Grace from the tower window watched them going, the light of the moon

falling in golden clearness over the fields and farms just waiting for

spring,

"To serve the present age

My calling to fulfill,

she whispered to herself. "Good-night, dear ones all, good-night," she

said a little later climbing up the tower stair to her new room.

"God bless you, middle daughter," said her father's deep tones.

Soft, hushed footsteps pattered after the girl, step by step. She

thought herself all alone as she shut the door, but presently a cold

nose was thrust against her hand, a furry head rubbed her knee. Fido,

the pet fox-terrier, had determined for his part to share the

tower-room.

The Golden Bird.[2]

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

In times gone by there was a king who had at the back of his castle a

beautiful pleasure garden, in which stood a tree that bore golden

apples. As the apples ripened they were counted, but one morning one was

missing. Then the king was angry, and he ordered that a watch should be

kept about the tree every night. Now the king had three sons, and he

sent the eldest to spend the whole night in the garden; so he watched

till midnight, and then he could keep off sleep no longer, and in the

morning another apple was missing. The second son had to watch the

following night; but it fared no better, for when twelve o'clock had

struck he went to sleep, and in the morning another apple was missing.

Now came the turn of the third son to watch, and he was ready to do so;

but the king had less trust in him, and believed he would acquit himself

still worse than his brothers, but in the end he consented to let him

try. So the young man lay down under the tree to watch, and resolved

that sleep should not be master. When it struck twelve something came

rushing through the air, and he saw in the moonlight a bird flying

towards him, whose feathers glittered like gold. The bird perched upon

the tree, and had already pecked off an apple, when the young man let

fly an arrow at it. The bird flew away, but the arrow had struck its

plumage, and one of its golden feathers fell to the ground; the young

man picked it up, and taking it next morning to the king, told him what

had happened in the night. The king called his council together, and all

declared that such a feather was worth more than the whole kingdom.

"Since the feather is so valuable," said the king, "one is not enough

for me; I must and will have the whole bird."

So the eldest son set off, and, relying on his own cleverness, he

thought he should soon find the golden bird. When he had gone some

distance he saw a fox sitting at the edge of a wood and he pointed his

gun at him. The fox cried out:

"Do not shoot me and I will give you good counsel. You are on your way

to find the golden bird, and this evening you will come to a village in

which two taverns stand facing each other. One will be brightly lighted

up, and there will be plenty of merriment going on inside; do not mind

about that, but go into the other one, although it will look to you

very uninviting."

"How can a silly beast give anyone rational advice?" thought the king's

son, and let fly at the fox, but he missed him, and he stretched out his

tail and ran quick into the wood. Then the young man went on his way,

and toward evening he came to the village and there stood the two

taverns; in one singing and revelry were going on, the other looked

quite dull and wretched. "I should be a fool," said he, "to go into that

dismal place while there is anything so good close by." So he went into

the merry inn and there lived in clover, quite forgetting the bird and

his father and all good counsel.

As time went on, and the eldest son never came home, the second son set

out to seek the golden bird. He met with the fox, just as the eldest

did, and received good advice from him without attending to it. And when

he came to the two taverns his brother was standing and calling to him

at the window of one of them, out of which came sounds of merriment; so

he could not resist, but went and reveled to his heart's content.

And then, as time went on, the youngest son wished to go forth and to

try his luck, but his father would not consent.

"It would be useless," said he; "he is much less likely to find the bird

than his brothers, and if any misfortune were to happen to him he would

not know how to help himself, his wits are none of the best."

But at last, as there was no peace to be had, he let him go. By the side

of the wood sat the fox, begged him to spare his life and gave him good

counsel. The young man was kind and said:

"Be easy, little fox, I will do you no harm."

"You shall not repent of it," answered the fox, "and that you may get

there all the sooner get up and sit on my tail."

And no sooner had he done so than the fox began to run, and off they

went over stock and stone, so that the wind whistled in their hair. When

they reached the village the young man got down and, following the fox's

advice, went into the mean looking tavern without hesitating, and there

he passed a quiet night. The next morning, when he went out into the

field, the fox, who was sitting there already, said:

"I will tell you further what you have to do. Go straight on until you

come to a castle, before which a great band of soldiers lie, but do not

trouble yourself about them, for they will be all asleep and snoring;

pass through them and forward into the castle, and go through all the

rooms until you come to one where there is a golden bird hanging in a

wooden cage. Near at hand will stand empty a golden cage of state, but

you must beware of taking the bird out of his ugly cage and putting him

into the fine one; if you do so you will come to harm."

After he had finished saying this the fox stretched out his tail again,

and the king's son sat him down upon it; then away they went over stock

and stone, so that the wind whistled through their hair. And when the

king's son reached the castle he found everything as the fox had said;

and he at last entered the room where the golden bird was hanging in a

wooden cage, while a golden one was standing by; the three golden

apples, too, were in the room. Then, thinking it foolish to let the

beautiful bird stay in that mean and ugly cage, he opened the door of

it, took hold of it and put it in the golden one. In the same moment the

bird uttered a piercing cry. The soldiers awaked, rushed in, seized the

king's son and put him in prison. The next morning he was brought before

a judge, and, as he confessed everything, condemned to death. But the

king said that he would spare his life on one condition, that he should

bring him the golden horse whose paces were swifter than the wind, and

that then he should also receive the golden bird as a reward.

So the king's son set off to find the golden horse, but he sighed and

was very sad, for how should it be accomplished? And then he saw his

old friend, the fox, sitting by the roadside.

"Now, you see," said the fox, "all this has happened because you would

not listen to me. But be of good courage, I will bring you through, and

will tell you how to get the golden horse. You must go straight on until

you come to a castle, where the horse stands in his stable; before the

stable-door the grooms will be lying, but they will all be asleep and

snoring, and you can go and quietly lead out the horse. But one thing

you must mind--take care to put upon him the plain saddle of wood and

leather, and not the golden one, which will hang close by, otherwise it

will go badly with you."

Then the fox stretched out his tail and the king's son seated himself

upon it, and away they went over stock and stone until the wind whistled

through their hair. And everything happened just as the fox had said,

and he came to the stall where the golden horse was, and as he was about

to put on him the plain saddle he thought to himself:

"Such a beautiful animal would be disgraced were I not to put on him the

good saddle, which becomes him so well."

However, no sooner did the horse feel the golden saddle touch him than

he began to neigh. And the grooms all awoke, seized the king's son and

threw him into prison. The next morning he was delivered up to justice

and condemned to death, but the king promised him his life, and also to

bestow upon him the golden horse if he could convey thither the

beautiful princess of the golden castle.

With a heavy heart the king's son set out, but by great good luck he

soon met with the faithful fox.

"I ought now to leave you to your own fate," said the fox, "but I am

sorry for you, and will once more help you in your need. Your way lies

straight up to the golden castle. You will arrive there in the evening,

and at night, when all is quiet, the beautiful princess goes to the

bath. And as she is entering the bathing-house go up to her and give her

a kiss, then she will follow you and you can lead her away; but do not

suffer her first to go and take leave of her parents, or it will go ill

with you."

Then the fox stretched out his tail, the king's son seated himself upon

it, and away they went over stock and stone, so that the wind whistled

through their hair. And when he came to the golden castle all was as the

fox had said. He waited until midnight, when all lay in deep sleep, and

then as the beautiful princess went to the bathing-house he went up to

her and gave her a kiss, and she willingly promised to go with him, but

she begged him earnestly, and with tears, that he would let her first

go and take leave of her parents. At first he denied her prayer, but as

she wept so much the more, and fell at his feet, he gave in at last. And

no sooner had the princess reached her father's bedside than he, and all

who were in the castle, waked up and the young man was seized and thrown

into prison.

The next morning the king said to him:

"Thy life is forfeit, but thou shalt find grace if thou canst level that

mountain that lies before my windows, and over which I am not able to

see; and if this is done within eight days thou shalt have my daughter

for a reward."

So the king's son set to work and dug and shoveled away without ceasing,

but when, on the seventh day, he saw how little he had accomplished, and

that all his work was as nothing, he fell into great sadness and gave up

all hope. But on the evening of the seventh day the fox appeared and

said:

"You do not deserve that I should help you, but go now and lie down to

sleep and I will do the work for you."

The next morning when he awoke and looked out of the window the mountain

had disappeared. The young man hastened full of joy to the king and told

him that his behest was fulfilled, and, whether the king liked it or

not, he had to keep his word and let his daughter go.

So they both went away together, and it was not long before the

faithful fox came up to them.

"Well, you have got the best first," said he, "but you must know that

the golden horse belongs to the princess of the golden castle."

"But how shall I get it?" asked the young man.

"I am going to tell you," answered the fox. "First, go to the king who

sent you to the golden castle and take to him the beautiful princess.

There will then be very great rejoicing. He will willingly give you the

golden horse, and they will lead him out to you; then mount him without

delay and stretch out your hand to each of them to take leave, and last

of all to the princess, and when you have her by the hand swing her upon

the horse behind you and off you go! Nobody will be able to overtake

you, for that horse goes swifter than the wind."

And so it was all happily done, and the king's son carried off the

beautiful princess on the golden horse. The fox did not stay behind, and

he said to the young man:

"Now, I will help you to get the golden bird. When you draw near the

castle where the bird is let the lady alight, and I will take her under

my care; then you must ride the golden horse into the castle yard, and

there will be great rejoicing to see it, and they will bring out to you

the golden bird; as soon as you have the cage in your hand you must

start off back to us, and then you shall carry the lady away."

The plan was successfully carried out, and when the young man returned

with the treasure the fox said:

"Now, what will you give me for my reward?"

"What would you like?" asked the young man.

"When we are passing through the wood I desire that you should slay me,

and cut my head and feet off."

"That were a strange sign of gratitude," said the king's son, "and I

could not possibly do such a thing."

Then said the fox:

"If you will not do it, I must leave you; but before I go let me give

you some good advice. Beware of two things; buy no gallows-meat, and sit

at no brookside." With that the fox ran off into the wood.

The young man thought to himself, "that is a wonderful animal, with most

singular ideas. How should any one buy gallows-meat? and I am sure I

have no particular fancy for sitting by a brookside."

So he rode on with the beautiful princess, and their way led them

through the village where his two brothers had stayed. There they heard

great outcry and noise, and when he asked what it was all about, they

told him that two people were going to be hanged. And when he drew near

he saw that it was his two brothers, who had done all sorts of evil

tricks, and had wasted all their goods. He asked if there were no means

of setting them free.

"Oh, yes! if you will buy them off," answered the people; "but why

should you spend your money in redeeming such worthless men?"

But he persisted in doing so; and when they were let go they all went on

their journey together.

After a while they came to the wood where the fox had met them first,

and there it seemed so cool and sheltered from the sun's burning rays

that the two brothers said:

"Let us rest here for a little by the brook, and eat and drink to

refresh ourselves."

The young man consented, quite forgetting the fox's warning, and he

seated himself by the brookside, suspecting no evil. But the two

brothers thrust him backwards into the brook, seized the princess, the

horse, and the bird, and went home to their father.

"Is not this the golden bird that we bring?" said they; "and we have

also the golden horse, and the princess of the golden castle."

Then there was great rejoicing in the royal castle, but the horse did

not feed, the bird did not chirp, and the princess sat still and wept.

The youngest brother, however, had not perished. The brook was by good

fortune dry, and he fell on the soft moss without receiving any hurt,

but he could not get up again. But in his need the faithful fox was not

lacking; he came up running and reproached him for having forgotten his

advice.

"But I cannot forsake you all the same," said he. "I will help you back

again into daylight." So he told the young man to grasp his tail and

hold on to it fast, and so he drew him up again.

"Still you are not quite out of all danger," said the fox; "your

brothers, not being certain of your death, have surrounded the woods

with sentinels, who are to put you to death if you let yourself be

seen."

A poor beggar-man was sitting by the path and the young man changed

clothes with him, and went clad in that wise into the king's courtyard.

Nobody knew him, but the bird began to chirp, and the horse began to

feed, and the beautiful princess ceased weeping.

"What does this mean?" said the king, astonished.

The princess answered:

"I cannot tell, except that I was sad and now I am joyful; it is to me

as if my rightful bridegroom had returned."

Then she told him all that happened, although the two brothers had

threatened to put her to death if she betrayed any of their secrets. The

king then ordered every person who was in the castle to be brought

before him, and with the rest came the young man like a beggar in his

wretched garments; but the princess knew him and greeted him lovingly,

falling on his neck and kissing him. The wicked brothers were seized and

put to death, and the youngest brother was married to the princess and

succeeded to the inheritance of his father.

But what became of the poor fox? Long afterward the king's son was going

through the wood and the fox met him and said:

"Now, you have everything that you can wish for, but my misfortunes

never come to an end, and it lies in your power to free me from them."

And once more he prayed the king's son earnestly to slay him and cut off

his head and feet. So at last he consented, and no sooner was it done

than the fox was changed into a man, and was no other than the brother

of the beautiful princess; and thus he was set free from a spell that

had bound him for a long, long time.

And now, indeed, there lacked nothing to their happiness as long as they

lived.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: This is a fairy tale, pure and simple, but we must have a

little nonsense now and then, and it does us no harm, but on the

contrary much good.]

Harry Pemberton's Text.

BY ELIZABETH ARMSTRONG.

"He that hath clean hands and a pure heart."

Harry Pemberton went down the street whistling a merry tune. It was one

I like very much, and you all know it, for it has been played by street

bands and organs, and heard on every street corner for as many years as

you boys have been living on the earth. "Wait till the clouds roll by,

Jenny, wait till the clouds roll by." The lads I am writing this story

for are between ten and fourteen years old, and they know that the

clouds do once in a while roll around a person's path, and block the

way, because fogs and mists _can_ block the way just as well as a big

black stone wall.

At the corner of the street a red-headed, blue-eyed lad, a head taller

than Harry, joined the latter. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder and

walked beside him.

"Well," said this last comer, whose name was Frank Fletcher, "will your

mother let you go, Harry, boy? I hope she doesn't object."

"But she does," said Harry, quickly "Mother doesn't think it right for

us to start on such an expedition and she says all parents will say the

same."

"Of all things, where can the harm be? Only none of the rest of us have

to ask leave, as you do."

"Mother," said Harry, disregarding this speech, "is of the opinion that

to enter a man's garden by the back gate, when the family are all away,

is breaking into his premises and going where you haven't a right, and

is burglary, and if you take flowers or anything, then it's stealing.

Mere vulgar stealing, she says."

"Why, Harry Pemberton, how dare you say _stealing_ to me?" And Frank's

red hair stood up like a fiery flame.

"I'm only quoting mother. Don't get mad, Frank."

"Does your mother know it's to decorate the soldiers' graves that we

want the flowers, and that Squire Eliot won't be home till next year,

and there are hundreds 'n hundreds of flowers fading and wasting and

dying on his lawn and garden, and furthermore that he'd _like_ the

fellows to decorate the cemetery with his flowers? Does she know that, I

say?" and the blue-eyed lad gesticulated fiercely.

"All is," replied Harry, firmly, "that you boys can go ahead if you

like, but mother won't let me, and you must count me out."

"All is," said Frank, mimicking Harry's tone, "you're a mother-boy, and

we fellows won't have anything more to do with you." So they sent him to

Coventry, which means that they let him alone severely. They had begun

to do it already, which was why he whistled so merrily to show he did

not mind.

I never for my part could see that there was any disgrace in being a

mother-boy. But I suppose a boy thinks he is called babyish, if the name

is fastened on him. As Harry went on his errand, he no longer whistled,

at least he didn't whistle much. And as he went to school next day, and

next day, and next day, and found himself left out in the cold, he would

have been more than the usual twelve-year-old laddie if he had not felt

his courage fail. But he had his motto text to bolster him up.

"Clean hands, Harry, and a pure heart," said Mrs. Pemberton, cheerfully.

"It cannot be right to steal flowers or anything else even to decorate

the graves of our brave soldiers."

And so the time passed--kite time, top time, hoop time, marble time.

It was the evening before Memorial Day, at last.

There was a good deal of stirring in the village. It was splendid

moonlight. You could see to read large print. A whole crowd of boys met

at the store and took their way across lots to the beautiful old Eliot

place. The big house, with its broad porch and white columns, stood out

in the glory of the moon. The gardens were sweet in the dew. Violets,

lilies, roses, lilacs, snow-drops, whole beds of them.

Every boy, and there were ten of them, had a basket and a pair of

shears. They meant to get all the flowers they could carry and despoil

the Eliot place, if necessary, to make the cemetery a grand looking spot

to-morrow, when the veterans and the militia should be out with bands of

music and flying flags, and the Governor, no less, coming in person to

review the troops and make a speech in the very place where his own

father was buried.

In went the boys. Over the stile, up the paths, clear on toward the

front portico. They separated into little groups and began to cut their

flowers, the Eliots' flowers, all the Eliots in Europe, and not a soul

on hand to save their property.

Suddenly the boys were arrested and paralyzed with fright.

An immense form leaped from behind the house and a deep-throated, baying

bark resounded in a threatening roar. Juno, Squire Eliot's famous

mastiff, the one that had taken a prize at the dog show, bounded out

toward the marauders. They turned to fly, when a stern voice bade them

stop.

"You young rapscallions! You trespassers! You rascals! Stop this

instant or I'll thrash every one of you! Humph!" said Squire Eliot,

brandishing his cane, as the boys stopped and tremblingly came forward.

"This is how my neighbors' sons treat my property when I'm away. Line up

there against the fence, every one of you. _Charge_, Juno! _Charge_,

good dog!"

Squire Eliot looked keenly at the boys, every one of whom he knew.

"Solomon's methods are out of fashion," he said, "and if I send you boys

home the chances are that your fathers won't whip you as you deserve to

be whipped, so I'll do the job myself. Fortunate thing I happened to

change my plans and come home for the summer, instead of going away as I

expected. I heard there was a plan of this sort on foot, but I didn't

believe it till I overheard the whole thing talked of in the village

this afternoon. Well, boys, I'll settle with you once for all, and then

I'll forgive you, but you've got to pay the penalty first. Frank, hold

out your hand."

But just then there was an interruption. Lights appeared in the windows

and a dainty little lady came upon the scene. The boys knew Grandmother

Eliot, who wore her seventy years with right queenly grace, and never

failed to have a kind word for man, woman and child in the old home.

"Eugene," she called to the Squire, imperatively, "I can't allow this,

my son. The boys have been punished enough. Their fault was in not

seeing that you cannot do evil that good may come. Let every one of

these young gentlemen come here to me. I want to talk with them."

Now it is probable that most of the boys would have preferred a sharp

blow or two from the Squire's cane to a reproof from his gentle old

mother, whose creed led her to heap coals of fire on the heads of those

who did wrong. But they had no choice. There was no help for it. They

had to go up, shears, baskets and all, and let old Lady Eliot talk to

them; and then, as they were going away, who should come out but a

white-capped maid, with cake and lemonade, to treat the young

depredators to refreshments.

"There's only one fellow in our class who deserves cake and lemonade,"

exclaimed Frank, "and he isn't here. We've all treated him meaner than

dirt. We've been horrid to him, because he wouldn't join us in this. Now

he's out of this scrape and we're in."

"Harry Pemberton," said Squire Eliot, who had locked up his cane, and

was quite calm, "Harry Pemberton, that's Lida Scott's boy, mother. Lida

would bring him up well, I'm sure. Well, he shall have a lot of roses

to-morrow to lay on Colonel Pemberton's grave. Isn't that fair, boys?"

"Yes, yes," assented they all, with eagerness.

"And as you have by your own admission treated Harry rather badly,

suppose you make it up to him by coming here in the morning, carrying

the roses to his house, and owning that you regret your behavior."

It was rather a bitter pill, but the boys swallowed it bravely.

Next day, as Harry and his mother, laden with dog-wood boughs and

branches of lilac, set out for the little spot most sacred to them on

earth, they met a procession which was headed by Frank Fletcher. The

procession had a drum and a flag, and it had roses galore.

"Honest roses, Harry," said Frank. "The Squire is at home and he gave

them to us for you. Let me tell you about it."

The story was told from beginning to end. Then Mrs. Pemberton said,

"Now, boys, take for your everlasting motto from this time forth, 'Clean

hands and a pure heart.'"

Our Cats.

The first cat of our recollection was a large, sleek, black and white

animal, the pet and plaything of our very early childhood. Tom, as we

called him, seemed much attached to us all, but when we moved from the

house of his kittendom and attempted to keep him with us, we found that

we had reckoned without our host; all our efforts were in vain; the cat

returned to its former home and we gave it up as lost to us.

The months sped along and we children had almost forgotten our late

favorite, when one day he came mewing into the yard, and in so pitiable

a condition that all our hearts were moved for him. He was in an

emaciated state distressing to behold, and then one of his hind legs was

broken so that the bone protruded through the skin. The dear old cat was

at once fed, but it was soon seen that his injury was incurable, and our

truly humane father said the only thing to do with Tom was to put him

out of his misery. This was done, but we have ever kept in mind the cat

that would not go from its first home, even with those it loved, and yet

remembered those friends and came to them in trouble. I should have

stated above, that the two homes were less than a mile apart.

Morris was another black and white cat, named Morris from our minister,

who gave him to brother. He was a fine fellow, and would jump a bar four

feet from the floor. But brother obtained a pair of tiny squirrels, the

striped squirrels, and feared that Morris would catch them, for he was

all alert when he spied them, and so the cat was sent to the house of a

friend, as this friend wished to possess him. Morris was let out of the

basket in which he was carried into our friend's kitchen, and giving one

frightened look at his surroundings he sprang up the chimney and was

never seen by any of his early friends again. Poor Morris, we never knew

his fate!

One cat we named Snowball, just because he was so black. This cat was an

unprincipled thief, and all unknown to us a person who disliked cats in

general, and thieving cats in particular, killed Snowball.

We once owned an old cat and her daughter, and when the mother had

several kittens and the daughter had but one, the grandmother stole the

daughter's kitten, and though the young mother cried piteously she never

regained possession of her child. Again, once when our brother was

ploughing he overturned a rabbit's nest, and taking the young rabbits

therefrom he gave them to the cat, who had just been robbed of her

kittens. Pussy was at once devoted to these babies, and cared for them

tenderly, never for a moment neglecting them. Nevertheless, they died,

one by one; their foster mother's care was not the kind they needed.

Of all our cats we speak most tenderly of Friskie. She was brought when

a kitten to our farm home, and if ever cat deserved eulogy it was she. A

small cat with black coat and white breast and legs, not particularly

handsome, but thoroughly good and very intelligent. The children played

with her as they would; she was never known to scratch them, but would

show her disapproval of any rough handling by a tap with her tiny velvet

paw. She was too kind to scratch them.

Friskie grew up with Trip, our little black and tan dog, and though Trip

was selfish with her, Friskie loved him and showed her affection in

various ways. If the dog came into the house wet with dew or rain the

dear little cat would carefully dry him all off with her tongue, and

though he growled at her for her officiousness she would persevere till

the task was accomplished, and then the two would curl up behind the

stove and together take a nap.

When we became the owner of a canary, Friskie at once showed feline

propensities; she wanted that bird, and saw no reason why she should be

denied it. But when, from various tokens, Friskie learned that we

valued it, she never again evinced any desire for the canary. And when,

afterward, we raised a nest of birdlings, the little cat never attempted

to touch them; no, not even when one flew out of doors and alighted

almost at her feet. Instead of seizing it, Friskie watched us as we

captured and returned it to the cage.

The writer of this story became ill with extreme prostration, and now

Friskie showed her affection in a surprising manner. Each morning she

came into our room with a tidbit, such as she was sure was toothsome:

Mice, rats, at one time a half-grown rabbit, and, at length, a bird.

It was warm weather, the room windows were open, and being upon the

first floor, when Friskie brought in her offerings they were seized and

thrown from the window to the ground. At this she would spring after the

delicacy and bring it back in a hurry, determined that it should be

eaten, mewing and coaxing just as she might with her kittens. That the

food was not accepted evidently distressed her. When she came with the

little bird, she uttered her usual coaxing sound, and then, when it was

unheeded, she sprung upon the bed and was about to give it to the

invalid, who uttered a scream of fright. At this dear Friskie fled from

the room and, we think, she never brought another treat. It was useless

to try to treat a person so unappreciative.

At one time, when Friskie was the proud mother of four pretty kittens,

she was greatly troubled with the liberties that young Herbert, aged

three, took with her family. The little boy didn't want to hurt the tiny

creatures, but he would hold them and play with them.

Mother cat bore this for a time, and then carried the kittens away to

the barn, and hid them where no one but herself could find them.

While these babies were yet young Herbert was taken away for a visit.

Strange to say, that upon the morning of the child's departure Friskie

came leading the little ones down to the house. They could walk now, and

at first she came part of the distance with three of them, stopped,

surveyed her group and went back for the remaining kitten. All we have

told is strictly true; it was evident that the cat knew when the

disturber of her peace was gone, and also evident that she knew how many

were her children.

Friskie died at the age of twelve, the most lovable and intelligent cat

we have ever known.

Of late we have had two maltese cats in our kitchen, one old, the other

young. The old cat has been jealous and cross with the young one, while

the young cat has been kind and pleasant with her companion. One day the

young cat, Friskie's namesake, sat and meowed piteously. We were

present, and for a time did not notice her, for she is very

demonstrative. What was our surprise to see her go to a low closet in

the room and lie down, stretch her paws over her head, and by an effort

pull open the door to release the old cat, who had accidentally been

shut up in this closet.

The old cat is always very reticent, and would not ask to be let out.

Her usual way of asking to have a door open is to tap upon it with her

paw. She scarcely ever meows.

We might have enlarged upon these incidents, but have simply told facts.

Outovplace.

There's a very strange country called Outovplace,

(I've been there quite often, have you?)

Where the people can't find the things they want,

And hardly know what to do.

If a boy's in a hurry, and wants his cap,

Or a basin to wash his face,

He never can find that on its nail,

Or this in its proper place.

His shoe hides far away under the lounge;

His handkerchief's gone astray;

Oh! how can a boy get off to school,

If he's always bothered this way?

Oh! a very queer country is Outovplace--

(Did you say you had been there?)

Then you've seen, like me, a slate on the floor

And a book upon the stair.

You think they are easy to find, at least!

O, yes! if they would but stay

Just there till they're wanted; but then they don't;

Alas! that isn't the way.

When a boy wants his hat, he sees his ball,

As plain as ever can be;

But when he has time for a game, not a sign

Of bat or a ball finds he.

Sometimes a good man is just off to the train,

(That is, it is time to go);

And he can't put his hand on his Sunday hat!

It surely must vex him, I know.

If somebody wants to drive a nail,

It's "Where is the hammer, my dear?"

And so it goes, week in, week out,

And truly all the year.

How 'twould gladden the women of Outovplace,

If the boys and girls themselves

Should wake up some morning determined quite

To use hooks, closets and shelves.

The Boy Who Dared to Be a Daniel.

BY S. JENNIE SMITH.

Sunday-school was dismissed and the children were going, some in one

direction, some in another, to their homes. The majority of them were

chatting merrily of the proposed strawberry festival, but one little

fellow seemed to be engrossed with more serious thoughts. He was alone

and apparently unconscious of the nearness of his companions until a lad

about his own age joined him and inquired, "Say, Ralph, what are you

thinking of? You look as wise as an owl."

"I should hope I was a little bit wiser than a bird," answered Ralph,

with a smile. "But I was just awondering, Ned, if I could be brave

enough to go into the lion's den like Daniel did. I wouldn't like to

stop praying to God, but it would be pretty hard to make up your mind to

face a lot of lions."

"Yes, indeed; but then father says that we don't need grace to do those

hard things until we are called upon to do them, and then if we ask God,

He will give us the strength we require. All we've got to do is to

attend to the duty nearest us, and seek for strength for that."

Ned was the minister's son and had enjoyed many an instructive talk with

his kind father.

"He says, too, that we are often called upon to face other kinds of

lions in this life, if we persist as we ought in doing the right. But

here we part, Ralph, good-bye," and the boy turned off into a side road,

leaving Ralph again alone.

Ralph's way led through a quiet country lane, for his home was beyond

the village where nearly all of his companions lived.

"Well, I won't have to go into the lion's den to-day," he said to

himself, as he sauntered along; "and when I do I guess God will give me

the strength," and with this thought a gayer frame of mind came to him.

"But it must be grand to be a Daniel."

Just then two large boys crept stealthily from the bushes that lined one

side of the road and looked anxiously around. "Say, John, there's

Ralph," one of them muttered. "He'll tell we didn't go to Sunday-school.

Let's frighten him into promising not to."

"Hello!" cried John, in a loud voice.

Ralph turned and was surprised to see his brothers approaching him.

"Going home?" one of them asked.

"Why, yes, Tom, ain't you?"

"No, not yet; and if any one inquires where we are, just mention that

we've been to Sunday-school and will be home soon."

Ralph's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "But you didn't go to

Sunday-school," he replied, "because your teacher came and asked me

where you were, and I told her I didn't know; I thought you were

coming."

"Well, it isn't any of your business whether we went or not," growled

John. "All you've got to do is to say we were there if you're asked."

"I can't tell a lie about it, can I?"

"Yes, you can, if you just make up your mind to do it."

"But I won't tell a lie about it," said Ralph, sturdily.

"No, I suppose you'd rather get your brothers in a scrape. You know what

will happen if we're found out."

Ralph hesitated. He was an affectionate child and disliked to see

anybody in trouble, especially his own brothers, but he had a very

decided opinion that he was in the right, and therefore concluded to

speak the truth at all hazards.

"I'm just as sorry as I can be," he returned, sadly, "and I'll beg papa

to forgive you and say I know you won't ever do it again, but if they

ask me I can't tell a lie about it."

"You won't, eh, little saint?" cried John, angrily, grabbing his

brother's arm. "Now just promise to do as we say, or we'll pitch you

into that deep pond over there."

Ralph was too young to realize that this was only an idle threat, and he

was very much frightened, yet in that moment of terror the thought of

Daniel in the lion's den flashed through his mind and gave him the

strength that he had not dared to hope for. He saw in an instant that he

had come to his temptation and his den of lions, and he felt that as God

had protected Daniel in that far-away time, He would now protect him.

Ralph had never learned to swim, and he was in fear of the big frogs and

other creatures that inhabit ponds, but he did not flinch. With a

boldness that surprised even himself, he looked steadily at his brother

and replied, "You cannot frighten me into doing that wrong thing. I will

not pray to the image of falsehood that you have set up."

It was now his brothers' turn to be astonished. They had never thought

of Ralph as anything but a timid, little boy who could be overcome by

the slightest threat, and for a moment they were at a loss what to say.

Of course, Ralph was merely repeating some of his teacher's words, but

they were not aware of that fact, and consequently wondered at his

remarks. Finally John managed to stammer, "Do--do you want to go in that

pond?"

"No manner of hurt was found upon him because he believed in his God,"

continued Ralph, with his mind still on his Sunday-school; "God delivers

His faithful ones in time of trouble."

Turning away, John was about to walk off, but Tom detained him. "Wait a

moment, John," he said, and then the others noticed that there were

tears in his eyes. "I want to tell my brave little brother that I honor

him for sticking to the truth. As for me, I shall confess to father, and

promise not to repeat the offence."

"I am with you," John replied. "Come Ralph, we'll go together now and

hereafter. We need never be afraid to go where a Daniel leads."

Little Redcap.[3]

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

There was once a sweet little maid, much beloved by everybody, but most

of all by her grandmother, who never knew how to make enough of her.

Once she sent her a little cap of red velvet, and as it was very

becoming to her, and she never wore anything else, people called her

Little Redcap. One day her mother said to her:

"Come, Little Redcap, here are some cakes and a flask of milk for you to

take to your grandmother; she is weak and ill, and they will do her

good. Make haste and start before it grows hot, and walk properly and

nicely, and don't run, or you might fall and break the flask of milk and

there would be none left for grandmother. And when you go into her room,

don't forget to say, 'Good morning' instead of staring about you."

"I will be sure to take care," said Little Redcap to her mother, and

gave her hand upon it. Now the grandmother lived away in the wood, half

an hour's walk from the village, and when Little Redcap had reached the

wood, she met the wolf; but as she did not know what a bad sort of

animal he was, she did not feel frightened.

"Good day, Little Redcap," said he.

"Thank you kindly, Wolf," answered she.

"Where are you going so early, Little Redcap?"

"To my grandmother's."

"What are you carrying under your apron?"

"Cakes and milk; we baked yesterday; and my grandmother is very weak and

ill, so they will do her good, and strengthen her."

"Where does your grandmother live, Little Redcap?"

"A quarter of an hour's walk from here; her house stands beneath the

three oak trees, and you may know it by the hazel bushes," said Little

Redcap. The wolf thought to himself:

"That tender young thing would be a delicious morsel, and would taste

better than the old one; I must manage somehow to get both of them."

Then he walked beside little Redcap for a little while, and said to her

softly and sweetly:

"Little Redcap, just look at the pretty flowers that are growing all

round you, and I don't think you are listening to the song of the

birds; you are posting along just as if you were going to school, and it

is so delightful out here in the wood."

Little Redcap glanced round her, and when she saw the sunbeams darting

here and there through the trees, and lovely flowers everywhere, she

thought to herself:

"If I were to take a fresh nosegay to my grandmother, she would be very

pleased, and it is so early in the day that I shall reach her in plenty

of time;" and so she ran about in the wood, looking for flowers. And as

she picked one she saw a still prettier one a little farther off, and so

she went farther and farther into the wood. But the wolf went straight

to the grandmother's house and knocked at the door.

"Who is there?" cried the grandmother.

"Little Redcap," he answered, "and I have brought you some cake and some

new milk. Please open the door."

"Lift the latch," cried the poor old grandmother, feebly; "I am too weak

to get up."

So the wolf lifted the latch, and the door flew open, and he fell on the

grandmother and ate her up without saying one word. Then he drew on her

clothes, put on her cap, lay down in her bed and drew the curtains, the

old wretch that he was.

Little Redcap was all this time running about among the flowers, and

when she had gathered as many as she could hold; she remembered her

grandmother, and set off to go to her. She was surprised to find the

door standing wide open, and when she came inside she felt very strange

and thought to herself:

"Oh, dear, how uncomfortable I feel, and I was so glad this morning to

go to my grandmother!"

And when she said "Good morning!" there was no answer. Then she went up

to the bed and drew back the curtains; there lay the grandmother with

her cap pulled over her eyes, so that she looked very odd.

"Oh, grandmother, what large ears you have got!"

"The better to hear you with."

"Oh, grandmother, what great eyes you have got!"

"The better to see you with."

"Oh, grandmother, what large hands you have got!"

"The better to take hold of you with, my dear."

"But, grandmother, what a terrible large mouth you have got!"

"The better to devour you!" And no sooner had the wolf said this than he

made one bound from the bed and swallowed up poor Little Redcap.

Then the wolf, having satisfied his hunger, lay down again in the bed,

went to sleep and began to snore loudly. The huntsman heard him as he

was passing by the house and thought:

"How the old lady snores--I would better see if there is anything the

matter with her."

Then he went into the room and walked up to the bed, and saw the wolf

lying there.

"At last I find you, you old sinner!" said he; "I have been looking for

you for a long time." And he made up his mind that the wolf had

swallowed the grandmother whole, and that she might yet be saved. So he

did not fire, but took a pair of shears and began to slit up the wolf's

body. When he made a few snips Little Redcap appeared, and after a few

more snips she jumped out and cried, "Oh, dear, how frightened I have

been, it is so dark inside the wolf!"

And then out came the old grandmother, still living and breathing. But

Little Redcap went and quickly fetched some large stones, with which she

filled the wolf's body, so that when he waked up, and was going to rush

away, the stones were so heavy that he sank down and fell dead.

They were all three very much pleased. The huntsman took off the wolf's

skin and carried it home to make a fur rug. The grandmother ate the

cakes and drank the milk and held up her head again, and Little Redcap

said to herself that she would never again stray about in the wood

alone, but would mind what her mother told her, nor talk to strangers.

It must also be related how a few days afterward, when Little Redcap was

again taking cakes to her grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and

wanted to tempt her to leave the path; but she was on her guard, and

went straight on her way, and told her grandmother how that the wolf had

met her and wished her good-day, but had looked so wicked about the eyes

that she thought if it had not been on the high road he would have

devoured her.

"Come," said the grandmother, "we will shut the door, so that he may not

get in."

Soon after came the wolf knocking at the door, and calling out, "Open

the door, grandmother, I am Little Redcap, bringing you cakes." But they

remained still and did not open the door. After that the wolf slunk by

the house, and got at last upon the roof to wait until Little Redcap

should return home in the evening; then he meant to spring down upon her

and devour her in the darkness. But the grandmother discovered his plot.

Now, there stood before the house a great stone trough, and the

grandmother said to the child: "Little Redcap, I was boiling sausages

yesterday, so take the bucket and carry away the water they were boiled

in and pour it into the trough."

And Little Redcap did so until the great trough was quite full. When

the smell of the sausages reached the nose of the wolf he snuffed it up

and looked around, and stretched out his neck so far that he lost his

balance and began to slip, and he slipped down off the roof straight in

the great trough and was drowned. Then Little Redcap went cheerfully

home and came to no harm.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Every boy and girl should read this pretty fairy story.]

New Zealand Children.

New Zealand children are pretty, dark-eyed, smooth-cheeked little

creatures, with clear skins of burnt umber color, and the reddest mouths

in the world, until the girl grows up and her mother tattooes her lips

blue, for gentility's sake.

All day they live in the open air, unless during a violent storm. But

they are perfectly healthy and very clean, for the first thing they do

is to plunge into the sea water. Besides this, they take baths in warm

springs that abound everywhere, and which keep their skins in good

order. As to their breakfast, I am afraid that often they have some very

unpleasant things to eat--stale shark, for instance, and sour corn

bread--so sour that you could not swallow it, and boiled fern root, or

the pulp of fern stems, or crawfish.

Even if their father had happened to cut down a tall palm the day

before, in order to take what white people call the "palm cabbage" out

of it's very top, I'm afraid he would not share this dainty with the

children. I am not sure he would offer even their mother a bite. It

would be literally a bite if he did, for when people get together to

eat in New Zealand, one takes a piece of something from the basket in

which food is served, bites out a mouthful and hands it to the next, who

does the same, and passes it to his neighbor, and so on until it is all

gone, and some other morsel is begun upon.

Sixty or seventy years ago New Zealanders had never seen a pig or any

animal larger than a cat. But about that time, one Captain King, feeling

that a nation without pork and beans and succotash could never come to

any good, brought them some Indian corn and some beans, and taught them

how to plant and cultivate them, and shortly sent them some fine pigs,

not doubting but that they would understand what to do with them without

instruction.

However, the New Zealanders had no idea what the pigs were sent for, and

everybody asked everybody else about it, until one--the smart fellow who

knows it all--said that he had heard all about them from a sailor, and

that they were horses! Oh, certainly they were horses! The sailor had

described them perfectly--long heads, pointed ears, broad backs, four

legs, and a tail. They were to ride upon. Great chiefs always rode them

where the sailors lived.

So the New Zealand chiefs mounted the pigs, and when Captain King came

to see how everything was going on, they had ridden them to death--all

but a few obstinate ones, who had eaten up the maize as soon as it grew

green, and finished up the beans by way of dessert before the vines were

halfway up the poles.

Captain King did not despair, however. He took two natives home with

him, taught them all about the cultivation of maize, and the rearing of

pigs; and pork is now as popular in New Zealand as it is in Cincinnati.

You can hardly take a walk without meeting a mother-pig and a lot of

squealing piglets; and people pet them more than they ever did or ever

will in their native lands. Here, you know, when baby wants something to

play with, some one finds him a kitten, a ball of white floss, or a

little Maltese, or a black morsel with green eyes and a red mouth; but

in New Zealand they give him a very, very young pig, smooth as a kid

glove, with little slits of eyes, and his curly tail twisted up into a

little tight knot; and the brown baby hauls it about and pulls its ears

and goes to sleep hugging it fast; and there they lie together, the

piglet grunting comfortably, the baby snoring softly, for hours at a

time.

It is pleasanter to think of a piggy as a pet than as pork, and

pleasanter still to know that the little New Zealanders have something

really nice to eat--the finest sweet potatoes that grow anywhere.

They say that sweet potatoes, which they call _kumere_, is the food

good spirits eat, and they sing a song about them, and so do the

mothers, which is very pretty. The song tells how, long ago, Ezi-Ki and

his wife, Ko Paui, sailing on the water in a boat, were wrecked, and

would have been drowned but for good New Zealanders, who rescued them.

And Ko Paui saw that the children had very little that was wholesome for

them to eat, and showed her gratitude by returning, all by herself, to

Tawai, to bring them seeds of the _kumere_. And how storms arose and she

was in danger, but at last arrived in New Zealand safely and taught them

how to plant and raise this excellent food. And every verse of the song

ends with: "Praise the memory of beautiful Ko Paui, wife of Ezi-Ki,

forever."

Little New Zealanders run about with very little on, as a general thing,

but they all have cloaks--they call them "mats." Their mother sits on

the ground with a little weaving frame about two feet high before her,

and makes them of what is called New Zealand flax. The long threads hang

down in rows of fringes, one over the other, and shine like silk. They

have also water-proofs, or "rain-mats," made of long polished leaves

that shed the water. When a little New Zealand girl pulls this over her

head she does not mind any shower. You may see a circle of these funny

objects sitting in the pelting rain, talking to each other and looking

just like tiny haystacks.

New Zealand children have, strange to say, many toys. They swim like

ducks, and, as I have said, revel in the natural hot baths, where they

will sit and talk by the hour. In fact, the life of a New Zealand child

is full of occupation, and both girls and boys are bright,

light-hearted, and intelligent.

The Breeze from the Peak.

A stiff Sea Breeze was having the wildest, merriest time, rocking the

sailboats and fluttering the sails, chasing the breakers far up the

beach, sending the fleecy cloudsails scudding across the blue ocean

above, making old ocean roar with delight at its mad pranks, while all

the little wavelets dimpled with laughter; the Cedar family on the

shore, old and rheumatic as they were, laughed till their sides ached,

and the children shouted and cheered upon the beach. How fresh and

strong and life-giving it was. The children wondered why it was so

jolly, but never guessed the reason; and its song was so wonderfully

sweet, but only the waves understood the words of the wild, strange

melody.

"I have come," it sang, "from a land far across the water. My home was

on the mountain top, high up among the clouds. Such a white, white world

as it was! The mountain peak hooded in snow-ermine, and the gray-white

clouds floating all around me; and it was so very still; my voice, the

only sound to be heard, and that was strange and muffled. But though the

fluffy clouds were so silent, they were gay companions and full of fun;

let them find me napping once, and, puff! Down they would send the

feathery snow, choking and blinding me, then would come a wild chase;

once in a mad frolic my breath parted the clouds and I saw down the

mountain side! Never shall I forget the picture I saw that day, framed

by the silvery clouds. I, who had known nothing but that pale stillness

and bitter cold, for the first time saw life and color, and a

shimmering, golden light, resting on tree and river and valley farm; do

you wonder I forgot the mountain peak, the clouds--_everything_ that was

behind, and, without even a last farewell, spread my wings and flew

swiftly down the mountain side? Very soon I was far below that snowy

cloud world, with a bright blue sky above me, and patches of red gravel

and green moss and gray lichens beneath. Once I stopped to rest upon a

great rock, moss-covered, and with curling ferns at its base; from its

side flowed a crystal spring, so clear and cool that I caught up all I

could carry to refresh me on my journey; but it assured me I need not

take that trouble, for it was also on its way down the mountain side.

"'But you have no wings,' I said. 'Are you sure of that?' answered the

spring, and I thought she looked up in an odd way at some of my cloud

friends, who had followed in my track; then she added: 'And, even if you

are right, there is more than one way to reach the foot of the

mountain; I am sure you will find me there before you.'

"I could not but doubt this, for I am swifter than any bird of the air,

but she only laughed at me as I flew on, and once, looking back, I saw

she had started on her journey, and was creeping slowly along a tiny

thread of water, almost hidden in the grass. I next floated upon some

dark green trees, that sent out a spicy odor as I touched their boughs,

and when I moved they sang a low, tuneful melody; their song was of the

snowy mountain peak, the clouds, the bubbling spring, the sunshine and

the green grass; yes, and there was something else, a deep undertone

that I did not then understand, and the melody was a loom that wove them

all into a living harmony; some of my breezes are there still, listening

to the Pine Trees' song; but I hurried on, the grass grew green and

luscious along my way, and the sheep, with their baby lambs, were

pastured upon it; rills and brooks joined hands, and went racing faster

and faster down between the rocks; one of the brooks had grown quite

wide and deep, and as it leaped and sparkled and sang its way into the

valley, where it flowed into a wide, foaming stream, it looked back with

a gay laugh, and I saw in its depths the face of the little spring I had

left far up the mountain side.

"It was summer in the valley, and the air was scented with roses and

ripening fruits. It was very warm and sultry, and I fanned the

children's faces until they laughed and clapped their hands, crying out:

'It's the breeze from the mountain peak! How fresh and sweet and cool it

is.'

"I rocked the baby-birds to sleep in their leafy cradles. I entered the

houses, making the curtains flutter, and filling the rooms with my

mountain perfume. I longed to stay forever in that beautiful summer

land, but now the mountain stream beckoned me on. Swiftly I flew along

its banks, turning the windmills met on the way, and swelling out the

sails of the boats until the sailors sang for joy. On and on we

journeyed; my mountain friend, joined by a hundred meadow-brooks, grew

deeper and wider as it flowed along, and its breath began to have a

queer, salty odor. One day I heard a throbbing music far off that

sounded like the undertone in the Pine Trees' melody; then very soon we

reached this great body of water, and, looking across, could see no sign

of land anywhere; but still we journeyed on. I feared at first that my

friend was lost to me, but often she laughed from the crest of the wave,

or glistened in a white cap, cheering my way to this sunny shore; and

now, at last, we are here, laden with treasure for each one of you. Take

it, and be glad!"

But the children did not understand the song of the Sea Breeze, nor did

they know what made its breath so wonderfully sweet. But all day long

they breathed in its fragrance, and gathered up the treasures brought to

their feet by the tiny spring born up in the clouds.

"It's a beautiful world," they cried.

And at night, when the Sea Breeze was wakeful, and sang to the waves of

the mountain peak, the children would lift their heads from the white

pillows to listen, whispering softly to one another:

"Hear the Sea Breeze and the ocean moaning on the shore. Are they lonely

without us, I wonder?"

The Bremen Town Musicians.

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

[When I was a child I used to love the story which is coming next.

It is very funny and I like it still.]

There was once an ass whose master had made him carry sacks to the mill

for many a long year, but whose strength began at last to fail, so that

each day as it came found him less capable of work. Then his master

began to think of turning him out, but the ass, guessing that something

was in the wind that boded him no good, ran away, taking the road to

Bremen; for there he thought he might get an engagement as town

musician. When he had gone a little way he found a hound lying by the

side of the road panting, as if he had run a long way.

"Now, Holdfast, what are you so out of breath about!" said the ass.

"Oh, dear!" said the dog, "now I am old, I get weaker every day, and can

do no good in the hunt, so, as my master was going to have me killed, I

have made my escape; but now, how am I to gain my living?"

"I will tell you what," said the ass, "I am going to Bremen to become

town musician. You may as well go with me, and take up music too. I can

play the lute, and you can beat the drum."

The dog consented, and they walked on together. It was not long before

they came to a cat sitting in the road, looking as dismal as three wet

days.

"Now, then, what is the matter with you, old friend?" said the ass.

"I should like to know who would be cheerful when his neck is in

danger?" answered the cat. "Now that I am old, my teeth are getting

blunt, and I would rather sit by the oven and purr than run about after

mice, and my mistress wants to drown me; so I took myself off; but good

advice is scarce, and I do not know what is to become of me."

"Go with us to Bremen," said the ass, "and become town musician. You

understand serenading."

The cat thought well of the idea, and went with them accordingly. After

that the three travelers passed by a yard, and a cock was perched on the

gate crowing with all his might.

"Your cries are enough to pierce bone and marrow," said the ass; "what

is the matter?"

"I have foretold good weather for Lady-day, so that all the shirts may be

washed and dried; and now on Sunday morning company is coming, and the

mistress has told the cook that I must be made into soup, and this

evening my neck is to be wrung, so that I am crowing with all my might

while I can."

"You had better go with us, Chanticleer," said the ass. "We are going to

Bremen. At any rate that will be better than dying. You have a powerful

voice, and when we are all performing together it will have a very good

effect."

So the cock consented, and they went on, all four together.

But Bremen was too far off to be reached in one day, and toward evening

they came to a wood, where they determined to pass the night. The ass

and the dog lay down under a large tree; the cat got up among the

branches, and the cock flew up to the top, as that was the safest place

for him. Before he went to sleep he looked all around him to the four

points of the compass, and perceived in the distance a little light

shining, and he called out to his companions that there must be a house

not far off, as he could see a light, so the ass said:

"We had better get up and go there, for these are uncomfortable

quarters."

The dog began to fancy a few bones, not quite bare, would do him good.

And they all set off in the direction of the light, and it grew larger

and brighter until at last it led them to a robber's house, all lighted

up. The ass, being the biggest, went up to the window and looked in.

"Well, what do you see?" asked the dog.

"What do I see?" answered the ass; "here is a table set out with

splendid eatables and drinkables, and robbers sitting at it and making

themselves very comfortable."

"That would just suit us," said the cock.

"Yes, indeed, I wish we were there," said the ass. Then they consulted

together how it should be managed so as to get the robbers out of the

house, and at last they hit on a plan. The ass was to place his forefeet

on the window-sill, the dog was to get on the ass' back, the cat on the

top of the dog, and lastly the cock was to fly up and perch on the cat's

head. When that was done, at a given signal, they all began to perform

their music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock

crowed; then they burst through into the room, breaking all the panes of

glass. The robbers fled at the dreadful sound; they thought it was some

goblin, and fled to the wood in the utmost terror. Then the four

companions sat down to the table, and made free with the remains of the

meal, and feasted as if they had been hungry for a month. And when they

had finished they put out the lights, and each sought out a

sleeping-place to suit his nature and habits. The ass laid himself down

outside on the dunghill, the dog behind the door, the cat on the hearth

by the warm ashes, and the cock settled himself in the cockloft, and as

they were all tired with their long journey they soon fell fast asleep.

When midnight drew near, and the robbers from afar saw that no light was

burning, and that everything appeared quiet, their captain said to them

that he thought that they had run away without reason, telling one of

them to go and reconnoitre. So one of them went and found everything

quite quiet; he went into the kitchen to strike a light, and taking the

glowing fiery eyes of the cat for burning coals, he held a match to them

in order to kindle it. But the cat, not seeing the joke, flew into his

face, spitting and scratching. Then he cried out in terror, and ran to

get out at the back door, but the dog, who was lying there, ran at him

and bit his leg; and as he was rushing through the yard by the dunghill

the ass struck out and gave him a great kick with his hindfoot; and the

cock, who had been awakened with the noise, and felt quite brisk, cried

out, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Then the robber got back as well as he could to his captain, and said,

"Oh dear! in that house there is a gruesome witch, and I felt her breath

and her long nails in my face; and by the door there stands a man who

stabbed me in the leg with a knife, and in the yard there lies a black

spectre, who beat me with his wooden club; and above, upon the roof,

there sits the justice, who cried, 'bring that rogue here!' And so I ran

away from the place as fast as I could."

From that time forward the robbers never returned to that house, and the

four Bremen town musicians found themselves so well off where they were,

that there they stayed. And the person who last related this tale is

still living, as you see.

A Very Queer Steed, and Some Strange Adventures.

TOLD AFTER ARIOSTO BY ELIZABETH ARMSTRONG.

An Italian poet named Ariosto, who lived before our grandfathers were

born, has told some very funny stories, one of which I will tell you.

Not contented with mounting his heroes on ordinary horses, he gave one

of them a splendid winged creature to ride; a fiery steed with eyes of

flame, and the great pinions of an eagle. This creature's name was

Hippogrif. Let me tell you how Prince Roger caught the Hippogrif, and

then you will want to know something about his queer journey. I may as

well tell you that Prince Roger belonged to the Saracens, and that he

loved a lady of France named Bradamante, also that an old enchanter had

captured both the prince and the lady and gotten them into his power.

They of course were planning a way of escape, and hoped to go off

together, and be married, and live happily ever after, but this was not

the intention of their captor. The two prisoners, who were allowed a

good deal of liberty, were standing together one day, when Bradamante

said to Roger:

"Look! there is the old man's Hippogrif still standing quietly by us. I

have a mind to catch him and take a ride on him, for he is mine by

right of conquest since I have overcome his master." So she went toward

the winged steed and stretched out her hand to take him by the bridle;

but the Hippogrif darted up into the air, and flew a hundred yards or so

away before he settled again upon the ground. Again and again she tried

to catch him, but he always flew off before she could touch him, and

then came down to earth a little distance away, where he waited for her

to get near him again, just as you may see a butterfly flit from one

cabbage-row to another, and always manage to keep a yard or two ahead of

the boy who chases it. At last, however, he alighted close by the side

of Roger, whereupon the Prince cried to his lady: "I will catch him and

give him a ride to break him in for you;" and, seizing hold of the

bridle in his left hand, he vaulted on to the back of the Hippogrif, who

stood still without attempting to escape, as if to acknowledge that here

he had found his proper master. But the Prince was no sooner fairly in

the saddle than his strange steed shot up fifty feet straight into the

air, and, taking the bit between his teeth, with a dozen flaps of his

mighty wings carried his unwilling rider far away over the mountains and

out of sight of the unfortunate Bradamante.

You must know that though Roger was quite unable to hold his Hippogrif,

and soon gave up the attempt in despair, the winged monster was really

guided by something stronger than bit or bridle, and every motion of his

headlong flight was controlled by the will of an invisible master. The

whole affair, in fact, was the work of the wonderful enchanter Atlas,

who was still persuaded that great dangers awaited his beloved Prince in

the land of France, and determined to use all his cunning to remove him

to a place of safety. With this design he had watched the noble lovers

from his hiding place, and guided every movement of the Hippogrif by the

mere muttering of spells; and by the same means he still steered the

creature's course through the air, for he was so powerful an enchanter

that he could make his purpose take effect from one end of the earth to

the other. In the old days of fairy lore, enchanters were very numerous,

and always found plenty to do.

Roger had a firm seat and a heart that knew no fear, and at any other

time would have enjoyed nothing better than such an exciting adventure;

but now he was terribly vexed at being separated again from his beloved

Bradamante, and at being carried away from the land where Agramant his

King and the Emperor Charlemagne were mustering all their forces for the

great struggle. However, there was no help for it, for the Hippogrif

flew through the air at such a pace that he soon left the realms of

Europe far behind him, and after a flight of a few hours he had carried

the Prince half round the globe. Roger in fact found himself hovering

over the Fortunate Islands, which lie in the far Eastern seas beyond the

shores of India. Here he checked his course, and descended in wide

circles to the earth, and at length alighted on the largest and most

beautiful island of all the group. Green meadows and rich fields were

here watered by clear streams; and lovely groves of palm and myrtle,

cedar and banyan, spread their thick shade over the gentle slopes of

hill, and offered a refuge from the heat of the mid-day sun. Birds of

paradise flashed like jewels in the blazing light, and modest brown

nightingales sang their sweet refrain to the conceited parrots, who sat

admiring themselves among the branches; while under the trees hares and

rabbits frisked merrily about, and stately stags led their graceful does

to drink at the river banks. Upon this fertile tract, which stretched

down to the very brink of the sea, the Hippogrif descended; and his feet

no sooner touched the ground than Prince Roger leaped from his back, and

made fast his bridle to the stem of a spreading myrtle-bush. Then he

took off his helmet and cuirass, and went to bathe his face and hands in

the cool waters of the brook; for his pulses were throbbing from his

swift ride, and he wanted nothing so much as an hour or two of repose.

Such rapid flying through the air is very wearying.

Could he have retained his wonderful horse, there is no knowing what

splendid adventures might have befallen him, but at a critical moment,

the Hippogrif vanished, and Prince Roger had to fare as best he could on

foot. After a time he met Bradamante again, he left the Saracen religion

and became a Christian, and he and Bradamante were united in wedlock. He

had formerly been a heathen.

Bradamante had a cousin named Astulf, who finally by a series of events

became the owner of the winged steed, and on this animal he made the

queerest trip ever heard of, a journey to the Mountains of the Moon. The

Hippogrif soared up and up, and up, till tall palms looked like bunches

of fern beneath him, and he penetrated belts of thick white clouds, and

finally drew his bridle rein on summits laid out in lovely gardens,

where flowers and fruit abounded, and the climate was soft and balmy as

that of June. The traveler walked through a fine grove, in the centre of

which rose a stately palace of the purest ivory, large enough to shelter

a nation of kings within its walls, and ornamented throughout with

carving more exquisite than that of an Indian casket.

While Astulf was gazing on this scene of splendor he was approached by

a man of noble and courteous aspect, dressed in the toga of an ancient

Roman, and bound about the brows with a laurel chaplet, who gave him

grave and kindly salutation, saying: "Hail, noble Sir Duke, and marvel

not that I know who you are, or that I expected you to-day in these

gardens. For this is the Earthly Paradise, where poets have their

dwelling after death; and I am the Mantuan VIRGIL, who sang the

deeds of Æneas, and was the friend of the wise Emperor Augustus. But if

you wish to know the reason of your coming hither, it is appointed for

you to get back the lost wits of the peerless Count Roland, whose senses

have been put away in the moon among the rest of the earth's missing

rubbish. Now the mountains on the top of which we stand are called the

Mountains of the Moon, because they are the only place from which an

ascent to the moon is possible; and this very night I intend to guide

you thither on your errand. But first, I pray you, take your dinner with

us in our palace, for you have need of refreshment to prepare you for so

strange a journey." I need hardly tell you that Astulf was delighted at

being chosen to go to the moon on so worthy a mission, and thanked the

noble poet a thousand times for his courtesy and kindness. But Virgil

answered: "It is a pleasure to be of any service to such valiant

warriors as Count Roland and yourself;" and thereupon he took the Duke

through the shady alleys to the ivory palace which stood in the midst of

the garden.

Here was Astulf conducted with much ceremony to a refectory where a

banquet was spread. The great doors were thrown open, and the company of

poets ranged themselves in two rows, while their King passed down

between their ranks. He was a majestic old man with curly beard and

hair, and his broad forehead was furrowed with lines that betokened a

life of noble thought; but alas! he was totally blind, and leaned upon

the shoulder of a beautiful Greek youth who guided him. Every head was

bowed reverently as he passed, and Virgil whispered to his guest: "That

is HOMER, the Father and King of poets."

At the end of the refectory was a dais with a table at which Homer took

his seat, while another long table stretched down the middle of the

hall; but Astulf saw with surprise that three places were laid on the

upper board, though the King was apparently to sit there alone. But

Virgil explained the reason, and said: "You must understand, Sir Duke,

that it is our custom to lay a place for every poet who will ever ascend

to this Earthly Paradise; and as yet there is none here worthy to sit

beside our Father Homer. But after some five hundred and fifty years the

seat at his left hand will be taken by the Florentine DANTE,

who will find here the rest and happiness denied to him in his lifetime.

The place on the right of the King, however, will remain vacant three

hundred years more; but then it will be filled by a countryman of your

own, and SHAKESPEARE will receive the honor due to him as the

third great poet of the world." With these words Virgil took his seat at

the head of the lower table, and motioned Astulf to an empty place at

his right hand, saying: "This seat also will remain a long while vacant,

being kept for another of your countrymen, who will come hither after

more than a thousand years. He will be reviled and slandered in his

lifetime; but after his death the very fools who abused him will pretend

to admire and understand him, while here among his brethren he will be

welcomed with joy and high honor." So Astulf sat in the seat of this

poet to be honored in the future, and made a hearty dinner off nectar

and ambrosia, "which are mighty fine viands," as he afterward told his

friends at home; "but a hungry man, on the whole, would prefer good

roast beef and a slice of plum pudding for a steady diet." Dinner being

over, the pilgrim was led by the obliging poet to a pathway past the

silent and lonesome River of Oblivion, where most mortal names and fames

are forever lost, only a few being rescued from its waves and set on

golden scrolls in the temple of Immortality.

Now when they had looked on for a while at this notable sight they left

the River Oblivion and proceeded to the Valley of Lost Lumber. It was a

long though narrow valley shut in between two lofty mountain ridges, and

in it were stored away all the things which men lose or waste on earth.

Here they found an infinite number of lovers' sighs, beyond which lay

the useless moments lost in folly and crime, and the long wasted leisure

of ignorant and idle men. Next came the vain desires and foolish wishes

that can never take effect, and these were heaped together in such

quantities that they blocked up the greater part of the valley. Here,

too, were mountains of gold and silver which foolish politicians throw

away in bribing voters to return them to Congress; a little farther on

was an enormous pile of garlands with steel gins concealed among their

flowers, which Virgil explained to be flatteries; while a heap of

grasshoppers which had burst themselves in keeping up their shrill,

monotonous chirp, represented, he said, the dedications and addresses

which servile authors used to write in praise of unworthy patrons. In

the middle of the valley lay a great pool of spilt broth, and this

signified the alms which rich men are too selfish to give away in their

lifetime but bequeath to charities in their wills, to be paid out of

money they can no longer use. Next Astulf came upon numbers of beautiful

dolls from Paris, which little girls throw aside because they prefer

their dear old bundles of rags with beads for eyes; and one of the

biggest hillocks in all the place was formed of a pile of knives lost

out of careless schoolboys' pockets.

Now, when Astulf grew old and had boys and girls of his own, they used

to clamber on his knee in the twilight and ask for a story, and oh! how

they wished for the Hippogrif. Sometimes the old knight said that the

Hippogrif was dead, but I have known people to shut their eyes and climb

on his back, and cling to his mane, and go flying over the ocean and the

hills clear through to the other end of the world. For Hippogrif is only

a name for Fancy, and the Valley of Lost Lumber and the River of

Oblivion and the Temple of Immortality exist for every one of us.

Freedom's Silent Host.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

There are many silent sleepers

In our country here and there,

Heeding not our restless clamor,

Bugle's peal nor trumpet's blare.

Soft they slumber,

Past forever earthly care.

O'er their beds the grasses creeping

Weave a robe of royal fold,

And the daisies add their homage,

Flinging down a cloth of gold.

Soft they slumber,

Once the gallant and the bold.

Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers,

Brings a waft of violet,

Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose,

On their lowly graves we set.

Soft they slumber,

We their lives do not forget.

Childish hands with rose and lily

Showering the furrows green,

Childish songs that lift and warble

Where the sleepers lie serene

(Soft they slumber)

Tell how true our hearts have been.

Wave the dear old flag above them,

Play the sweet old bugle call,

And because they died in honor

O'er them let the flowerets fall.

Soft they slumber,

Dreaming, stirring not at all.

Freedom's host of silent sleepers,

Where they lie is holy ground,

Heeding not our restless clamor,

Musket's rattle, trumpet's sound.

Soft they slumber,

Ever wrapped in peace profound.

Presence of Mind.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean

poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason's house! It seemed as if the blue

gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled

little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fashion that was

enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the

sunbonnet was feeling. She had, as she thought, more than her share of

toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good

reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.

All Morningside was in a perfect flutter of anticipation and excitement.

There had never been a lawn party in the little village before, and

Effie Dean, twelve years old to-day, was to have a lawn party, to which

every child for miles, to say nothing of a gay troop of cousins and

friends from the city, had been invited. Everybody was going, of course.

The Deans had taken for the season a beautiful old homestead, the owners

of which were in Europe. They were having gala times there, and they

managed to draw all the young folks of the village in to share them.

All, indeed, except one little girl. Cynthia Mason did not expect to go

to many festivities, but with her whole heart she longed to see what a

lawn party might be. The very name sounded beautiful to her, and she

said it over and over wistfully as she went slowly down the door-yard

between the tigerlilies and the hollyhocks, through the rough gate which

hung so clumsily on its leathern hinges, and, with her basket by her

side, began her daily task of picking beans.

Cynthia Mason had no mother. Her father loved his little daughter and

was kind to her, but he was a silent man, who was not very successful,

and who had lost hope when his wife had died. People said he had never

been the same man since then. His sister, Cynthia's Aunt Kate, was an

active, stirring woman, who liked to be busy herself and to hurry other

people. She kept the house as clean as a new pin, had the meals ready to

the moment, and saw that everybody's clothing was washed and mended; but

she never felt as if she had time for the kissing and petting which is

to some of us as needful as our daily food.

In her way she was fond of Cynthia, and would have taken good care of

the child if she had been ill or crippled. But as her niece was

perfectly well, and not in want of salts or senna, Aunt Kate was often

rather tried with her fondness for dreaming in the daytime, or dropping

down to read a bit from the newspaper in the midst of the sweeping and

dusting.

There were, in truth, a good many worries in the little weather-beaten

house, and Miss Mason had her own trouble in making both ends meet. She

was taking summer boarders now to help along, and when Cynthia had asked

her if she might go to Effie's party, the busy woman had been planning

how to crowd another family from New York into the already well-filled

abode, so she had curtly replied:

"Go to a lawn party! What nonsense! Why, no child. You cannot be

spared." And she had thought no more about it.

"Step around quickly this morning, Cynthy," she called from the buttery

window. "Beans take for ever and ever to cook, you know. I can't imagine

what's got into the child," she said to herself. "She walks as if her

feet were shod with lead."

The blue gingham sunbonnet kept on bobbing up and down among the bean

poles, when suddenly there was a rush and a rustle, two arms were thrown

around Cynthia's waist, and a merry voice said:

"You never heard me, did you, till I was close by? You're going to the

party, of course, Cynthy?"

"No, Lulu," was the sad answer. "There are new boarders coming, and

Aunt Kate cannot do without me."

"I never heard of such a thing!" cried eleven-year old Lulu. "Not going!

Cannot do without you! Why, Cynthy, it will be just splendid: tennis and

croquet and games, and supper in a _tent_! ice cream and everything

nice, and a birthday cake with a ring, and twelve candles on it. And

there are to be musicians out of doors, and fireworks in the evening.

Why, there are men hanging the lanterns in the trees now--to see where

they ought to be hung, I suppose," said practical Lulu. "Not let you go?

I'm sure she will, if I ask her." Lulu started bravely for the house,

intent on pleading for her friend.

But Cynthia called her back. "Don't go, Lulu, dear. Aunt Kate is very

busy this morning. She does not think I care so much, and she won't like

it either, if she thinks I'm spending my time talking with you, when the

beans ought to be on the fire. A bean dinner," observed Cynthia, wisely,

"takes so long to get ready."

"Does it?" said Lulu, beginning to pick with all her might. She was a

sweet little thing, and she hated to have her friend left out of the

good time.

As for Cynthia, the sunbonnet fell back on her neck, showing a pair of

soft eyes swimming with tears, and a sorrowful little mouth quivering

in its determination not to cry.

"I won't be a baby!" she said to herself, resolutely. Presently there

came a sharp call from the house.

"Cynthia Elizabeth! are you never coming with those beans? Make haste,

child, do?"

Aunt Kate said "Cynthia Elizabeth" only when her patience was almost

gone; so, with a quick answer, "Yes, Aunt Kate, I'm coming," Cynthia

left Lulu and ran back to the buttery, sitting down, as soon as she

reached it, to the weary task of stringing the beans.

Lulu, meanwhile, who was an idle little puss--her mother's

pet--sauntered up the road and met Effie Dean's mother, who was driving

by herself, and had stopped to gather some late wild roses.

"If there isn't Lulu Pease!" she said. "Lulu dear, won't you get those

flowers for me? Thank you so much. And you're coming this afternoon?"

"Yes, 'm," said Lulu, with a dimple showing itself in each plump cheek;

"but I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Dean, that my dearest friend, Cynthy Mason,

has to stay at home. Her Aunt Kate can't spare her. Cynthy _never_ can

go anywhere nor do anything like the rest of us."

"Cynthia Mason? That's the pretty child with the pale face and dark

eyes who sits in the pew near the minister's, isn't it?" said Mrs. Dean.

"Why, she must not stay at home to-day." And acting on a sudden impulse,

the lady said good morning to Lulu, took a brisk turn along the road and

back, and presently drew rein at Mr. Mason's door.

She came straight into the buttery, having rapped to give notice of her

presence, and with a compliment to Miss Mason on the excellence of her

butter, she asked whether that lady could supply her with a few more

pounds next week; then her eyes falling on the little figure on the

doorstep, she said: "By-the-way, Miss Mason, your niece is to be one of

Effie's guests to-day, is she not? Can you, as a great favor, let her

come home with me now? I have to drive to the Centre on some errands,

and Cynthia, who is a helpful little woman, I can see, can be of so much

use if you will part with her for the day. It will be very neighborly of

you to say yes. I know it's a good deal to ask, but my own girls are

very busy, and I wish you would let me keep Cynthia until to-morrow.

I'll take good care of her, and she shall be at home early. Lend her to

me, please?"

Mrs. Dean, with much gentleness of manner, had the air of a person to

whom nobody ever says no, and Cynthia could hardly believe she heard

aright when her aunt said, pleasantly:

"Cynthia's a good girl, but she's like all children--she needs to be

kept at her work. She can go if you really wish it, Mrs. Dean, and I'll

send for my cousin Jenny to stay here to-day. There are new boarders

coming," she said, to explain her need of outside assistance. Miss Mason

prided herself on getting through her work alone; hired help she

couldn't afford, but she would not have had any one "under-foot," as she

expressed it, had money been plenty with her.

"You are a wonderful woman," said Mrs. Dean, surveying the spotless

tables and walls. "You are always so brisk, and such a perfect

housekeeper! I wish, dear Miss Mason, you could look in on us yourself

in the evening. It will be a pretty sight."

Miss Mason was gratified. "Run away, Cynthia; put on your best frock,

and don't keep Mrs. Dean waiting," she said. In spite of her

independence, she was rather pleased that her boarders should see the

low phaeton at her door, the brown horse with the silver-mounted

harness, and the dainty lady, in her delicate gray gown and driving

gloves, chatting affably while waiting for Cynthia to dress. She offered

Mrs. Dean a glass of her creamy milk, and it was gratefully accepted.

Cynthia came back directly. Her preparations had not taken her long. Her

"best frock" was of green delaine with yellow spots--"a perfect horror"

the lady thought; it had been purchased at a bargain by Mr. Mason, who

knew nothing about what was suitable for a child. Some lace was basted

in the neck, and her one article of ornament, an old-fashioned coral

necklace with a gold clasp, was fastened just under the lace. The stout

country-made shoes were not becoming to the child's feet, nor was the

rim of white stocking visible above them at all according to the present

styles. She was pretty as a picture, but not in the least arrayed as the

other girls would be, whether from elegant city homes or the ample farm

houses round about.

How her eyes sparkled and her color came and went when Mrs. Dean told

her to step in and seat herself, then, following, took the reins, while

Bonny Bess, the sagacious pony, who knew every tone of his mistress'

voice, trotted merrily off!

Having secured her little guest, Mrs. Dean thought she would give her as

much pleasure as she could. So they took a charming drive before pony's

head was turned to the village. The phaeton glided swiftly over smooth,

hard roads, between rich fields of corn, over a long bridge, and at last

rolled into Main Street, where Mrs. Dean made so many purchases that the

vehicle was soon quite crowded with packages and bundles.

"Now for home, my little one," said the lady, turning; and away they

flew over hill and hollow till they reached the broad, wide open gates

of the place known to everybody as Fernbrake, and skimming gaily down

the long flower-bordered avenue, they stopped at the door of the

beautiful house. The verandas looked inviting with their easy chairs and

rockers, but no one was sitting there, so Cynthia followed her hostess

shyly up the wide stairway, into a cool, airy room with white drapery at

the windows, an upright piano standing open, and books everywhere,

showing the taste of its occupants. Oh, those books! Cynthia's few

story-books had been read until she knew them by heart. Though in these

days it was seldom she was allowed to sit with a book in her hand, a

book-loving child always manages somehow to secure a little space for

the coveted pleasure. And here were shelves just overflowing with

dainty, gaily covered volumes, and low cases crowded, and books lying

about on window-seats and lounges.

Mrs. Dean observed the hungry, eager gaze, and taking off the

wide-brimmed hat with its white ribbon bow and ends, she seated the

little girl comfortably, and put a story into her hands, telling her to

amuse herself until Effie and Florence should come.

A half-hour sped by, and then, answering the summons of a bell in the

distance, the two daughters of the house appeared, and Cynthia was asked

to go with them to luncheon.

Mrs. Dean was a little worried about Cynthia's dress, and was revolving

in her mind whether she might not make her look more like the other

children by lending her for the occasion a white dress of Florrie's,

when, to her regret, she observed that Florrie's eyes were resting very

scornfully on the faded green delaine and the stout coarse shoes.

Now if there is anything vulgar and unpardonable, it is this,

children--that, being a hostess, you are ashamed of anything belonging

to a guest. From the moment a guest enters your door he or she is

sacred, and no true lady or gentlemen ever criticises, much less

apologizes for, the dress of a visitor. Mrs. Dean was sorry to observe

the sneer on Florrie's usually sweet face, and glancing from it to

Cynthia's, she was struck with the contrast.

Never had Cynthia in her life been seated at a table so beautiful. The

tumblers of ruby and amber glass, the plates with their delicate fruit

and flower decoration, every plate a picture, the bouquet in the centre

reflected in a beautiful little round mirror, the pretty silver tubs

filled with broken ice, the shining knives and forks, and the dainty tea

equipage, were so charming that she felt like a princess in an enchanted

castle. But she expressed no surprise. She behaved quietly, made no

mistakes, used her knife and fork like a little lady, and was as

unconscious of herself and her looks as the carnation pink is of its

color and shape.

Mrs. Dean meditated. She did not quite like to ask this child to wear a

borrowed dress, and she felt that Florrie needed to take a lesson in

politeness. Drawing the latter aside, she said, "My darling, I am sorry

you should treat my little friend rudely; you have hardly spoken to

her."

"I can't help it, mamma. She isn't one of the set we go with. A little

common thing like that! See what shoes she has on. And her hands are so

red and coarse! They look as if she washed dishes for a living."

"Something very like it is the case, I'm afraid, Florrie dear. I fear

she has a very dull time at home. But the child is a little lady. I

shall feel very much ashamed if she is more a lady than my own

daughters. See, Effie has made friends with her."

"And so will I," said Florrie. "Forgive me, mamma, for being so silly."

And the three girls had a pleasant chat before the visitors came, and

grew so confidential that Cynthia told Effie and Florrie about the one

great shadow of her life--the mortgage which made her papa so unhappy,

and was such a worry to poor Aunt Kate. She didn't know what it was; it

seemed to her like some dreadful ogre always in the background ready to

pounce on the little home. Neither Effie nor Florrie knew, but they

agreed with her that it must be something horrid, and Effie promised to

ask her own papa, who knew everything, all about it.

"Depend upon it, Cynthia," said Effie, "if papa can do anything to help

you, he will. There's nobody like papa in the whole world."

By and by the company began to arrive, and the wide grounds were gay

with children in dainty summer costumes and bright silken sashes.

Musicians were stationed in an arbor, and their instruments sent forth

tripping waltzes and polkas, and the children danced, looking like

fairies as they floated over the velvet grass. When the beautiful old

Virginia reel was announced, even Cynthia was led out, Mr. Dean himself,

a grand gentleman with stately manners and a long brown beard, showing

her the steps. Cynthia felt as if she had been dancing with the

President. Cinderella at the ball was not less delighted, and this

little Cinderella, too, had a misgiving now and then about to-morrow,

when she must go home to the housework and the boarders and the

gathering of beans for dinner. Yet that should not spoil the present

pleasure. Cynthia had never studied philosophy, but she knew enough not

to fret foolishly about a trouble in the future when something agreeable

was going on now.

In her mother's little well-worn Bible--one of her few

treasures--Cynthia had seen this verse heavily underscored: "Take

therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought

for the things of itself." She did not know what it meant. She would

know some day.

I cannot tell you about the supper, so delicious with its flavor of all

that was sweet and fine, and the open-air appetite the children brought

to it.

After supper came the fireworks. They were simply bewildering. Lulu, the

staunch little friend who had gone to Cynthia's in the morning, speedily

found her out, and was in a whirl of joy that she was there.

"How did you get away?" she whispered.

"Oh, Mrs. Dean came after me herself," returned Cynthia, "And Aunt Kate

couldn't say no to _her_."

Lulu gave Cynthia's hand a squeeze of sympathy.

"What made you bring your mamma's shawl?" asked Cynthia, as she noticed

that Lulu was encumbered with a plaid shawl of the heaviest woolen,

which she kept on her arm.

"Malaria," returned the child. "Mamma's _so_ afraid of it and she said

if I felt the teentiest bit of a chill I must wrap myself up. Horrid old

thing! I hate to lug it around with me. S'pose we sit on it, Cynthy."

They arranged it on the settee, and complacently seated themselves to

enjoy the rockets, which soared in red and violet and silvery stars to

the sky, then fell suddenly down and went out like lamps in a puff of

wind.

Suddenly there was a stir, a shriek, a chorus of screams following it,

from the group just around the fireworks. A pinwheel had exploded,

sending a shower of sparks in every direction.

All in a second, Florrie Dean flew past the girls, her white fluffy

dress on fire. And quick as the fire itself, Cynthia tore after her.

Well was it that the shabby green delaine was a woolen dress, that the

stout shoes did not encumber the nimble feet, that the child's faculties

were so alert. In a second she had seized the great shawl, and almost

before any of the grown people had realized the child's peril, had

smothered the flames by winding the thick folds over and over, round and

round, the fleecy dress and the frightened child.

Florrie was only slightly burned, but Cynthia's little hands were so

blistered that they would neither wash dishes nor pick beans for many a

day.

Mrs. Dean bathed them in sweet oil and bandaged them from the air, then

put Cynthia to bed on a couch in a chamber opening out of her own room.

From time to time in the night she went to see if the dear child was

sleeping quietly, and Mr. Dean, standing and looking at her, said, "We

owe this little one a great debt; her presence of mind saved Florrie's

life."

Early the next morning Bonny Bess trotted up to Mr. Mason's door without

Cynthia. Aunt Kate was feeling impatient for her return. She missed the

willing little helper more than she had supposed possible. She had

arranged half a dozen tasks for the day, in everyone of which she

expected to employ Cynthia, and she felt quite disappointed when she saw

that Mr. Dean was alone.

"Another picnic for to-day, I suppose," she said to herself. "Cynthia

may just as well learn first as last that we cannot afford to let her go

to such junketings often."

But Mr. Dean broke in upon her thoughts by saying, blandly: "Good

morning, madam. Will you kindly tell me where to find Mr. Mason?"

"He's in the south meadow," she answered, civilly, pointing in that

direction. "I see you've not brought Cynthia home, Mr. Dean. I need her

badly. Mrs. Dean promised to send her home early."

"Mrs. Dean will call on you herself in the course of the day; and it is

about Cynthia that I wish to consult her father, my good lady," said Mr.

Dean, lifting his hat, as if to a queen, as he drove toward the meadow.

"Well! well! well!" said Aunt Kate, feeling rather resentful, but on the

whole rather pleased with the "good lady" and the courteously lifted

hat. A charming manner is a wonderful magician in the way of scattering

sunshine.

The boarders, observing the little scene from the side porch, hoped that

Cynthia's outing was to be prolonged. One and all liked the handy,

obliging little maiden who had so much womanly work to do and so scanty

a time for childish play.

When, however, at noon, Mr. Mason came home, holding his head up proudly

and looking five years younger, and told how brave Cynthia had been;

when neighbor after neighbor, as the news flew over the place, stopped

to congratulate the Masons on the possession of such a little

heroine--Miss Mason was at first puzzled, then triumphant.

"You see what there is in bringing up," she averred. "I've never spoiled

Cynthy: I've trained her to be thoughtful and quick, and this is the

result."

When Mrs. Dean first proposed that Cynthia should spend the rest of the

summer at Fernbrake, sharing the lessons and play with her own girls,

Aunt Kate opposed the idea. She did not know how one pair of hands and

feet was to do all that was to be done in that house. Was she to send

the boarders away, or how did her brother think she could get along.

Mr. Mason said he could afford to hire help for his sister if she wished

it, and in any event he meant that Cynthia after this should go to

school and study; for "thanks to her and to God"--he spoke

reverently--"the mortgage was paid." Mr. Dean had taken that burden away

because of Florrie's life which Cynthia had saved.

Under the new conditions Cynthia grew very lovely in face as well as in

disposition. It came to pass that she spent fully half her time with the

Deans; had all the books to read that she wanted, and saw her father and

Aunt Kate so happy that she forgot the old days of worry and care, when

she had sometimes felt lonely, and thought that they were cross. Half

the crossness in the world comes from sorrow and anxiety, and so

children should bear with tired grown people patiently.

As for Lulu, she never ceased to be glad that her mamma's terror of

malaria had obliged her to carry a great shawl to Effie's lawn party.

Privately, too, she was glad that the shawl was so scorched that she

never was asked to wear it anywhere again.

The Boy Who Went from the Sheepfold to the Throne.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

A great many years ago in the morning of the world there was a boy who

began by taking care of flocks, and ended by ruling a nation. He was the

youngest of a large family and his older brothers did not respect him

very much nor think much of his opinion, though they were no doubt fond

of the ruddy, round-faced little fellow, and proud of his great courage

and of his remarkable skill in music. For the boy did not know what fear

was, and once when he was alone in the high hill pasture taking care of

the ewes and the lambs, there came prowling along a lion of the desert,

with his soft padding steps, intent on carrying off a sheep for Madam

Lioness and her cubs. The boy did not run, not he; but took the lamb out

of the lion's mouth, seized the creature by the beard and slew him, and

thus defended the huddling, frightened flock from that peril. He served

the next enemy a big, blundering old bear, in the same way. When there

were no wild beasts creeping up to the rim of the fire he made near his

little tent, the lad would amuse himself by playing on the flute, or

the jewsharp he carried; and at home, when the father and sons were

gathered around in silence, he used to play upon his larger harp so

sweetly that all bad thoughts fled, and everybody was glad and at peace

with the world.

One day an aged man with snowy hair and a look of great dignity and

presence came to the boy's father's house. He proved to be a great

prophet named Samuel, and he was received with much honor. In the course

of his visit he asked to see the entire family, and one by one the tall

and beautiful sons were presented to him until he had seen seven young

men.

"Is this all your household? Have you not another son?" he inquired.

"Yes," said Jesse the Bethlehemite, who by the way was a grandson of

that beautiful maiden, Ruth, who came out of Moab with Naomi, "yes, I

have still a son, but he is only a youth, out in the fields; you would

not wish to see _him_." But this was a mistake.

"Pray, send for him," answered the prophet.

Then David, for this was his name, came in, modest yet eager, with his

pleasant face and his dark kindling eyes. And the prophet said, "This is

the Lord's anointed," and then in a ceremony which the simple family

seem not to have quite understood, he set the boy apart by prayer and

blessing, poured the fragrant oil of consecration on his head, and said

in effect that in days to come he would be the King of Israel.

David went back to his fields and his sheep and for a long while nothing

happened.

But there arose against Israel in due time a nation of warlike people,

called "The Philistines." Nearly all the strong young men of the country

went out to fight against these invaders, and among them went the sons

of old Jesse. Nobody stayed at home except the old men, the women and

the younger boys and little ones. The whole country was turned into a

moving camp, and there arrived a time before long when Israel and the

Philistines each on a rolling hill, with a valley between them, set

their battle in array.

I once supposed that battles were fought on open plains, with soldiers

confronting one another in plain sight, as we set out toy regiments of

wooden warriors to fight for children's amusement. But since then, in my

later years, I have seen the old battlefields of our Civil War and I

know better. Soldiers fight behind trees and barns and fences, and in

the shelter of hedges and ditches, and a timbered mountain side makes a

fine place for a battle ground.

Now I will quote a passage or two from a certain old book, which tells

this part of the story in much finer style than I can. The old book is a

familiar one, and is full of splendid stories for all the year round. I

wish the young people who read this holiday book would make a point

hereafter of looking every day in that treasure-house, the Bible.

And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines,

named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.

And he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a

coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels

of brass.

And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass

between his shoulders.

And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his

spear's head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a

shield went before him.

And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto

them, Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? am not I a

Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? choose you a man for you, and

let him come down to me.

If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be

your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then

shall ye be our servants, and serve us.

And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give

me a man, that we may fight together.

When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they

were dismayed, and greatly afraid.

Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose

name was Jesse; and he had eight sons: and the man went among men

for an old man in the days of Saul.

And the three eldest sons of Jesse went and followed Saul to the

battle: and the names of his three sons that went to the battle

were Eliab the first-born, and next unto him Abinadab, and the

third Shammah.

And David was the youngest: and the three eldest followed Saul.

But David went and returned from Saul to feed his father's sheep at

Beth-lehem.

And the Philistine drew near morning and evening, and presented

himself forty days.

And Jesse said unto David his son, Take now for thy brethren an

ephah of this parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the

camp to thy brethren;

And carry these ten cheeses unto the captain of their thousand, and

look how thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.

Now Saul, and they, and all the men of Israel, were in the valley

of Elah, fighting with the Philistines.

And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a

keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came

to the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and

shouted for the battle.

For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army

against army.

And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the

carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren.

And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the

Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the

Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard

them.

And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him,

and were sore afraid.

And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up?

surely to defy Israel is he come up: and it shall be, that the man

who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and

will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in

Israel.

And David spake to the men that stood by him saying, What shall be

done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the

reproach from Israel? for who is this uncircumcised Philistine,

that he should defy the armies of the living God?

By "carriage" is meant luggage, the things David had brought for his

brothers, not a conveyance as in our modern sense.

The brothers were angry when they found David putting himself forward,

in a way which they thought absurd, but their taunts did not deter him

from presenting himself to King Saul, who was pleased with the gallant

boy, and proposed to arm him with his own armor, a coat of mail, greaves

of brass and the like. But "no," said David, "I would feel clumsy and

awkward in your accoutrements, I will meet the giant with my shepherd's

sling and stone, in the name of the Lord God of Israel whom he has

defied."

The giant came blustering out with a tread that shook the ground. When

he saw his little antagonist he was vexed, for this seemed to him no

foeman worthy of his spear. But when the conflict was really on, lo! the

unerring eye and hand of David sent his pebble from the brook straight

into the giant's head, and the victory was with Israel.

And after that, David went to the palace and played sweetly on the harp

to charm and soothe the madness of King Saul, on whom there came by

spells a fierce and terrible malady. He formed a close friendship with

Jonathan, the king's son, a friendship which has passed into a proverb,

so tender it was and so true. After a while he married the king's

daughter. He had a great many wonderful adventures and strange

experiences, and in time he became king himself, as the Lord by his

prophet Samuel had foretold and chosen him to be.

But better than all, David's deeds of valor and the great fame he had

among the nations, which abides to this day, was, in my mind, the fact

that he wrote many of the psalms which we use in our public worship,

this, the twenty-third, is one of the very sweetest of them all:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside

the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness

for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I

will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they

comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

You must not think that David's life was ever an easy one. He always

had hard battles to fight. Once, for quite a long period, he was an

outlaw, much like Robin Hood of a later day, and with a band of brave

young men he lived in the woods and the mountains, defending the

property of his friends from other outlaws, and sometimes perhaps making

forays against his foes, sweeping off their cattle and burning their

tents and houses. Those were wild and exciting days, when the battle was

for the strongest to win, and when many things were done of which in our

modern times we cannot wholly approve. The thing about David which

pleases me most is that he had a rare quality called magnanimity; he did

not take a mean advantage of an enemy, and when, as occasionally it must

be owned, he did commit a great sin, his repentance was deep and

sincere. He lived in so much communion with God, that God spoke of him

always as his servant, and he has been called, to distinguish him from

other heroes in the Bible gallery, "The man after God's own heart."

Whatever duties or trials came to David, they were met in a spirit of

simple trust in the Lord, and with a child-like dependence on God's

will.

David had many children, some very good and some very bad. His son

Absalom was renowned for his beauty and for his wickedness, while

Solomon became famous, and so continues to this day as the wisest among

men, a man rich, far-sighted and exalted, who reigned long in Jerusalem

after the death of David, his father, who passed away in a good old age.

Wonderful lives are these to read and to think of, full of meaning for

every one of us. And many, many years after both these men and their

successors were gone there came to our earth, One born of a Virgin, who

traced His mortal lineage back to David of Bethlehem, and who brought

goodwill and peace to men. Even Christ our Blessed Lord.

End of Project Gutenberg's Holiday Stories for Young People, by Various