crowded city and went into the country. There, as he walked along
a quiet road by himself, he came to a little cottage with a bench
beside the door. In front of it was a flower-bed filled with pinks and
lady-slippers; in the rear, a small plot of ground that appeared to
have been just digged. A shovel and a hoe were lying there, evidently
left only for the dinner-hour. The door of the cottage was open, and a
laboring-man well on in years was seen within at his noonday meal.
The king, in the guise of a wayfarer, stopped before the gate, and
was at once asked to enter and be seated at the table. Accepting the
invitation, he sat down and partook of the humble repast. As soon as it
was finished the two betook themselves to the bench beside the door.
Said the king:
“You have a hard time, I fear, my friend. This is but a little plot
from which to get your living.”
“But you’ve no idea,” replied the man, “how much this ground yields.
It is planted in potatoes, and a finer crop you never saw. I’m just
digging them, and shall have enough to last me on till spring, with
some to sell—yes, and a few to give a poor neighbor, beside.”
“But is that all you have to depend upon?” asked the king.
“Oh no,” replied the man; “I go out to day’s work on the farms around,
and, beside being able to pay for some new clothes, I’ve put by a
barrel of flour for the winter; it stands over in that far corner. And
you see my woodpile stretching along the fence yonder. I’ve had to work
hard for these things, but they are all that I need, and I am content.”
“‘Content’!” cried the king, as though he could not believe his own
ears. “But have you no other wants beside these?”
[Illustration]
“I might have,” said the man. “There are plenty that offer me their
company, but I refuse to entertain them.”
“Are you, then, quite satisfied?”
“Not with myself, but I am with my lot.”
At this the king was silent, for he saw that his companion was speaking
the truth, though he could not comprehend it.
“But understand me,” continued the man. “It is not because I have no
trials to bear that I am content, for I have my share of them. Here
is the rheumatism in this arm, which often will not let me sleep, and
sometimes keeps me from work for days together. And then, what is
harder still, my landlord is not always kind, or even just.”
“Why, is not this cottage your own?” said the king.
“Oh no,” replied the man; “I’m not so rich as that. And yet, as I
was going to say, taking it all in all, I have in my lot a bigger
proportion of good than most people, and a better chance to be what I
ought to be. And to this end I can see how even my trials are a help.”
The king, rising from the table, bade his humble friend adieu and went
his way, but pursued his search no farther.
“I have found content in another,” he said, “and learned, too, how to
get it for myself. It is to accept not only my good things, but also
my evil things, as a precious part of my portion. I will go back to my
throne esteeming even it in this light, and so, instead of trying to
cast them off, shall be happier in bearing the burdens which it lays
upon me.”
* * * * *
Were we able to look into the secret thoughts of those whom we envy, we
should often find that what we covet in their lot, is borne by them as
a trial and a cross.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LEARNED OWL.
AN owl that had long separated himself from his companions that he
might devote his nights to study and become learned, employed himself
afterward in trying to impart his learning to the other owls. Having
called them together, he discoursed about different animals and
reptiles and fishes which they had never heard of before; but he
found that, while a few seemed anxious for instruction and listened
patiently, the most of his hearers made some excuse for flying away
while he was still talking, so that by the end of his discourse
scarcely a half dozen of them remained.
As he was ambitious to be considered an interesting as well as
instructive speaker, he was greatly discouraged at this result, and
at once retired to the woods, into a thick clump of hemlocks whose
dark shadows never admitted a ray of the sun, and there, all alone, he
thought over the matter, trying to decide what was best to be done.
[Illustration]
He remained for several days thus engaged, when suddenly, as if the
whole difficulty were solved, he gave a cheerful hoot, and flying
forth, summoned all the owls to a meeting in the apple-orchard near
by at twelve o’clock the following night. When the time arrived, but
a small audience appeared in the trees immediately around him, though
many were on those farther off—as we might say, on the back seats—from
which, in case they grew weary, they could retire unseen.
“I’ve come this time,” he began, “not to talk about animals or reptiles
or fishes, but about owls.”
At once he could see an awakening of interest in the birds that
were near him. Then he went on to tell all he knew about owls—their
ancestors who had lived long ago, the different kinds that are
living now, the big owls and the little owls, their habits, their
dispositions, their pleasures, and their pains, not, of course,
omitting courtship and marriage. Very soon he saw the birds that had
lodged on the distant trees flying nearer, and as he went on they came
one by one into the very tree where he stood, until all the owls that
lived in the neighboring woods were gathered close around him; nor
were they willing to leave while he continued his discourse. And after
that, all he had to do was to vary somewhat his treatment of the same
theme to secure a punctual and full attendance.
* * * * *
This fable proves that owls, like men, prefer to hear about things in
which they feel the interest of kindred. The speaker or the book that
can awaken our human sympathies is the one, as we know, that commands
the largest audience and the closest attention.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE HORSE AND THE GRASSHOPPERS.
A HORSE, while feeding in a meadow, frightened the grasshoppers at
his feet, so that they flew up thickly on every side. Some chickens,
discovering this, gathered around and accompanied him, eagerly
devouring the insects. The horse did not notice them for a time and
continued to move slowly along, thus providing them with an abundant
supply. But, at length spying them at their repast, he suddenly raised
his head, saying:
“How are you going to pay me back for all this trouble I am taking for
you?”
At which one of the chickens replied:
“You don’t eat grasshoppers yourself, neither are you going out of
your way to stir them up for us. Why, then, should we pay you at all?”
[Illustration]
The horse, not able to answer this question, began sullenly to feed
again, when the chicken continued:
“If you had done us this favor willingly and kindly, we would have
eaten the grasshoppers and returned you our thanks; but, as you do
it against your will, we will eat them just the same, and return you
nothing.”
* * * * *
In serving our own interests we sometimes, without intending it, serve
the interest of others. It is better to do this graciously and make
them our friends than to do it grudgingly and make them our enemies.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE BARK AND THE LIGHTSHIP.
A BARK on her outward voyage passed the lightship moored on a shoal
that lay in the track of vessels near the coast. Said the bark as she
sailed by:
“Here you are still, held fast by your chain, for ever tossing and
uncomfortable, but making no headway, or profits, either.”
“True,” replied the lightship. “Yet this is my appointed work. I am no
idler.”
Long months rolled around; the bark had crossed the ocean, and was
on her homeward voyage. She neared the land in stormy weather. Night
came on, and the lead, though it was kept going, failed to show just
where she was drifting. Then anxious fears arose, and were growing each
moment more intense, when suddenly a bright flash gleamed through
the darkness. It was the lightship, giving warning of the shoal and
pointing out the deeper channel.
Once more the vessels lay side by side.
“You have saved me,” cried the bark, “and the rich cargo that I carry.
Now I understand why you seek not selfish profits, and most gladly, out
of gratitude, will I share mine with you.”
“Oh no,” replied the lightship; “you have sailed over perilous seas to
gain them, and they justly belong to you. That is your calling; and the
greater your gains, the better am I pleased. But my calling is to lie
here and do what good I can. For this I receive wages sufficient for my
need, and with them I am content.”
* * * * *
While some men devote their lives to business and accumulate
fortunes—properly and honestly, it may be—others devote theirs to the
good of their fellow-men, knowing they will receive in return a bare
living, and nothing more.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE UNHONORED SERVANT.
A CERTAIN king was accustomed from time to time to appoint the members
of his household, some of them to be rulers over provinces, some over
cities, and some to fill private positions of honor and profit. It was
considered not only a reward of obedience, but a special mark of his
confidence and approval, to receive such appointment.
After many had been thus promoted, one remained in the palace who
seemed to be overlooked and neglected. It was evident that this was not
from any fault of his own, or from any want of regard on the part of
the king, for all could see that he was loyal and upright and enjoyed
the king’s favor; yet others who had come later into the palace were
chosen before him.
[Illustration]
At length one of the king’s counsellors ventured to ask him the reason
of this, saying:
“This man for many years has obeyed you with all faithfulness and
devotion, yet others are sent forth to fill stations of honor, while he
remains here in his place as a servant. Why is this?”
The king answered:
“I keep him thus, not as a mark of my displeasure or of his want of
desert, but because he is the one whom I cannot part with, even to
bestow honors and riches upon him, but must have ever near me. Neither
will he be a loser by it in the end.”
* * * * *
A place in the heart is better than a gift from the hand, and he whom
the King will reward may well wait patiently.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WINGS.
ONCE a caterpillar, as it fed on a tree, was given the power of speech.
It said:
“What wonderful eyes I have! I can see the whole of this leaf at one
time—not only the part I am feeding on, but its whole length and
breadth.”
“Let me tell you,” replied the tree, “there are eyes that can see
not only one leaf, but all the leaves on a tree—yes, and on a whole
woods—at a glance.”
“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what
I do, though on a larger scale.—And what wonderful feet I have!”
continued the caterpillar. “I can creep from the ground up to your
topmost bough, between the rising and the setting of the sun.”
“And I can tell you,” replied the tree, “there are feet that can pass
over a space equal to that in a moment, and in one short hour can go
farther than you in all the days of your life.”
“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I
do, though on a larger scale.”
“But this is not all I have to tell you,” continued the tree. “There
are beings that can dart from the ground up to my highest branch
without so much as touching me with their feet, and that can pass
swiftly from tree to tree, borne through the air on wings.”
“That is impossible,” said the caterpillar. “There may be stronger eyes
that can see farther even than mine, and quicker feet that can travel
faster; but, as for wings to fly through the air with, that cannot be.
You are talking of things you know nothing about, or else are only
trying to deceive me. After such an absurd statement, I will not listen
to you any more, or believe anything you say.”
The summer passed, and autumn came with its cloudy days and chilly
nights. The leaves of the tree shrivelled up and dropped to the ground,
and one frosty morning the caterpillar was found suspended from a naked
twig by a thread of its own spinning, shut up in its cocoon. And there
it slept, unconscious from day to day, and month to month, through the
long winter. The fierce storm could not weaken its hold, or shake it
loose, as it hung secure, tossed to and fro by the blast.
[Illustration]
But at length spring approached. The buds began to swell and the young
leaves to appear. The blossoms on the fruit trees opened, and the birds
sang among them. And one morning the imprisoned caterpillar revived in
its narrow cell, and, rending its walls asunder, came forth and basked
in the sunshine. But what are these at its side gently expanding and
unfolding? It spreads them forth, and, loosening its hold upon the
twig, floats away on the breeze. It mounts up, it flies, it lodges on a
lofty bough, and flies from one to another again and again.
“Was it I,” it says, astonished, “that declared there were no beings
with wings, and that to pass from place to place through the air was
impossible? Now am I made to see that it was not the tree, but myself,
who spoke about things I knew nothing of; now am I made to feel the
denseness of my own ignorance. If this, which is so unlooked for and
so far beyond the reach of my understanding, has been done to me, I
will wait and see what yet remains to be done, nor ever again limit the
power that created me at first, and still goes on perfecting its own
work.”
* * * * *
He who can speak most wisely within the circuit of his knowledge if he
venture beyond it utters foolishness.
[Illustration]
STANDPOINTS.
A POOR man who supported his family by daily labor used to deal with
the two storekeepers of his native village. Of one he bought flour and
meat; of the other, materials for his own and his children’s clothing.
Being a good workman and honest as well as industrious, he was
accustomed to settle his accounts at both stores every Saturday night.
All went on well and to the satisfaction of both buyer and seller
as long as health lasted. But at length sickness came, and Saturday
brought the laborer no wages. Still, he hoped for the return of
strength by another week, and then to be at work again. But strength
did not return. Week after week passed, and it seemed farther away than
ever. The storekeepers’ accounts remained unsettled. The matter was
becoming a serious one for them. What should they do?
At this point one of them opened his ledger, went over every item set
down there, and, after footing up the total amount, calculated the
interest on it to the last cent. Then he sat thinking about what he
could do with the money if he only had it in hand; and this was the
standpoint from which _he_ looked at the debt.
The other storekeeper also went over his ledger and footed up the
amount. But after doing so he shut the book up again, and, putting
on his hat, went to see the man who owed him the money. Entering his
humble cottage, he sat down at his bedside and looked into his honest,
suffering face, and on his wife and children in poverty around him; and
here was the standpoint from which _this_ storekeeper looked at the
debt.
The sick man died, and his family was left penniless. The storekeeper
who had visited him, still looking at the debt, as it were, from the
lowly bedside, thought it was right to cross it off his books and
forgive it altogether. The other storekeeper, viewing it from his
counting-room only, thought it right to get the money if he could.
Had he not furnished all the articles that were charged for? Had not
the man’s family taken them and used them? The money was his, and
he meant to have it. So he held the dead man’s wife and children
responsible, and, though they had a hard time to earn their daily
bread, he made it harder by demanding something each month till the
last cent was paid.
[Illustration]
Time rolled on, and the years that gather, an ever-increasing
load, upon poor and rich alike, began to bow the forms of the two
storekeepers. Old age overtook them, and finally the hour when each
in turn must leave store and ledger to know them no more. Then it was
found that he who had remitted the poor man’s debt had left to his
family a moderate competency, with a good many accounts in his ledger
balanced by the one word written over against them, “FORGIVEN.”
[Illustration]
The other storekeeper had left his family rich, with scarcely an
account that had ever been due him unpaid, and the few that were,
remained so only because neither force nor persuasion could bring the
money. But in the village where they had lived and died it was noticed,
long after both storekeepers and their ways of doing business were
forgotten, that the smaller inheritance increased in the hands of those
who received it, while the larger one, in the hands receiving it,
seemed mysteriously to melt away.
* * * * *
According to the standpoint from which we look at a thing will be our
views of right and wrong respecting it; but we are accountable for the
choice of that standpoint.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE MAN WITH A MENAGERIE.
A MAN who kept a menagerie had trouble with several of the wild
beasts, which, although they were confined in strong cages, sometimes
became excited and made violent efforts to escape. There was one in
particular—a tiger—that caused him special concern. By continued
watchfulness and careful treatment, however, the animal was at length
brought into a quiet and submissive state, seeming to be asleep most
of the time. Nevertheless, knowing his savage nature, his owner was
diligent in examining the different parts of his cage—the iron bars in
front, and the bolts in the rear—every day.
But, after doing this for many weeks without a recurrence of any cause
for alarm, the man dismissed his fears and began to forget there had
ever been any cause for them. Then, insensibly to himself, he relaxed
his vigilance, until the matter passed out of his mind and he thought
no more about the tiger than he did about the antelope, the deer, or
any other harmless specimens in his collection.
This state of things had lasted without any mishap for a long time,
when one day, while passing through his menagerie, as he came in front
of the tiger’s cage he made a misstep; his foot slipped, and he fell.
Like a flash—as soon as he saw him fall—the tiger sprang to his feet
and dashed with savage fury against the bars in front of him, which,
not being properly secured, parted and allowed him to pass between them.
As he lighted on the ground all the weak and defenceless animals around
him were panic-stricken, uttering cries of terror. And truly it looked
for the moment as though he might slay both them and their fallen
master unrestrained. To make it worse, his keeper, who alone had any
control over him, was absent, but fortunately not beyond the sound of
the tumult. This man hastened to the rescue, and by skill in soothing
as well as courage in quelling succeeded after a time in getting the
brute back to his den.
Then was the owner glad, breathing freely once more. Yet for hours
afterward his face remained pale and his hand trembled.
[Illustration]
“I am thankful,” he said, “for this great deliverance. Never shall I
forget it, nor lessen my watchfulness over this furious beast’s cage;
for no matter how silent it seems, or how little danger appears to be
within, I know only too well that the tiger is there still.”
* * * * *
Our evil passions may lie dormant until we almost think they have
ceased to exist, and yet, if not sleeplessly guarded, may rise up and
gain the mastery over us at any time.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TWO OUTLOOKS.
TWO persons live in the same house, which has both a front and a back
view. The front view is over a quiet lake, with green fields and
mountains beyond—beautiful always, in summer, in autumn, in winter. The
back view is hemmed in by old broken-down walls, ruinous outbuildings
and a pigsty.
One of the inmates of the house takes her work and sits habitually by
the front window. Her face is bright and beaming, and the neighbors
often hear her sing.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The other inmate sits constantly looking out of the back window. The
gloomy prospect depresses and sours her; and when she does open her
lips, it is generally to complain. Yet neither of these persons is
forced to gaze thus on the prospect which so affects her. Each sits by
the window she has chosen for herself.
Now, we all live in houses with front windows and back windows. At
which of them do we choose, for the most of our time, to sit?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
JOB NICKEL.
A MAN by the name of Job Nickel, who was about emigrating to a new
home, bought a stout horse and strong wagon—the best his means would
afford—and, packing his family into it, with such household goods
as could be carried beside, started on his journey. He had not gone
far when he was overtaken by another family travelling in the same
direction, but driving a pair of fine horses to a handsome carriage.
The difference in outfit, however, did not prevent the occupants of the
carriage from making acquaintance with the family in the wagon. They
first looked at them smilingly, then nodded, and presently got into
conversation.
As their destination was the same and it was pleasanter to travel in
company than alone, Job gave his horse a sharp cut, to keep up with his
new friends; and the travellers kept together until night, when, coming
to a green spot with a spring of pure water upon it, they encamped
there, as is the custom with emigrants on the road.
The next morning, before harnessing up, the occupants of the carriage
begged Job to let his eldest daughter—a bright little girl of
twelve—ride with them. The child’s mother and Job himself were pleased
at this attention, and after fishing out her best dress from the bottom
of a chest, and hastily putting it on, the invitation was accepted. But
when they started for the day, the pair travelled so much faster than
the one horse that the carriage soon left the wagon behind; sometimes
it was visible a good way ahead, and sometimes was quite out of sight.
Yet, as his little girl was in it, Job felt bound to keep as near it
as he could, though this required, especially in going-up hill, the
constant urging of his horse and not unfrequent use of the whip.
While hurrying along the road in this way Job came up with a neighbor
who, like himself, drove only one horse. But so anxious was Job to get
on that he passed his old friend without speaking. It must be admitted,
too, that Job felt with his new acquaintance, if he could only keep up
with them, he was travelling in more distinguished company. Thus the
second day passed, and the travellers again encamped together, Job,
after taking the harness off his own horse, helping to unharness the
pair.
The next morning his friends consented to let the little girl return
to her parents in the wagon provided her brother be allowed to take
her place. So the girl went back, very much dissatisfied, and the boy
succeeded her. And thus the two vehicles continued in company day after
day. Sometimes the boy was in the carriage, and sometimes the girl; and
once one of the children from the carriage came and rode in the wagon.
Meanwhile, the intimacy between the families constantly increased,
no account being taken of their differing circumstances. While these
things were going on, both Job and his wife could not help secretly
thinking that, as their children happened to be of like ages, this
intimacy might some day become closer still; yet neither one (as they
felt in their hearts ashamed of it) mentioned this thought to the other.
[Illustration]
But all this time, notwithstanding his apparent friendship, the owner
of the carriage never once slackened his pace to accommodate Job. As a
consequence, the work of keeping up with him became harder than ever.
Job had now to lash his horse at almost every step, by doing which he
was just able to follow close at the tail of the carriage. But in dry
weather he was always in a cloud of dust, and in wet weather was being
splashed with the mud thrown up by the wheels in front of him; so that,
wet or dry, he was equally miserable.
[Illustration]
But the worst was yet to come. After Job had been thus laboriously
working his way for about half the distance he was to travel, one
morning, on going out early to feed his horse, the animal was found
still lying down; and when Job tried to rouse him, he refused to get
up—alas! with good reason: he could not. And within an hour the poor
overworked beast was dead.