles of the Universe, and the
mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made
answer to her, saying: “Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock,
silver and iron never will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be
melted in the crucible; until the blood of a virgin be mixed with
the metals in their fusion.” So Ko-Ngai returned home sorrowful at
heart; but she kept secret all that she had heard, and told no one
what she had done.
* * * * *
At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast
the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together with her
waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took
their places upon a platform over-looking the toiling of the
moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen wrought
their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering
of the fires. And the muttering deepened into a roar like the roar
of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red lake of metal slowly
brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was
transmuted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened
blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the workers
ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their eyes upon the
eyes of Kouan-Yu; and Kouan-Yu prepared to give the signal to cast.
But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his
head; and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet as a
bird’s song above the great thunder of the fires,—“_For thy sake, O
my Father_!” And even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood
of metal; and the lava of the furnace roared to receive her, and
spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the roof, and burst over the
verge of the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of
many-colored fires, and subsided quakingly, with lightnings and with
thunders and with mutterings.
Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have leaped
in after her, but that strong men held him back and kept firm grasp
upon him until he had fainted away and they could bear him like one
dead to his home. And the serving-woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and
speechless for pain, stood before the furnace, still holding in her
hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and
flowers,—the shoe of her beautiful mistress that was. For she had
sought to grasp Ko-Ngai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been
able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand;
and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad.
* * * * *
But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celestial and
August had to be obeyed, and the work of the moulders to be
finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal
seemed purer and whiter than before; and there was no sign of the
beautiful body that had been entombed therein. So the ponderous
casting was made; and lo! when the metal had become cool, it was
found that the bell was beautiful to look upon, and perfect in form,
and wonderful in color above all other bells. Nor was there any
trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai; for it had been totally absorbed
by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and
gold, with the intermingling of the silver and iron. And when they
sounded the bell, its tones were found to be deeper and mellower and
mightier than the tones of any other bell,—reaching even beyond the
distance of one hundred _li_, like a pealing of summer thunder; and
yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman’s name,—the
name of Ko-Ngai!
* * * * *
And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low moaning
heard; and ever the moaning ends with a sound of sobbing and
complaining, as though a weeping woman should murmur, “_Hiai!_” And
still, when the people hear that great golden moan they keep
silence; but when the sharp, sweet shuddering comes in the air, and
the sobbing of “_Hiai!_” then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in
all the many-colored ways of Pe-king whisper to their little ones:
“_Listen! that is Ko-Ngai crying for her shoe! That is Ko-Ngai
calling for her shoe!_”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE TEN TRAILS
By ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
ONCE there were two Indians who went out together to hunt. Hapeda
was very strong and swift and a wonderful bowman. Chatun was much
weaker and carried a weaker bow; but he was very patient.
As they went through the hills they came on the fresh track of a
small Deer. Chatun said: “My brother, I shall follow that.”
But Hapeda said: “You may if you like, but a mighty hunter like me
wants bigger game.”
So they parted.
Hapeda went on for an hour or more and found the track of ten large
Elk going different ways. He took the trail of the largest and
followed for a long way, but not coming up with it, he said: “That
one is evidently traveling. I should have taken one of the others.”
So he went back to the place where he first found it, and took up
the trail of another. After a hunt of over an hour in which he
failed to get a shot, he said: “I have followed another traveler.
I’ll go back and take up the trail of one that is feeding.”
But again, after a short pursuit, he gave up that one to go back and
try another that seemed more promising. Thus he spent a whole day
trying each of the trails for a short time, and at night came back
to camp with nothing, to find that Chatun, though his inferior in
all other ways, had proved wiser. He had stuck doggedly to the trail
of the one little Deer, and now had its carcass safely in camp.
MORAL: _The Prize is always at the end of the trail._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO[3]
By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI
Footnote 3:
Reprinted from the Everyman Edition of Tolstoi’s _Tales and
Parables_, by special permission of the publishers. Copyright by
E. P. Dutton & Company.
IN a certain town there lived a shoemaker named Martin Avdeitch. He
lived in a basement room which possessed but one window. This window
looked onto the street, and through it a glimpse could be caught of
the passers-by. It is true that only their legs could be seen, but
that did not matter, as Martin could recognize people by their boots
alone. He had lived here for a long time, and so had many
acquaintances. There were very few pairs of boots in the
neighbourhood which had not passed through his hands at least once,
if not twice. Some he had resoled, others he had fitted with
side-pieces, others, again, he had resewn where they were split, or
provided with new toe-caps. Yes, he often saw his handiwork through
that window. He was given plenty of custom, for his work lasted
well, his materials were good, his prices moderate, and his word to
be depended on. If he could do a job by a given time it should be
done; but if not, he would warn you beforehand rather than
disappoint you. Everyone knew Avdeitch, and no one ever transferred
his custom from him. He had always been an upright man, but with the
approach of old age he had begun more than ever to think of his
soul, and to draw nearer to God.
His wife had died while he was still an apprentice, leaving behind
her a little boy of three. This was their only child, indeed, for
the two elder ones had died previously. At first Martin thought of
placing the little fellow with a sister of his in the country, but
changed his mind, thinking: “My Kapitoshka would not like to grow up
in a strange family, so I will keep him by me.” Then Avdeitch
finished his apprenticeship, and went to live in lodgings with his
little boy. But God had not seen fit to give Avdeitch happiness in
his children. The little boy was just growing up and beginning to
help his father and to be a pleasure to him, when he fell ill, was
put to bed, and died after a week’s fever.
Martin buried the little fellow and was inconsolable. Indeed, he was
so inconsolable that he began to murmur against God. His life seemed
so empty that more than once he prayed for death and reproached the
Almighty for taking away his only beloved son instead of himself,
the old man. At last he ceased altogether to go to church.
Then one day there came to see him an ancient peasant-pilgrim—one
who was now in the eighth year of his pilgrimage. To him Avdeitch
talked, and then went on to complain of his great sorrow.
“I no longer wish to be a God-fearing man,” he said. “I only wish to
die. That is all I ask of God. I am a lonely, hopeless man.”
“You should not speak like that, Martin,” replied the old pilgrim.
“It is not for us to judge the acts of God. We must rely, not upon
our own understanding, but upon the Divine wisdom. God saw fit that
your son should die and that you should live. Therefore it must be
better so. If you despair, it is because you have wished to live too
much for your own pleasure.”
“For what, then, should I live?” asked Martin.
“For God alone,” replied the old man. “It is He who gave you life,
and therefore it is He for whom you should live. When you come to
live for Him you will cease to grieve, and your trials will become
easy to bear.”
Martin was silent. Then he spoke again.
“But how am I to live for God?” he asked.
“Christ has shown us the way,” answered the old man. “Can you read?
If so, buy a Testament and study it. You will learn there how to
live for God. Yes, it is all shown you there.”
These words sank into Avdeitch’s soul. He went out the same day,
bought a large-print copy of the New Testament, and set himself to
read it.
At the beginning Avdeitch had meant only to read on festival days,
but when he once began his reading he found it so comforting to the
soul that he came never to let a day pass without doing so. On the
second occasion he became so engrossed that all the kerosene was
burnt away in the lamp before he could tear himself away from the
book.
Thus he came to read it every evening, and, the more he read, the
more clearly did he understand what God required of him, and in what
way he could live for God; so that his heart grew ever lighter and
lighter. Once upon a time, whenever he had lain down to sleep, he
had been used to moan and sigh as he thought of his little
Kapitoshka; but now he only said—“Glory to Thee, O Lord! Glory to
Thee! Thy will be done!”
From that time onwards Avdeitch’s life became completely changed.
Once he had been used to go out on festival days and drink tea in a
tavern, and had not denied himself even an occasional glass of
_vodka_. This he had done in the company of a boon companion, and,
although no drunkard, would frequently leave the tavern in an
excited state and talk much nonsense as he shouted and disputed with
this friend of his. But now he had turned his back on all this, and
his life had become quiet and joyous. Early in the morning he would
sit down to his work, and labor through his appointed hours. Then he
would take the lamp down from a shelf, light it, and sit down to
read. And the more he read, the more he understood, and the clearer
and happier he grew at heart.
* * * * *
It happened once that Martin had been reading late. He had been
reading those verses in the sixth chapter of the Gospel of St. Luke
which run:
“And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the
other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy
coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that
taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men
should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.”
Then, further on, he had read those verses where the Lord says:
“And why call ye Me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?
Whosoever cometh to Me and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I
will show you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built an
house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when
the flood arose, the storm beat vehemently upon that house, and
could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock. But he that
heareth and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built
an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat
vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was
great.”
Avdeitch read these words, and felt greatly cheered in soul. He took
off his spectacles, laid them on the book, leaned his elbows upon
the table, and gave himself up to meditation. He set himself to
measure his own life by those words, and thought to himself:
“Is my house founded upon a rock or upon sand? It is well if it be
upon a rock. Yet it seems so easy to me as I sit here alone. I may
so easily come to think that I have done all that the Lord has
commanded me, and grow careless and—sin again. Yet I will keep on
striving, for it is goodly so to do. Help Thou me, O Lord.”