CHAPTER I.

E-text prepared by Al Haines

THE CHILDREN'S PORTION.

Entertaining, Instructive, and Elevating Stories.

Selected and Edited by

ROBERT W. SHOPPELL.

Published by

The Christian Herald,

Louis Klopsch, Proprietor,

Bible House, New York.

Copyright 1895,

By Louis Klopsch.

CONTENTS.

The Golden Age. Rev. Alexander McLeod, D. D.

The Merchant of Venice. Mary Seymour

The Afflicted Prince. Agnes Strickland

"His Ludship." Barbara Yechton

Pious Constance. Chaucer

The Doctor's Revenge. ALOE

The Woodcutter's Child. Grimm Brothers

Show Your Colors. C. H. Mead

Her Danger Signal

A Knight's Dilemma. Chaucer

"His Royal Highness." C. H. Mead

Patient Griselda. Chaucer

Let It Alone. Mary C. Bamford

The Man Who Lost His Memory. Savinien Lapointe

The Story of a Wedge. C. H. Mead

Prince Edwin and His Page. Agnes Strickland

Cissy's Amendment

The Winter's Tale. Mary Seymour

A Gracious Deed

"Tom." C. H. Mead

Steven Lawrence, American. Barbara Yechton

THE CHILDREN'S PORTION.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

REV. ALEXANDER MACLEOD, D. D.

I.

THE KING'S CHILDREN.

There was once, in Christendom, a little kingdom where the people were

pious and simple-hearted. In their simplicity they held for true many

things at which people of great kingdoms smile. One of these things

was what is called the "Golden Age."

There was not a peasant in the villages, nor a citizen in the cities,

who did not believe in the Golden Age. If they happened to hear of

anything great that had been done in former times, they would say,

"That was in the Golden Age." If anybody spoke to them of a good thing

he was looking for in years to come, they would say, "Then shall be the

Golden Age." And if they should be speaking of something happy or good

which was going on under their eyes, they always said, "Yes, the Golden

Age is there."

Now, words like these do not come to people in a day. And these words

about the Golden Age did not come to the people of that ancient kingdom

in a day. More than a hundred years before, there was reigning over

the kingdom a very wise king, whose name was Pakronus. And to him one

day came the thought, and grew from little to more in his mind, that

some time or other there must have been, and some time or other there

would be again, for his people and for all people a "Golden Age."

"Other ages," he said, "are silver, or brass, or iron; but one is a

Golden Age." And I suppose he was thinking of that Age when he gave

names to his three sons, for he called them YESTERGOLD, GOLDENDAY, and

GOLDMORROW. Sometimes when he talked about them, he would say, "They

are my three captains of the Golden Age." He had also a little

daughter whom he greatly loved. Her name was FAITH.

These children were very good. And they were clever as well as good.

But like all the children of that old time, they remained children

longer than the children of now-a-days. It was many years before their

school days came to an end, and when they ended they did not altogether

cease to be children. They had simple thoughts and simple ways, just

like the people of the kingdom. Their father used to take them up and

down through the country, to make them acquainted with the lives of the

people. "You shall some day be called to high and difficult tasks in

the kingdom," he said to them, "and you should prepare yourselves all

you can." Almost every day he set their minds a-thinking, how the

lives of the people could be made happier, and hardly a day passed on

which he did not say to them, that people would be happier the nearer

they got to the Golden Age. In this way the children came early to the

thought that, one way or other, happiness would come into the world

along with the Golden Age.

But always there was one thing they could not understand: that was the

time when the Golden Age should be.

About the Age itself they were entirely at one. They could not

remember a year in their lives when they were not at one in this. As

far back as the days when, in the long winter evenings, they sat

listening to the ballads and stories of their old nurse, they had been

lovers and admirers of that Age. "It was the happy Age of the world,"

the nurse used to say. "The fields were greener, the skies bluer, the

rainbows brighter than in other Ages. It was the Age when heaven was

near, and good angels present in every home. Back in that Age, away on

the lonely pastures, the shepherds watching their flocks by night heard

angels' songs in the sky. And the children in the cities, as they were

going to sleep, felt the waving of angel wings in the dark. It was a

time of wonders. The very birds and beasts could speak and understand

what was said. And in the poorest children in the streets might be

found princes and princesses in disguise."

They remembered also how often, in the mornings, when they went down to

school, their teacher chose lessons which seemed to tell of a Golden

Age. They recalled the lessons about the city of pure gold that was

one day to come down from heaven for men to dwell in; and other lessons

that told of happy times, when nations should learn the art of war no

more, and there should be nothing to hurt or destroy in all the earth.

"Yes, my dear children," their mother would say, in the afternoon, when

they told her of the teacher's lessons and the nurse's stories. "Yes,

there is indeed a happy age for the children of men, which is all that

your nurse and teacher say. It is a happy time and a time of wonders.

In that time wars cease and there is nothing to hurt or destroy.

Princes and princesses in poor clothing are met in the streets, because

in that Age the poorest child who is good is a child of the King of

Heaven. And heaven and good angels are near because Christ is near.

It is Christ's presence that works the wonders. When He is living on

the earth, and His life is in the lives of men, everything is changed

for the better. There is a new heaven and a new earth. And the Golden

Age has come."

II.

DIFFERENT VIEWS.

It was a great loss to these children that this holy and beautiful

mother died when they were still very young. But her good teaching did

not die. Her words about the Golden Age never passed out of their

minds. Whatever else they thought concerning it in after years, they

always came back to this--in this they were all agreed--that it is the

presence of Christ that makes the Gold of the Golden Age.

But at this point their agreement came to an end. They could never

agree respecting the time of the Golden Age.

Yestergold believed that it lay in the past. In his esteem the former

times were better than the present. People were simpler then, and

truer to each other and happier. There was more honesty in trade, more

love in society, more religion in life. Many an afternoon he went

alone into the old abbey, where the tombs of saintly ladies, of holy

men, and of brave fighters lay, and as he wandered up and down looking

at their marble images, the gates of the Golden Age seemed to open up

before him. There was one figure, especially, before which he often

stood. It was the figure of a Crusader, his sword by his side, his

hands folded across his breast, and his feet resting on a lion. "Ay,"

he would say, "in that Age the souls of brave men really trod the lion

and the dragon under foot." But when the light of the setting sun came

streaming through the great window in the west, and kindling up the

picture of Christ healing the sick, his soul would leap up for joy, a

new light would come into his eyes, and this thought would rise within

him like a song--"The Golden Age itself--the Age into which all other

Ages open and look back--is pictured there."

But on such occasions, as he came out of the abbey and went along the

streets, if he met the people hastening soiled and weary from their

daily toils, the joy would go out of his heart. He would begin to

think of the poor lives they were leading. And he would cry within

himself, "Oh that the lot of these toiling crowds had fallen on that

happy Age! It would have been easy then to be good. Goodness was in

the very air blessed by His presence. The people had but to see Him to

be glad." And sometimes his sorrow would be for himself. Sometimes,

remembering his own struggles to be good, and the difficulties in his

way, and how far he was from being as good as he ought to be, he would

say, "Would that I myself had been living when Jesus was on the earth."

More or less this wish was always in his heart. It had been in his

heart from his earliest years. Indeed, it is just a speech of his,

made when he was a little boy, which has been turned into the hymn we

so often sing:--

"I think when I read that sweet story of old,

When Jesus was here among men,

How He called little children, as lambs, to His fold,

I should like to have been with Him then.

"I wish that His hands had been placed on my head,

That His arms had been thrown around me,

That I might have seen His kind looks when He said,

'Let the little ones come unto Me.'"

Goldmorrow's thoughts were different. They went forward into the

future. He had hardly any of Yestergold's difficulties about being

good. He did not think much about his own state. What took up all his

thoughts was the state of the world in which his brothers and he were

living. How was that to be made better? As he went up and down in his

father's kingdom, he beheld hovels in which poor people had to live,

and drink-shops, and gambling-houses, and prisons. He was always

asking himself, how are evils like these to be put away? Whatever good

any Age of the past had had, these things had never been cast out. He

did not think poorly of the Age when Christ was on the earth. He was

as pious as his brother. He loved the Lord as much as his brother.

But his love went more into the future than into the past. It was the

Lord who was coming, rather than the Lord who had come, in whom he had

joy. "The Golden Age would come when Christ returned to the earth," he

said. The verses in the Bible where this coming was foretold shone

like light for Goldmorrow. And often, as he read them aloud to his

brothers and his sister, his eyes would kindle and he would burst out

with speeches like this: "I see that happy time approaching. I hear

its footsteps. My ears catch its songs. It is coming. It is on the

way. My Lord will burst those heavens and come in clouds of glory,

with thousands and tens of thousands in His train. And things evil

shall be cast out of the kingdom. And things that are wrong shall be

put right. There shall be neither squalor, nor wretched poverty, nor

crime, nor intemperance, nor ignorance, nor hatred, nor war. All men

shall be brothers. Each shall be not for himself but for the kingdom.

And Christ shall be Lord of all."

In these discussions Goldenday was always the last to speak. And

always he had least to say. I have been told that he was no great

speaker. But my impression is that he got so little attention from his

brothers when he spoke, that he got into the way of keeping his

thoughts to himself. But everybody knew that he did not agree with

either of his brothers. His belief was that the present Age, with all

its faults, was the Golden Age for the people living in it. And there

is no doubt that that was the view of his sister Faith. For when at

any time he happened to let out even the tiniest word with that view in

it, she would come closer to him, lean up against his side, and give

him a hidden pressure of the hand.

III.

SEARCH FOR THE GOLDEN AGE.

When these views of the young Princes came to be known, the people took

sides, some with one Prince, some with another. The greatest number

sided with Yestergold, a number not so great with Goldmorrow, and a

few, and these for the most part of humble rank, with Goldenday. In a

short time nothing else was talked about, from one end of the kingdom

to the other, but the time of the Golden Age. And this became a

trouble to the King.

Now there happened to be living at that time in the palace a wise man,

a high Councillor of State, whom the King greatly esteemed, and whose

counsel he had often sought. To him in his trouble the King turned for

advice.

"Let not this trouble thee, O King," the Councillor said. "Both for

the Princes and the people it is good that thoughts on this subject

should come out into talk. But let the thoughts be put to the test.

Let the Princes, with suitable companions, be sent forth to search for

this Age of Gold. Although the Age itself, in its very substance, is

hid with God, there is a country in which shadows of all the Ages are

to be seen. In that country, the very clouds in the sky, the air which

men breathe, and the hills and woods and streams shape themselves into

images of the life that has been, or is to be among men. And whosoever

reaches that country and looks with honest, earnest eyes, shall see the

Age he looks for, just as it was or is to be, and shall know concerning

it whether it be his Age of Gold. At the end of a year, let the

travelers return, and tell before your Majesty and an assembly of the

people the story of their search." To this counsel the King gave his

assent. And he directed his sons to make the choice of their

companions and prepare for their journey.

Yestergold, for his companions, chose a painter and a poet. Goldmorrow

preferred two brothers of the Order of Watchers of the Sky. But

Goldenday said, "I shall be glad if my sister Faith will be companion

to me." And so it was arranged.

Just at that time the King was living in a palace among the hills. And

it was from thence the travelers were to leave. It was like a morning

in Wonderland. The great valley on which the palace looked down, and

along which the Princes were to travel, was that morning filled with

vapor. And the vapor lay, as far as the eye could reach, without a

break on its surface, or a ruffled edge, in the light of the rising

sun, like a sea of liquid silver. The hills that surrounded the palace

looked like so many giants sitting on the shores of a mighty sea. It

was into this sea the travelers had to descend. One by one, with their

companions, they bade the old King farewell. And then, stepping forth

from the palace gates and descending toward the valley, they

disappeared from view.

The country to which they were going lay many days' distance between

the Purple Mountains and the Green Sea. The road to it lay through

woods and stretches of corn and pasture land. It was Autumn. In every

field were reapers cutting or binding the corn. At every turn of the

road were wagons laden with sheaves. Then the scene changed. The land

became poor. The fields were covered with crops that were thin and

unripe. The people who passed on the road had a look of want on their

faces. The travelers passed on. Every eye was searching the horizon

for the first glimpse of the mountain peaks. In every heart was the

joyful hope of finding the Golden Age. Can you think what the joy of a

young student going for the first time to a university is? It was a

joy like his. While this joy was in their hearts, the road passed into

a mighty forest. And suddenly among the shadows of the trees a

miserable spectacle crossed their path. It was a crowd of peasants of

the very poorest class. A plague had fallen on their homes, and they

were fleeing from their village, which lay among the trees a mile or

two to the right.

Yestergold was the first to meet them. He was filled with anguish.

His sensitive nature could not bear to see suffering in others. He

shrank from the very sight of misery. Turning to his companions, he

said, "If the Lord of Life had been traveling on this road as He was on

that other, long ago, when the widow of Nain met Him with her dead son,

He would have destroyed the plague by a word." "Oh, holy and beautiful

Age!" exclaimed the poet, "why dost thou lie in thy soft swathings of

light, and power to do mighty deeds, so far behind us in the past?"

"But let us use it as a golden background," said the painter. "That is

the beautiful Age on which Art is called to portray the Divine form of

the Great Physician!" Saying these fine words, the party rode swiftly

past.

The terrified villagers were still streaming across the road when

Goldmorrow came up. Nothing could exceed the pity which the spectacle

stirred in his breast. Tears streamed from his eyes. The bareness,

the poverty, the misery of the present time seemed to come into view

and gather into a point in what he saw. "Oh!" he cried to his

companions, "if Christ were only come! Only He could deal with evils

so great as these!" Then, withdrawing his thoughts into himself, and

still moved with his humane pity, he breathed this prayer to Christ:

"Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly, and lay thy healing hand on the wounds

and sorrows of the world." His companions were also touched with what

they saw. And in earnest and reverent words one of them exclaimed:

"Blessed hope! Light of the pilgrim! Star of the weary! The earth

has waited long thy absent light to see." But, by the time the words

were spoken, the villagers were behind them, and, spurring their

horses, the travelers hastened forward on their way.

IV.

A PLAGUE-STRICKEN VILLAGE.

The dust raised by their horses' hoofs was still floating over the

highway when Goldenday, with his sister and their attendants, rode up

to the spot. Two or three groups of the fugitives had made a temporary

home for the night under the shelter of the trees on the left. Others

were still arriving. The pale faces, the terrified looks of the

villagers, filled the Prince with concern. "It is the pestilence,"

they said, in answer to his inquiries. "The pestilence, good sir, and

it is striking us dead in the very streets of our village." The Prince

turned to his sister. She was already dismounted. A light was in her

eye which at once went to his heart. The two understood each other.

They knew that it was Christ and not merely a crowd of terrified

peasants who had met them. They were His eyes that looked out at them

through the tear-filled eyes of the peasantry. It was His voice that

appealed to them in their cries and anguish. He seemed to be saying to

them: "Inasmuch as ye do it to one of the least of these, ye do it unto

Me." In a few moments the Prince had halted his party and unpacked his

stores, and was supplying the wants of the groups on the left. Before

an hour was past he had brought light into their faces by his words of

cheer, and, with his sister and his servants, was on his way to the

plague-stricken village.

Most pitiable was the scene which awaited him there. People were

really dying in the streets, as he had been told. Some were already

dead. A mother had died in front of her cottage, and her little

children sat crying beside her body. Another, with a look of despair

in her eyes, sat rocking the dead body of the child. The men seemed to

have fled.

The Prince's plans were soon formed. He had stores enough to last his

party and himself for a year. He would share these with the villagers

as far as they would go. He had tents also for the journey. He would

use these for a home to his own party and for hospitals for the sick.

Before the sun had set, the tents for his own party were erected on a

breezy height outside the village. And, ere the sun had arisen the

next morning, the largest tent of all had been set in a place by

itself, ready to receive the sick.

Goldenday and his sister never reached the country where the images of

all the Ages are to be found. A chance of doing good met them on their

journey, and they said to each other, "It has been sent to us by God."

They turned aside that they might make it their own. They spent the

year in the deeds of mercy to which it called them among the

plague-stricken villagers.

It would take too long to tell all that this good Prince and his sister

achieved in that year. The village lay in a hollow among dense woods

and on the edge of a stagnant marsh. The Prince had the marsh drained

and the woods thinned. Every house in the village was thoroughly

repaired and cleaned. The sick people were taken up to the

tent-hospital and cared for until they got well. The men who had fled

returned. The terrified mothers ventured back. The sickness began to

slacken. In a few months it disappeared. Then the Prince caused wells

to be dug to supply water for drinking. Then he built airy schools for

the children. Last of all he repaired the church, which had fallen

into ruin, and trained a choir of boys to sing thanks to God. But when

all these things had been accomplished, the year during which he was to

have searched for the Golden Age was within a few weeks of its close.

And, what was worse, it was too plain to his sister that the Prince's

health had suffered by his toils. Night and day he had labored in his

service of love. Night and day he had carried the burden of the

sickness and infirmities of the village in his heart. It had proved a

burden greater than he could bear. He had toiled on till he saw health

restored to every home. He toiled until he saw the village itself

protected from a second visitation of the plague. But his own strength

was meanwhile ebbing away. The grateful villagers observed with grief

how heavily their deliverer had to lean on his sister's arm in walking.

And tears, which they strove in vain to conceal, would gather in their

eyes as they watched the voice that had so often cheered them sinking

into a whisper, and the pale face becoming paler every day.

V.

RETURN OF THE SEARCHERS.

The year granted to the Princes by the King had now come to a close.

And he and his nobles and the chief men of his people assembled on the

appointed day to welcome the Princes on their return and to hear their

reports concerning the time of the Golden Age.

The first to arrive was Prince Yestergold. He was accompanied to the

platform on which the throne was set by the painter and poet, who had

been his companions during the year. Having embraced his father, he

stepped to the front and said:--

"Most high King and father beloved, and you, the honorable nobles and

people of his realm, on some future occasion my two companions will,

the one recite the songs in which the Age which we went to search for

is celebrated, and the other exhibit the pictures in which its life is

portrayed. On this occasion it belongs to me to tell the story of our

search, and of what we found and of what we failed to find. We went

forth to discover the time of the Golden Age. We went in the belief

that it was the time when our Lord was on the earth. How often have I

exclaimed in your hearing, 'Oh that I had been born in that age! How

much easier to have been a Christian then!' I have this day, with

humbleness of heart, to declare that I have found myself entirely in

the wrong. I have been in the country where images of the Ages are

stored. I have seen the very copy of the Age of our Lord. I was in it

as if I had been born in it. I saw the scenes which those who then

lived saw. I saw the crowds who moved in those scenes. I beheld the

very person of the Divine Lord. And oh! my father, and oh! neighbors

and friends, shall I shrink from saying to you, 'Be thankful it is in

this Age and not in that you have been born, and that you know the Lord

as this Age knows Him, and not as He was seen and known in His own.'

"We arrived at Bethany on the day when Lazarus was raised. I mingled

with the crowd around the grave. I saw the sisters. I was amazed to

find that nothing looked to me as I had expected it to do. Even the

Lord had not the appearance of One who could raise the dead. And when

the dead man came forth, I could not but mark that some who had seen

the mighty miracle turned away from the spot, jeering and scoffing at

the Lord, its worker.

"When I next saw the Lord He was in the hands of the scoffers who had

turned away from the grave of Lazarus. He was being led along the

streets of Jerusalem to Calvary. The streets on both sides were

crowded with stalls, and with people buying and selling as at a fair.

Nobody except a few women seemed to care that so great a sufferer was

passing by. He was bending under the weight of the Cross. His face

was pale and all streaked with blood. I said to myself: 'Can this be

He who is more beautiful than ten thousand?' My eyes filled with

tears. Sickness came over my heart. I was like one about to die. I

hurried away from the pitiless crowd, from the terrible spectacle, from

the city accursed. And straightway I turned my face toward my home.

And as I came within sight of my father's kingdom, I gave thanks to God

that my lot had been cast in this favored Age, and that the horrors

through which the Lord had to pass are behind us; and that we see Him

now in the story of the Gospels, as the Son of God, clothed with the

glory of God, seated on the throne of heaven and making all things work

together for good."

As the Prince was bringing his speech to a close, a distant rolling of

drums announced that one of his brothers had arrived at the gates of

the city. It was Goldmorrow. And in a little while he entered the

hall, embraced his father, and was telling the story of his travel.

"My companions and I," he said, "have been where the Golden Age of my

dreams is displayed. We have been in that far future where there is to

be neither ignorance nor poverty, neither sickness nor pain, and where

cruelty and oppression and war are to be no more. It is greater than

my dreams. It is greater than I have words to tell. It is greater

than I had eyes to see. We were not able to endure the sight of it.

We felt ourselves to be strangers in a strange land. The people we met

looked upon us as we look upon barbarians. Our hearts sickened. We

said to each other: 'It is too high, we cannot reach up to it.' The

very blessings we had come to see did not look to us like the blessings

of which we had dreamed.

"But our greatest trial was still to come. The Lord had come back to

the earth and was living among the people of that Age. We made our way

to the palace in which He lived. It was like no palace we had ever

seen. It was like great clouds piled up among the hills. We were

present when the doors were thrown open. We beheld Him coming forth.

But the vision of that glory smote our eyes like fire. We were not

able to gaze upon it. Our hearts failed within us. This was not the

Christ we had known. We shrank back from the light of that awful

presence. We fell on the ground before Him. 'God be merciful to us

sinners,' we cried, 'we are not worthy to look upon thy face.' And

when we could open our eyes again the vision had passed.

"Then, O father! then, O friends beloved, I knew that I had sinned. In

that moment of my humiliation and shame I recalled a sight which I had

seen in the first days of my journey. I remembered some peasants

fleeing from a plague-stricken village, whom we had passed. I said to

myself, I say this day to you, we were that day at the gates of the

real Golden Age and we did not know it. We might that day have turned

aside to the help of these peasants, but we missed the golden chance

sent to us by God."

VI.

THE FINDER OF THE AGE.

When Goldmorrow had finished, a strain of the most heavenly music was

heard. It sounded as if it were coming toward the assembly hall from

the gates of the city. It was like the chanting of a choir of angels,

and the sounds rose and fell as they came near, as if they were blown

hither and thither by the evening wind. In a little while the singing

was at the doorway of the hall, and every eye was turned in that

direction. A procession of white-robed children entered first. Behind

them came a coffin, carried on men's shoulders, and covered with

wreaths of flowers. Then, holding the pall of the coffin, came in the

Princess Faith, behind her the attendants who had accompanied her

brother and herself, and last of all a long line of bare-headed

peasants walking two and two. It was the coffin of the Prince

Goldenday. His strength had never come back to him. He had laid down

his life for the poor villagers. Having fulfilled his task in their

desolate home, the brave young helper sickened and died.

When this was known, the old King lifted up his voice and wept, and the

Princes, and the nobles, and all the people present joined in his

sorrow. Then it seemed to be found out, that the dead Prince had been

of the three brothers the most beloved. Then, when the weeping had

continued for a long time, the Princess Faith stepped forward, and in

few words told the story of the year. Then silence, only broken by

bursts of sorrow, fell upon all. And then the Councillor rose up from

his seat at the right hand of the King, and said:

"We have heard, O King, the words of the Princes who searched the Past

and the Future for the Age of Gold. The lips that should have spoken

for the Age we are living in are forever closed; but in the beautiful

statement of our Princess we have heard the story they had to tell.

"Can there be even one in this great assembly, who has listened to the

story of the Princess, and does not know that the Age of Gold is found,

and that it was found by the Prince whose dead body is here?

"O King, and ye Princes and peers and people, it was the daily teaching

of the Sainted Lady, our Queen, that the Golden Age is the time when

Christ is present in our life. In every form in which Christ's

presence can be felt, it was felt in the village for whose helping the

dear Prince laid down his life.

"A time of great misery had come to that village. The harvest, year

after year, had failed. Poverty fell upon the people. Then, last and

worst of all, came the pestilence. Through the story told by the

beloved Princess we can see that faith in God began to fail. The

people cried out in their agony: 'Has God forgotten?' And some, 'Is

there a God at all?'

"It was in the thick darkness of that time the Prince visited them. He

met them fleeing from their home. He gave up his own plans that he

might help them. His coming into the village, into the very thick of

its misery, was like the morning dawn. He was summer heat and summer

cheer to the people. The clouds of anxiety and of terror began to

lift. The shadow of death was changed for them into the morning. He

made himself one with them. He went from house to house with cheer and

help. The burden seemed less heavy, the future less dark, that this

helper was by their side. Best of all, faith came back to them. It

was as if the Lord had come back. In a real sense He had come back.

He was present in His servant the Prince. The people beheld the form

of the Son of God going about their streets doing good. They saw the

old miracles. The blind saw, the deaf heard God, as in the days when

Jesus was in the flesh. Even death was conquered before their eyes. A

real gleam of heaven is falling this evening on the once-darkened

village. The evil things that infested its life have been cast out and

a new heaven and a new earth have come to it. It is the Golden Age

come down to them from God.

"In his great task the dear Prince died. Our hearts are heavy for that

we shall see his face no more. But count it not strange that he died,

or that this trial should have descended on our King and us. It is the

rule in the kingdom of the Lord. Whoever will bring the Golden Age

where sin is, must himself lay down his life. For those peasants, as

Christ for all mankind, the Prince laid down his life."

The people listened till the Councillor reached these words, then, as

by one impulse, they rose and burst into a grand doxology. Then a

company of torch-bearers entered. Then, the children took up their

place at the head of the coffin and began again to sing. The bearers

lifted the coffin. The King and Faith and the two Princes followed;

after them the peasants from the village, then the chief nobles and the

people, and in this order the coffin was carried to the place of the

dead.

In the course of years the wise Pakronus died, and Yestergold became

King. He made his brother Prime Minister. And the two brothers became

really what their father called them when boys--"Captains of the Golden

Age." In everything that was for the good of the people, they took the

lead. They were Captains in every battle with sin and misery. What

Goldenday did for the plague-stricken village, they strove to do for

the whole kingdom. Their Sister Faith gave herself to the building and

care of schools and hospitals. And the time in which those three lived

is described in all the histories of that kingdom as a Golden Age.

It is told by travelers who have visited the Royal city, that a statue

of the Prince Goldenday stands above the old gateway of the Abbey, and

that there are written below it the words:

"TO-DAY IF YE WILL HEAR HIS VOICE."

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

AS TOLD BY MARY SEYMOUR.

In the beautiful Italian city of Venice there dwelt in former times a

Jew, by name Shylock, who had grown rich by lending money at high

interest to Christian merchants. No one liked Shylock, he was so hard

and so cruel in his dealings; but perhaps none felt such an abhorrence

of his character as a young man of Venice named Antonio.

This hatred was amply returned by the Jew; for Antonio was so kind to

people in distress that he would lend them money without taking

interest. Besides, he used to reproach Shylock for his hard dealings,

when they chanced to meet. Apparently the Jew bore such reproaches

with wonderful patience; but could you have looked into his heart, you

would have seen it filled with longing for revenge.

It is not strange to find that Antonio was greatly loved by his

fellow-countrymen; but dearest of all his friends was Bassanio, a young

man of high rank, though possessed of but small fortune.

One day Bassanio came to tell Antonio that he was about to marry a

wealthy lady, but to meet the expense of wedding such an heiress, he

needed the loan of three thousand ducats.

Just at that time Antonio had not the money to lend his friend, but he

was expecting home some ships laden with merchandise; and he offered to

borrow the required sum of Shylock upon the security of these vessels.

Together they repaired to the Jewish money-lender; and Antonio asked

for three thousand ducats, to be repaid from the merchandise contained

in his ships. Shylock remembered now all that Antonio had done to

offend him. For a few moments he remained silent; then he said:

"Signor, you have called me a dog, and an unbeliever. Is it for these

courtesies I am to lend you money?"

"Lend it not as a friend," said Antonio; "rather lend it to me as an

enemy, so that you may the better exact the penalty if I fail."

Then Shylock thought he would pretend to feel more kindly.

"I would be friends with you," he said. "I will forget your treatment

of me, and supply your wants without taking interest for my money."

Antonio was, of course, very much surprised at such words. But Shylock

repeated them; only requiring that they should go to some lawyer,

before whom--as a jest--Antonio should swear, that if by a certain day

he did not repay the money, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, cut from

any part of his body which the Jew might choose.

"I will sign to this bond," said Antonio; "and will say there is much

kindness in a Jew."

But Bassanio now interfered, declaring that never should Antonio put

his name to such a bond for his sake. Yet the young merchant insisted;

for he said he was quite sure of his ships returning long before the

day of payment.

Meanwhile Shylock was listening eagerly; and feigning surprise, he

exclaimed: "Oh, what suspicious people are these Christians! It is

because of their own hard dealings that they doubt the truth of

others.--Look here, my lord Bassanio. Suppose Antonio fail in his

bond, what profit would it be to me to exact the penalty? A pound of

man's flesh is not of the value of a pound of beef or mutton! I offer

friendship, that I may buy his favor. If he will take it, so; if not,

adieu."

But still Bassanio mistrusted the Jew. However, he could not persuade

his friend against the agreement, and Antonio signed the bond, thinking

it was only a jest, as Shylock said.

The fair and beautiful lady whom Bassanio hoped to marry lived near

Venice; and when her lover confessed that,--though of high birth,--he

had no fortune to lay at her feet, Portia prettily said that she wished

herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times more rich,

so that she might be less unworthy of him. Then, declaring that she

gave herself to be in all things directed and governed by him, she

presented Bassanio with a ring.

Overpowered with joy at her gracious answer to his suit, the young lord

took the gift, vowing that he would never part with it.

Gratiano was in attendance upon his master during this interview; and

after wishing Bassanio and his lovely lady joy, he begged leave to be

married also; saying that Nerissa, the maid of Portia, had promised to

be his wife, should her mistress wed Bassanio.

At this moment a messenger entered, bringing tidings from Antonio;

which Bassanio reading, turned so pale that his lady asked him what was

amiss.

"Oh, sweet Portia, here are a few of the most unpleasant words that

ever blotted paper," he said. "When I spoke of my love, I freely told

you I had no wealth, save the pure blood that runs in my veins; but I

should have told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt."

And then Bassanio gave the history of Antonio's agreement with Shylock,

the Jew. He next read the letter which had been brought: "Sweet

Bassanio--My ships are lost: my bond to the Jew is forfeited; and since

in paying it, it is impossible I should live, I could wish to see you

at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if your love for me

do not persuade you to come, let not my letter."

Then Portia said such a friend should not lose so much as a hair of his

head by the fault of Bassanio, and that gold must be found to pay the

money; and in order to make all her possessions his, she would even

marry her lover that day, so that he might start at once to the help of

Antonio.

So in all haste the young couple were wedded, and also their

attendants, Gratiano and Nerissa. Bassanio immediately set out for

Venice, where he found his friend in prison.

The time of payment was past, and the Jew would not accept the money

offered him: nothing would do now, he said, but the pound of flesh! So

a day was appointed for the case to be tried before the Duke of Venice;

and meanwhile the two friends must wait in anxiety and fear.

Portia had spoken cheeringly to her husband when he left her, but her

own heart began to sink when she was alone; and so strong was her

desire to save one who bad been so true a friend to her Bassanio, that

she determined to go to Venice and speak in defence of Antonio.

There was a gentleman dwelling in the city named Bellario, a

counsellor, who was related to Portia; and to him she wrote telling the

case, and begging that he would send her the dress which she must wear

when she appeared to defend the prisoner at his trial. The messenger

returned, bringing her the robes of the counsellor, and also much

advice as to how she should act; and, in company of her maid Nerissa,

Portia started upon her errand, arriving at Venice on the day of the

trial.

The duke and the senators were already in court, when a note was handed

from Bellario saying that, by illness, he was prevented pleading for

Antonio; but he begged that the young and learned Doctor Balthasar (for

so he called Portia) might be allowed to take his place.

The duke marveled at the extremely youthful appearance of this

stranger, but granted Bellario's request; and Portia, disguised in

flowing robes and large wig, gazed round the court, where she saw

Bassanio standing beside his friend.

The importance of her work gave Portia courage; and she began her

address to Shylock, the Jew, telling him of mercy:

"The quality of mercy is not strained;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown."

But Shylock's only answer was, that he would insist upon the penalty:

upon which Portia asked if Antonio could not pay the sum. Bassanio

then publicly offered the payment of the three thousand ducats; the

hard Jew still refusing it, and declaring that he would take nothing

but the promised pound of flesh.

Bassanio was now terribly grieved, and asked the learned young

counsellor to "wrest the law a little."

"It must not be--there is no power in Venice can alter a decree

established," said Portia. Shylock, hearing her say this, believed she

would now favor him, and exclaimed: "A Daniel come to judgment! O wise

young judge, how do I honor thee!"

He never guessed what was coming, when the young counsellor gravely

asked to look at the bond. She read it, and declared that the Jew was

lawfully entitled to the pound of flesh, but once more she begged him

to take the offered money, and be merciful.

It was in vain to talk to Shylock of mercy. He began to sharpen a

knife; and then Portia asked Antonio if he had anything to say. He

replied that he could say but little; and prepared to take leave of his

well-beloved Bassanio, bidding him tell his wife how he had died for

friendship.

In his grief, Bassanio cried out that, dearly as he loved his wife,

even she could not be more precious to him than Antonio's life; and

that he would lose her and all he had, could it avail to satisfy the

Jew.

"Your wife would give you little thanks for that, if she were by to

hear you make that offer," said Portia; not at all angry, however, with

her husband for loving such a noble friend well enough to say this.

Then Bassanio's servant exclaimed that _he_ had a wife whom he loved,

but he wished she were in heaven, if, by being there, she could soften

the heart of Shylock.

At this, Nerissa--who, in her clerk's dress, was by Portia's

side--said, "It is well you wish this behind her back."

But Shylock was impatient to be revenged on his victim, and cried out

that time was being lost. So Portia asked if the scales were in

readiness; and if some surgeon were near, lest Antonio should bleed to

death.

"It is not so named in the bond," said Shylock.

"It were good you did so much for charity," returned Portia.

But charity and mercy were nothing to the Jew, who sharpened his knife,

and called upon Antonio to prepare. But Portia bade him tarry; there

was something more to hear. Though the law, indeed, gave him a pound

of flesh, it did not give him one single drop of blood; and if, in

cutting off the flesh, he shed one drop of Antonio's blood, his

possessions were confiscated by the law to the State of Venice!

A murmur of applause ran through the court at the wise thought of the

young counsellor; for it was clearly impossible for the flesh to be cut

without the shedding of blood, and therefore Antonio was safe.

Shylock then said he would take the money Bassanio had offered; and

Bassanio cried out gladly, "Here it is!" at which Portia stopped him,

saying that the Jew should have nothing but the penalty named in the

bond.

"Give me my money and I will go!" cried Shylock once more; and once

more Bassanio would have given it, had not Portia again interfered.

"Tarry, Jew," she said; "the law hath yet another hold on you." Then

she stated that, for conspiring against the life of a citizen of

Venice, the law compelled him to forfeit all his wealth, and his own

life was at the mercy of the duke.

The duke said he would grant him his life before he asked it; one-half

of his riches only should go to the State, the other half should be

Antonio's.

More merciful of heart than his enemy could expect, Antonio declared

that he did not desire the Jew's property, if he would make it over at

his death to his own daughter, whom he had discarded for marrying a

Christian, to which Shylock reluctantly agreed.

THE AFFLICTED PRINCE.

A TALE OF THE ANCIENT BRITONS.

I.

It is said by some ancient historians, and by those who have bestowed

much pains in examining and comparing old conditions, that several

kings reigned over Britain before Julius Caesar landed in the country.

Lud Hurdebras is supposed to have been the eighth king from Brute, whom

the Bards, and after them, the monkish historians, report to have been

the first monarch of Britain. I am going to tell you a story of Prince

Bladud, the son of this Lud Hurdebras, which, there is reason to

believe, is founded on fact.

Bladud was the only child of the king and queen, and he was not only

tenderly beloved by his parents, but was also considered as a child of

great beauty and promise by the chiefs and the people. It, however,

unfortunately happened that he was attacked with that loathsome

disease, so frequently mentioned in Scripture by the name of leprosy.

The dirty habits and gross feeding of the early natives of Britain, as

well as of all other uncivilized people, rendered this malady common;

but at the time in which Prince Bladud lived, no cure for it was known

to the Britons. Being highly infectious, therefore, all persons

afflicted with it were not only held in disgust and abhorrence, but, by

the barbarous laws of the times, were doomed to be driven from the

abodes of their fellow-creatures, and to take their chance of life or

death in the forests and the deserts, exposed alike to hunger and to

beasts of prey.

So great was the horror of this disease among the heathen Britons, and

so strictly was the law for preventing its extension observed, that

even the rank of the young prince caused no exception to be made in his

favor. Neither was his tender youth suffered to plead for sympathy;

and the king himself was unable to protect his own son from the cruel

treatment accorded to the lepers of those days. No sooner was the

report whispered abroad, that Prince Bladud was afflicted with leprosy,

than the chiefs and elders of the council assembled together, and

insisted that Lud Hurdebras should expel his son from the royal city,

and drive him forth into the wilderness, in order to prevent the

dreaded infection from spreading.

The fond mother of the unfortunate Bladud vainly endeavored to prevail

on her royal husband to resist this barbarous injunction. All that

maternal love and female tenderness could urge, she pleaded in behalf

of her only child, whose bodily sufferings rendered him but the dearer

object of affection to her fond bosom.

The distressed father, however deeply and painfully he felt the queen's

passionate appeal, could not act in contradiction to the general voice

of his subjects; he was compelled to stifle all emotions of natural

compassion for his innocent son, and to doom him to perpetual

banishment.

Bladud awaited his father's decision, in tears and silence, without

offering a single word of supplication, lest he should increase the

anguish of his parent's hearts. But, when the cruel sentence of

banishment was confirmed by the voice of his hitherto doating sire, he

uttered a cry of bitter sorrow, and covering his disfigured visage with

both hands, turned about to leave the haunts of his childhood forever,

exclaiming, "Who will have compassion upon me, now that I am abandoned

by my parents?"

How sweet, how consoling, would have been the answer of a Christian

parent to this agonizing question; but on Bladud's mother the heavenly

light of Revelation had never shone. She knew not how to speak comfort

to the breaking heart of her son, in those cheering words of Holy Writ,

which would have been so applicable to his case in that hour of

desertion: _When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, I will take

thee up_. She could only weep with her son, and try to soothe his

sorrow by whispering a hope, which she was far from feeling, that the

day might come, when he could return to his father's court, cured of

the malady which was the cause of his banishment.

"But years may pass away before that happy day, if it ever should

come," replied the weeping boy; "and I shall be altered in stature and

in features; the tones of my voice will have become strange to your

ears, my mother! Toil and sorrow will have set their hard marks upon

my brow. These garments, now so brightly stained with figures that

denote my royal birth and princely station, will be worn bare, or

exchanged for the sheep-skin vest of indigence. How, then, will you

know that I am indeed your son, should I ever present myself before you

cleansed of this dreadful leprosy?"

"My son," replied the queen, taking a royal ring of carved agate from

her finger, and placing it on a stand before him, for so great was the

terror of contagion from those afflicted with leprosy, that even the

affectionate mother of Bladud avoided the touch of her child,--"this

ring was wrought by the master-hand of a Druid, a skillful worker in

precious stones, within the sacred circle of Stonehenge. It was placed

upon my finger before the mystic altar, when I became the wife of the

king, your father, and was saluted by the Arch-Druid as Queen of

Britain. In the whole world, there is not another like unto it; and,

should you bring it back to me, by that token shall I know you to be my

son, even though the lapse of thrice ten years shall have passed away,

and the golden locks of my princely boy shall be darkened with toil and

time, and no longer wave over a smooth, unfurrowed brow."

II.

The unfortunate Bladud, having carefully suspended his mother's ring

about his neck, bade her a tearful farewell, and slowly and sorrowfully

pursued his lonely way across the hills and downs of that part of

England which is now called Somersetshire.

Evening was closing in before Bladud met with a single creature to show

him the slightest compassion. At length, he was so fortunate as to

encounter a shepherd-boy, who appeared in scarcely less distress than

himself; for one of the sheep belonging to his flock had fallen into a

ditch, the sides of which were so steep that he was unable to pull it

out without assistance.

"Stranger," said he, addressing the outcast prince, "if ever you hope

to obtain pity from others, I beseech you to lend me your aid, or I

shall be severely punished by my master, for suffering this sheep to

fall into the ditch."

Bladud required no second entreaty, but hastily divesting himself of

his princely garments, assisted the boy in extricating the sheep from

the water. The grateful youth bestowed upon him, in return, a share of

his coarse supper of oaten cakes. Bladud, who had not broken his fast

since the morning, ate this with greater relish than he had often felt

for the dainties of which he had been accustomed to partake at his

father's board.

It was a fine and lovely evening; the birds were singing their evening

song; and a delicious fragrance was diffused from the purple heath and

the blooming wild flowers. The sheep gathered round their youthful

keeper; and he took up a rustic pipe, made from the reeds that overhung

the margin of a neighboring rivulet, and played a merry tune, quite

forgetful of his past trouble.

Bladud saw that a peasant boy, while engaged in the performance of his

duties, might be as happy as a prince. Contentment and industry

sweeten every lot, while useless repining only tends to aggravate the

hardships to which it is the will of God that the human family should

be exposed.

"You appear very happy," said Bladud to his new friend.

"How should I be otherwise?" replied the shepherd-boy: "I have

wherewithal to eat and to drink; I have strength to labor, and health

to enjoy my food. I sleep soundly on my bed of rushes after the toils

of the day; and my master never punishes me except for carelessness or

disobedience."

"I wish I were a shepherd-boy, also," said the prince: "can you tell me

of some kind master, who would employ me to feed his flocks on these

downs?"

The shepherd-boy shook his head, and replied, "You are a stranger lad

from some distant town; most probably, by your fine painted dress, the

runaway son of some great person, and unacquainted with any sort of

useful occupation. Let me hear what you can do to get an honest

living."

Bladud blushed deeply. He had been accustomed to spend his time in

idle sports with the sons of the chieftains, and had not acquired the

knowledge of anything likely to be of service in his present situation.

He was silent for some minutes, but at length replied, "I can brighten

arrows, string bows, and shoot at a mark."

Math, the shepherd-boy, advised his new companion, in his rustic

language, not to mention these accomplishments to the peaceful herdsmen

of Caynsham, (as the spot where this conference took place is now

called,) lest it should create a prejudice against him; "neither,"

continued he, "would I counsel you to sue for service in a suit of this

fashion." He laid his sunburnt hand, as he spoke, on Bladud's painted

vest, lined with the fur of squirrels, which was only worn by persons

of royal rank.

"Will you, for charity's sake, then, exchange your sheep-skin coat for

my costly garments?" asked Bladud.

"Had you not so kindly helped me to pull my sheep out of the ditch, I

would have said to you nay," replied Math; "but as one good turn

deserves another, I will even give you my true shepherd's suit for your

finery." So saying, he exchanged suits with the young prince.

"And now," said Bladud, "do you think I may venture to ask one of the

herdsmen of the valley to trust me with the care of a flock?"

"Trust you with the care of a flock, forsooth!" cried Math, laughing;

"I wonder at your presumption in thinking of such a thing, when you

confess yourself ignorant of all the duties of a shepherd-boy!"

"They are very simple, and can easily be learned, I should think," said

Bladud.

"Ay," replied Math, "or you had not seen them practiced by so simple a

lad as Math, the son of Goff. But as all learners must have a

beginning, I would not have you aspire at first to a higher office than

that of a swineherd's boy; for remember, as no one knows who you are,

or whence you come, you must not expect to obtain much notice from

those who are the possessors of flocks and herds."

Bladud sighed deeply at this remark; but as he felt the truth of what

Math said, he did not evince any displeasure at his plain speaking.

He, therefore, mildly requested Math to recommend him to some master

who would give him employment.

Math happened to know an aged swineherd who was in want of a lad of

Bladud's age to attend on his pigs. He accordingly introduced his new

friend, Bladud, as a candidate for that office; and his mild and sedate

manners so well pleased the old man, that he immediately took him into

his service.

Bladud at first felt the change of his fortunes very keenly, for he had

been delicately fed and nurtured, and surrounded by friends, servants,

and busy flatterers. He was now far separated from all who knew and

loved him; exposed to wind and weather, heat and cold, and compelled to

endure every species of hardship. He had no other bed than straw or

rushes; his food was far worse than that which is now eaten by the

poorest peasants, who deem their lot so hard; and he was clothed in

undressed sheep-skins, from which the wool had been shorn. His drink

was only water from the brook, and his whole time was occupied in his

attendance on the swine.

At the earliest peep of dawn he was forced to rise, and lead forth into

the fields and woods a numerous herd of grunting swine in quest of

food, and there to remain till the shades of evening compelled him to

drive them to the shelter of the rude sheds built for their

accommodation, round the wretched hovel wherein his master dwelt.

Bladud was sure to return weary and hungry, and often wet and

sorrowful, to his forlorn home. Yet he did not murmur, though

suffering at the same time under a most painful, and, as he supposed,

an incurable disease.

He endeavored to bear the hardships of his lot with patience, and he

derived satisfaction from the faithful performance of the duties which

he had undertaken, irksome as they were. The greatest pain he endured,

next to his separation from his parents, was the discovery that several

of his master's pigs were infected with the same loathsome disease

under which he was laboring; and this he feared would draw upon him the

displeasure of the old herdsman.

But the leprosy, and its contagious nature, were evils unknown to the

herdsmen of Caynsham, or Bladud would never have been able to obtain

employment there. His master was an aged man, nearly blind, who, being

convinced of the faithful disposition of his careful attendant, left

the swine entirely to his management; so the circumstance of several of

the most valuable of them being infected with leprosy, was never

suspected by him. Bladud continued to lead them into the fields and

forests in quest of their daily food, without incurring either question

or reproach from him, or, indeed, from any one, for it was a

thinly-inhabited district, and there were no gossiping neighbors to

bring the tale of trouble to the old herdsman.

But though Bladud's misfortune remained undetected, he was seriously

unhappy, for he felt himself to be the innocent cause of bringing the

infection of a sore disease among his master's swine. He would have

revealed the whole matter to him, only that he feared the evil could

not now be cured.

From day to day he led his herd deeper into the forests, and further

a-field; for he wished to escape the observation of every eye.

Sometimes, indeed, he did not bring them back to the herdsmen's

enclosure above once in a week. In the meantime he slept at night,

surrounded by his uncouth companions, under the shade of some

wide-spreading oak of the forest, living like them, upon acorns, or the

roots of the pig-nuts, which grew in the woods and marshes, and were,

when roasted, sweet and mealy, like potatoes, with the flavor of the

chestnut. These were dainties in comparison to the coarse, black

unleavened cakes on which poor Bladud had been used to feed ever since

his unhappy banishment.

The old herdsman was perfectly satisfied with Bladud's management of

the swine, and glad to find that he took the trouble of leading them

into fresh districts for change of food, of which swine are always

desirous.

So Bladud continued to penetrate into new and untrodden solitudes with

his grunting charge, till one day he saw the bright waters of the river

Avon sparkling before him in the early beams of the morning sun. He

felt a sudden desire of crossing this pleasant stream. It was the

fruitful season of autumn, and the reddening acorns, with which the

rich oaken groves that crowned the noble hills on the opposite side

were laden, promised an abundant feast for his master's swine, of whose

wants he was always mindful.

He would not, however, venture to lead them across the river without

first returning to acquaint his master, for he had already been abroad

more than a week. So he journeyed homeward, and reached his master's

hovel, with his whole herd, in safety. He then reported to the good

old man, that he had wandered to the side of a beautiful river, and

beheld from its grassy banks a rich and smiling country, wherein, he

doubted not, that the swine would find food of the best kind, and in

great abundance. "Prithee, master," quoth he, "suffer me to drive the

herd across that fair stream, and if aught amiss befall them, it shall

not be for want of due care and caution on the part of your faithful

boy."

"Thou art free to lead the herd across the fair stream of which thou

speakest, my son," replied the herdsman, "and may the blessing of an

old man go with them and thee; for surely thou hast been faithful and

wise in all thy doings since thou hast been my servant."

That very day he set out once more to the shores of the silvery Avon,

and crossed it with the delighted pigs, at a shallow spot, which has

ever since that time, in memory thereof, been called Swinford, or

Swine's-ford.

No sooner, however, had they reached the opposite shore, than the whole

herd set off, galloping and scampering, one over the other, as if they

had one and all been seized with a sudden frenzy. No less alarmed than

astonished at their sudden flight, Bladud followed them at his quickest

speed, and beheld them rapidly descending into a valley, towards some

springs of water, that seemed to ooze out of the boggy land in its

bottom, amidst rushes, weeds, and long rank grass. Into this swamp the

pigs rushed headlong, and here they rolled and reveled, tumbling,

grunting, and squeaking, and knocking each other head over heels, with

evident delight, but to the utter astonishment of Bladud, who was

altogether unconscious of the instinct by which the gratified animals

had been impelled.

All the attempts which Bladud made to, drive or entice them from this

spot were entirely useless. They continued to wallow in their miry

bed, until at length the calls of hunger induced them to seek the woods

for food; but after they had eaten a hearty meal of acorns, they

returned to the swamp, to the increasing surprise of Bladud. As for

his part, having taken a supper of coarse black bread and roasted

acorns, he sought shelter for the night in the thick branches of a

large oak-tree.

Now poor Bladud was not aware that, guided by superior Wisdom, he had,

unknown to himself, approached a spot wherein there existed a

remarkable natural peculiarity. This was no other than some warm,

springs of salt water, which ooze out of the earth, and possess certain

medicinal properties which have the effect of curing various diseases,

and on which account they are sought by afflicted persons even to the

present day.

III.

Bladud awoke with the first beams of morning, and discovered his

grunting charge still actively wallowing in the oozy bed in which they

had taken such unaccountable delight on the preceding day.

Bladud, however, who was accustomed to reason and to reflect on

everything he saw, had often observed that the natural instinct of

animals prompted them to do such things as were most beneficial to

them. He had noticed that cats and dogs, when sick, had recourse to

certain herbs and grasses, which proved effectual remedies for the

malady under which they labored; and he thought it possible that pigs

might be endowed with a similar faculty of discovering an antidote for

disease. At all events he resolved to watch the result of their

revelings in the warm ooze bath, wherein they continued to wallow,

between whiles, for several days.

The wisdom of this proceeding was shortly manifested; for Bladud soon

observed that a gradual improvement was taking place in the appearance

of the swine.

The leprous scales fell off by degrees, and in the course of a few

weeks the leprosy gradually disappeared, and the whole herd being

cleansed, was restored to a sound and healthy state.

The heart of the outcast prince was buoyant with hope and joy when the

idea first presented itself to his mind, that the same simple remedy

which had restored the infected swine might be equally efficacious in

his own case. Divesting himself of his humble clothing and elate with

joy and hope, he plunged into the warm salt ooze bed, wherein his pigs

had reveled with so much advantage.

He was soon sensible of an abatement of the irritable and painful

symptoms of his loathsome malady; and, in a short time, by persevering

in the use of the remedy which the natural sagacity of his humble

companions had suggested, he became wholly cured of the leprosy and was

delighted to find himself restored to health and vigor.

After bathing, and washing away in the river the stains of the ooze, he

first beheld the reflection of his own features in the clear mirror of

the stream. He perceived that his skin, which had been so lately

disfigured by foul blotches and frightful scales, so as to render him

an object of abhorrance to his nearest and dearest friends, was now

smooth, fair, and clear.

"Oh, my mother!" he exclaimed, in the overpowering rapture of his

feelings on this discovery, "I may then hope to behold thy face once

more! and thou wilt no longer shrink from the embrace of thy son, as in

the sad, sad hour of our sorrowful parting!"

He pressed the agate ring which she had given him as her farewell token

of remembrance, to his lips and to his bosom, as he spoke; then

quitting the water, he once more arrayed himself in the miserable garb

of his lowly fortunes, and guided his master's herd homeward.

The old man, who was beginning to grow uneasy at the unwonted length of

Bladud's absence, and fearing that some accident had befallen the

swine, was about to set forth in search of him, when he heard the

approach of the noisy herd, and perceived Bladud advancing toward him.

"Is all well with thyself and with the herd my son?" inquired the old

man.

"All is well, my father," replied Bladud, bowing himself before his

lowly master, "yea, more than well; for the blessing of the great

Disposer of all that befalleth the children of men, hath been with me.

I left you as a poor destitute, afflicted with a sore disease, that had

rendered me loathsome to my own house, and despised and shunned by all

men. I was driven forth from the dwellings of health and gladness, and

forced to seek shelter in the wilderness. From being the son of a

king, I was reduced to become the servant of one of the humblest of his

subjects, and esteemed myself fortunate in obtaining the care of a herd

of swine, that I might obtain even a morsel of coarse food, and a place

wherein to lay my head at night. But, behold, through this very thing

have I been healed of my leprosy!"

"And who art thou, my son?" demanded the old herdsman, in whose ears

the words of his youthful servant sounded like the language of a dream.

"I am Bladud, the son of Lud Hurdebras, thy king," replied the youth.

"Up--let us be going, for the time seemeth long to me, till I once more

look upon his face, and that of the queen, my mother."

"Thou hast never yet in aught deceived me, my son," observed the

herdsman, "else should I say thou wert mocking me with some wild fable;

so passing all belief doth it seem, that the son of my lord the king

should have been contented to dwell with so poor and humble a man as

myself in the capacity of a servant."

"In truth, the trial was a hard one," replied Bladud; "but I knew that

it was my duty to submit to the direction of that heavenly Guardian who

has thus shaped my lot after His good pleasure; and now do I perceive

that it was in love and mercy, as well as in wisdom, that I have been

afflicted." Bladud then proposed to his master that he should

accompany him to his father's court; to which the old herdsman, who

scarcely yet credited the assertion of his young attendant, at length

consented; and they journeyed together to the royal city.

In these days, many a mean village is in appearance a more important

place than were the royal cities wherein the ancient British kings kept

court; for these were merely large straggling enclosures, surrounded

with trenches and hedge-rows, containing a few groups of wattled huts,

plastered over with clay. The huts were built round the king's palace,

which was not itself a more commodious building than a modern barn, and

having neither chimneys nor glazed windows, must have been but a

miserable abode in the winter season.

At the period to which our story has now conducted us, it was, however,

a fine warm autumn day. King Hurdebras and his queen were therefore

dwelling in an open pavilion, formed of the trunks of trees, which were

covered over with boughs, and garlanded with wreaths of wild flowers.

Bladud and his master arrived during the celebration of a great

festival, held to commemorate the acorn-gathering, which was then

completed. All ranks and conditions of people were assembled in their

holiday attire, which varied from simple sheep-skins to the fur of

wolves, cats, and rabbits.

Among all this concourse of people, Bladud was remarked for the poverty

of his garments, which were of the rude fashion and coarse material of

those of the humblest peasant. As for the old herdsman, his master,

when he observed the little respect with which Bladud was treated by

the rude crowds who were thronging to the royal city, he began to

suspect either that the youth himself had been deluded by some strange

dream respecting his royal birth and breeding, or that for knavish

purposes he had practiced on his credulity, in inducing him to

undertake so long a journey.

These reflections put the old man into an ill humor, which was greatly

increased when, on entering the city, he became an object of boisterous

mirth and rude jest to the populace. On endeavoring to ascertain the

cause of this annoyance, he discovered that one of his most valuable

pigs, that had formed a very powerful attachment to Prince Bladud, had

followed them on their journey, and was now grunting at their very

heels.

The herdsman's anger at length broke out in words, and he bitterly

upbraided Bladud for having beguiled him into such a wild-goose

expedition. "And, as if that were not enough," quoth he, "thou couldst

not be contented without bringing thy pet pig hither, to make a fool

both of thyself and me. Why, verily, we are the laughing-stock of the

whole city."

Bladud mildly assured his master that it was through no act of his that

the pig had followed them to his father's court.

"Thy father's court, forsooth!" retorted the old man, angrily; "I do

verily believe it is all a trick which thou hast cunningly planned, for

the sake of stealing my best pig. Else why shouldst thou have

permitted it to follow thee thither?"

Bladud was prevented from replying to this unjust accusation by a

rabble of rude boys, who had gathered round them, and began to assail

the poor pig with sticks and stones. Bladud at first mildly requested

them to desist from such cruel sport; but finding that they paid no

attention to his remonstrances, he began to deal out blows, right and

left, with his stout quarter-staff, by which he kept the foremost at

bay, calling at the same time on his master to assist him in defending

the pig.

But Bladud and his master together were very unequally matched against

this lawless band of young aggressors. They certainly would have been

very roughly handled, had it not been for the unexpected aid of a

shepherd-lad who came to their assistance, and, with the help of his

faithful dog, succeeded in driving away the most troublesome of their

assailants.

In this brave and generous ally, Bladud had the satisfaction of

discovering his old friend Math of the Downs. So completely, however,

was Bladud's appearance changed in consequence of his being cleansed of

the leprosy, that it was some time before he could convince Math that

he was the wretched and forlorn outcast with whom he had changed

clothes, nearly a twelvemonth before on the Somersetshire Downs.

Math, however, presently remembered his old clothes, in the sorry

remains of which Bladud was still dressed; and Bladud also pointed with

a smile to the painted vest of a British prince, in which the young

shepherd had arrayed himself to attend the festival of the

acorn-gathering. Strange to say, the generous boy had altogether

escaped infection from the clothes of his diseased prince.

Bladud now briefly explained his situation to the astonished Math, whom

he invited to join himself and his master in their visit to the royal

pavilion, in order that he might be a witness of his restoration to the

arms of his parents, and the honors of his father's court.

Math, though still more incredulous than even the old herdsman, was

strongly moved by curiosity to witness the interview. He stoutly

assisted Bladud in making his way through the crowd, who appeared

resolutely bent on impeding their progress to the royal pavilion,

which, however, they at length approached, still followed by the

persevering pig.

IV.

The last load of acorns, adorned with the faded branches of the noble

oak, and crowned with the mistletoe, a plant which the Druids taught

the ancient Britons to hold in superstitious reverence, was now borne

into the city, preceded by a band of Druids in their long white robes,

and a company of minstrels, singing songs, and dancing before the wain.

The king and queen came forth to meet the procession, and, after

addressing suitable speeches to the Druids and the people, re-entered

the pavilion, where they sat down to regale themselves.

Bladud, who had continued to press forward, now availed himself of an

opportunity of entering the pavilion behind one of the queen's favorite

ladies, whose office it was to fill her royal mistress' goblet with

mead. This lady had been Bladud's nurse, which rendered her very dear

to the queen, whom nothing could console for the loss of her son.

Bladud, concealed from observation by one of the rude pillars that

supported the roof of the building, contemplated the scene in silence,

which was broken only by the agitated beating of his swelling heart.

He observed that the queen, his mother, looked sad and pale, and that

she scarcely tasted of the cheer before her. She sighed deeply from

time to time, and kept her eyes fixed on the vacant place which, in

former happy days used to be occupied by her only son!

King Hurdebras endeavored to prevail upon her to partake of some of the

dainties with which the board was spread.

"How can I partake of costly food," she replied, "when my only child is

a wanderer on the face of the earth, and, perchance, lacketh bread?"

Bladud, unable longer to restrain the emotions under which he labored,

now softly stole from behind the pillar, and, unperceived, dropped the

agate ring into his mother's goblet.

"Nay," replied the king, "but this is useless sorrow, my lady queen.

Thinkest thou that I have borne the loss of our only son without grief

and sorrow? Deeply have I also suffered; but we must not forget that

it is our duty to bow with humility to the wise decrees of the great

Disposer of all human events?"

"But canst thou feel our loss in like degree with me?" she exclaimed,

bursting into tears; "what shall equal a mother's love, or the grief of

her who sorroweth for her only one?"

"Fill high the goblet, Hetha," said the king, turning to the favorite

of his royal consort; "and implore the queen, thy mistress, to taste of

the sweet mead, and, for the happiness of those around her, to subdue

her sorrow."

The queen, after some persuasion, took the wine-cup, and raised it with

a reluctant hand; but, ere the sparkling liquor reached her lips, she

perceived the ring at the bottom of the goblet, and hastily pouring the

mead upon the ground, seized the precious token, and holding it up,

with a cry of joy, exclaimed, "My son! my son!"

Bladud sprang forward, and bowed his knee to the earth before her.

"Hast thou forgotten me, oh! my mother?" he exclaimed, in a faltering

voice; for the queen, accustomed to see her princely son attired in

robes befitting his royal birth, looked with a doubtful eye on the

ragged garb of abject indigence in which the youth was arrayed.

Moreover, he was sun-burnt and weather-beaten; had grown tall and

robust; and was, withal, attended by his strange friend, the pig, who,

in the untaught warmth of his affection, had intruded himself into the

presence of royalty, in the train of his master.

A second glance convinced the queen, the king, and the delightful

Hetha, that it was indeed the long-lost Bladud upon whom they looked;

and it scarcely required the testimony of the old herdsman, his master,

and that of his friend Math, the shepherd, to certify the fact, and

bear witness to the truth of his simple tale.

Touching was the scene when the king, recovering from the surprise into

which the first shock of recognition had plunged him, rushed forward

and clasped his long-lost son to his bosom. The big tear-drops rolled

down his manly cheeks, and, relaxing the dignity of the king, and the

sternness of the warrior, all the energies of his nature were embodied

in the one single feeling, that he was a happy and a beloved father!

The news of the return of their prince spread throughout the assembled

multitudes, on wings of joy. Loud and long were the shouts and

acclamations which burst forth in every direction, as the distant

groups became apprised of the event. The Druids and the Minstrels

formed themselves into processions, in which the people joined; and the

harpers, sounding their loudest strains, struck up their songs of joy

and triumph. The oxen, loosened from the wains, and decked with

garlands of flowers, were led forward in the train; and the dancers and

revelers followed, performing with energy and delight their rude sports

and pastimes around the king's pavilion.

Night at length closed upon the happy scene, and the king and queen

retired to their tent, accompanied by their son, to learn from his lips

the course of events by which his life had been preserved, and his

health restored. They joined in humble thanks to the Great Author of

all happiness, for the special blessings that had been bestowed upon

them; and the king marked his sense of gratitude by gifts and benefits

extended to the helpless and the deserving among his subjects. The

good old herdsman was among the most favored, and the worthy Math was

put in a path of honor and promotion, of which he proved himself well

deserving.

"HIS LUDSHIP."

BARBARA YECHTON.

You could not have found anywhere two happier boys than were Charlie

and Selwyn Kingsley one Saturday morning early in June. In their

delight they threw their arms around each other and danced up and down

the piazza, they tossed their hats in the air and hurrahed, they sprang

down the stone steps two at a time, dashed about the grounds in a wild

fashion that excited their dog Fritz, and set him barking in the

expectation of a frolic, then raced across to their special chum and

playmate, Ned Petry. They arrived there almost out of breath, but with

such beaming faces that before they reached the hammock where he lay

swinging Ned called out, "Halloa! what's happened? Something good, I

know."

"We're going--" panted Charlie, dropping down on the grass beside him.

"To Europe!" supplemented Selwyn.

"No!" cried Ned, springing up. "Isn't that just jolly! When do you

sail, and who all are going? Let's sit in the hammock together. Now

tell me all about it." The three boys crowded into the hammock, and

for a few minutes questions and answers flew thick and fast.

"You know we've always wanted to go." said Charlie. Ned nodded. "And

the last time papa went he promised he'd take us the next trip, but we

didn't dream he was going this summer."

"Though we suspected something was up," broke in Selwyn, "because for

about a week past whenever Charlie and I would come into the room papa

and mamma'd stop talking; but we never thought of Europe."

"Until this morning," continued Charlie, "after breakfast, when papa

said, 'Boys, how would you like a trip to Europe with your mother and

me?'"

"At first we thought he was joking," again interrupted eager little

Selwyn, "because his eyes twinkled just as they do when he is telling a

joke."

"But he wasn't," resumed his brother, "and the long and short of the

matter is that we are all--papa, mamma, sister Agatha, Selwyn, and

I--to sail in the Majestic, June 17, so we've only about a week more to

wait."

"Oh! oh! it's too splendid for anything!" cried Selwyn, clapping his

hands in delight and giving the hammock a sudden impetus, which set it

swaying rapidly. "We're to spend some time with Uncle Geoffrey

Barrington--you know, Ned, Rex's father--and we're to see all the

sights of 'famous London town'--the Houses of Parliament, the Zoo,

Westminster Abbey, and the dear old Tower! Just think of it, Ned,

papa's going to show us the very cells in which Lady Jane Grey and Sir

Walter Raleigh were shut up! Oh, don't I wish you were going, too!"

"Wouldn't it be splendid!" said Charlie, throwing his arm across Ned's

shoulders.

"Wouldn't it!" echoed Ned, ruefully. "I wonder when our turn will

come; soon, I hope. I shall miss you fellows awfully."

"Never mind, Ned, we'll write to you," cried both boys, warmly, "and

tell you all about everything."

The next week was full of pleasant excitement for Charlie and Selwyn.

They left school a few days before it closed that they might help mamma

and sister Agatha, who were very busy getting things into what papa

called "leaving order." There was a great deal to do, but at last

everything was accomplished, the steamer trunks had been packed, and

some last good-byes spoken. Fritz and the rabbits had been given into

Ned's keeping with many injunctions and cautions. Carefully wrapped in

cloths, the boys had placed their bicycles in the seclusion which a

garret granted. Balls, tennis rackets, boxes of pet tools, favorite

books, everything, in fact, had been thought of and cared for, and at

last the eventful day of sailing arrived.

A number of friends came to the city to see the Kingsleys off. They

sat in the saloon of the big steamer with Mrs. Kingsley and her

daughter, while the boys, under papa's care, remained on the dock for a

while, deeply interested in their unusual surroundings. They were

almost wild with excitement, which not even the prospect of parting

with Ned could quiet, and it is not much to be wondered at, there was

so much going on.

The long covered dock was crowded with men, women, and children, nearly

all of whom were talking at the same time. Large wagons were

unloading; trunks, boxes and steamer-chairs stood about, which the

steamer "hands" were carrying up the gangway as rapidly as possible;

huge cases, burlap-covered bundles, barrels and boxes were being

lowered into the hold by means of a derrick; men were shouting,

children crying, horses champing, and in the midst of the confusion

loving last words were being spoken.

When papa joined the grown people in the saloon, Charlie, Selwyn, and

Ned made a tour of the steamer. Of course they were careful not to get

in the way of the busy sailors, but they found lots to see without

doing that. First, wraps and hand-satchels were deposited in their

state-rooms, which were directly opposite each other, and the

state-rooms thoroughly investigated, each boy climbing into the upper

berths "to see how it felt." Then they visited the kitchen, saw the

enormous tea and coffee pots, and the deep, round shining pans in which

the food was cooked. But they did not stay here long, as it was nearly

dinner time, and everybody was very busy. Next came the engine-room,

which completely fascinated them with its many wheels and rods and

bolts, all shining like new silver and gold.

From there they went on deck, clambered up little flights of steps as

steep as ladders and as slippery as glass; walked about the upper deck,

and managed to see a great deal in fifteen or twenty minutes. By the

time they returned to the gangway all the baggage and merchandise had

been taken on board. A man in a blue coat with brass buttons, and a

cap with a gilt band around it, called out in a loud voice, "All on

shore!" and then came last good-byes. Smiles and laughter vanished,

tears and sobs took their places. "Good-bye!" "God bless you!" "Bon

voyage!" "Don't forget to write!" was heard on every side. Mamma and

sister Agatha shed a few tears; even papa was seen to take off his

glasses several times to wipe the moisture which would collect on them.

Of course, Charlie, Selwyn, and Ned wouldn't cry, that was "too

babyish;" but they had to wink very hard at one time to avert such a

disgrace, and just at the last, when no one was looking, they threw

dignity to the winds, and heartily kissed each other good-bye.

"Write just as soon as you get over," cried Ned, as he ran down the

gangway.

"We will, indeed we will!" the boys answered, eagerly. Then the

gangway was drawn on board, the engine began to move, and the big ship

steamed away from the pier in fine style, with flags flying and

handkerchiefs fluttering.

Mrs. Kingsley was confined to her berth for nearly all of the voyage,

but the rest of the family remained in excellent health and spirits,

and the boys thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

When about three days out the ship passed near enough to an iceberg for

the passengers to distinguish distinctly its castle-like outline, and

to feel the chill it gave to the air.

Our two boys were such courteous, kindly little gentlemen that all who

came in contact with them liked them, and returned to them the same

measure that they gave. The captain even took them on the "bridge," a

favor which was not accorded to any other boy or girl on board. And

what with visiting the engine-room, waiting on mamma and sister Agatha,

walking and talking with papa, sitting in their steamer-chairs, and

paying proper attention to the good things which were served four or

five times a day, Charlie and Selwyn found that the time fairly flew

away. Selwyn had brought "An American Boy in London" to read aloud to

Charlie, but there were so many other interesting things to occupy

their attention that only one chapter was accomplished.

On the afternoon of the seventh day after leaving New York, the

Majestic steamed up to the Liverpool dock, and a few hours later the

Kingsleys found themselves comfortably settled in a railroad carriage

en route for London. It was late when they arrived in the great

metropolis, and every one was glad enough to get to the hotel and to

rest as quickly as possible.

Early the next morning Uncle Geoffrey Barrington came to carry off the

entire family to his big house in Portland Place. Here he declared

they should remain during their stay in London, and as he had a

charming wife and grown-up daughter, who devoted themselves to Mrs.

Kingsley and sister Agatha, and a son about Charlie's age, who was full

of fun and friendliness, all parties found themselves well satisfied

with the arrangement.

Uncle Geof was one of the judges of the Queen's Bench, and a very busy

man, so he could not always go about with his American relatives; but

Dr. Kingsley was well acquainted with London, and therefore able to

escort his party to all the places of interest. I only wish I had time

to tell you of all the delightful trips they took, and all the

interesting things they saw in this fascinating old city. Visits to

the Tower, the Houses of Parliament, where they heard "Big Ben" strike

the hour--and Westminster Abbey with its illustrious dead; excursions

to Windsor and the Crystal Palace; sails down the Thames, and dinners

and teas at Richmond and Kew Gardens, driving home by moonlight! How

the boys did enjoy it all, and what long letters went home to America

addressed to Master Edward Petry!

All this sight-seeing took up many days; three weeks slipped by before

anybody realized it, and Dr. Kingsley was talking of a trip to the

Continent, when a little incident occurred of which I must tell you.

Rex and his American cousins had become the best of friends. He knew

all about their pretty home in Orange, about Ned and the rabbits,

Fritz, the bicycling, and the tennis playing, while they in their turn

took the deepest interest in his country and Eton experiences. They

took "bus" rides together, and played jokes on the pompous footman,

whom Charlie had nicknamed the "S. C." (Superb Creature).

One morning Rex and our two boys went to Justice Barrington's chambers.

There they expected to find Dr. Kingsley, but when they arrived only

Jarvis, the solemn-faced old servitor, met them. He showed them into

the inner room and left them to their own devices, saying that "his

ludship and the reverend doctor" would, no doubt, soon be in.

The room was very dark; three sides were covered with

uninteresting-looking law books, and after gazing out of the window,

which overlooked a quiet little church-yard where the monuments and

headstones were falling into decay, the three boys were at a loss what

to do with themselves. Charlie and Selwyn would have liked a walk

about the neighborhood, but Reginald demurred. "It's a horrid bore

being shut up here," he admitted frankly, "but papa might return while

we were out, and I'm not sure that he would like to find us away. I

wish I could think of some way to amuse you. Oh, I know--we were

talking about barristers' robes the other day; I'll show you papa's

gown and wig. I know where Jarvis keeps them. Wouldn't you like to

see them?"

"Indeed we should," responded the American boys. So, after hunting for

the key, Rex opened what he called a "cupboard" (though Charlie and

Selwyn thought it a closet), where hung a long black silk robe, very

similar in style to those worn by our bishops in America. This he

brought out; next, from a flat wooden box, which looked very old and

black, he drew a large, white, curly wig. The boys looked at these

with eager interest. "These are like what are worn in the Houses of

Parliament," said Charlie. "What a funny idea to wear such a dress."

"I think it's a very nice idea," Rex answered, quickly. "I assure you

the judges and the barristers look very imposing in their robes and

wigs."

"I expect to be a lawyer one of these days; wouldn't I astonish the

American public if I appeared in such a costume?" said Charlie,

laughing. "I wonder how I'd look in it?"

"Try it on and see," suggested Rex.

"Oh, do, do, Charlie! it'll be such fun!" pleaded Selwyn. So, nothing

loth, Charlie slipped on the long black silk robe, then Rex and Selwyn

arranged the thin white muslin bands at his throat, and settled the big

white wig on his head. His soft, dark hair was brushed well off his

face so that not a lock escaped from beneath the wig, and when he put

on a pair of Uncle Geof's spectacles, which lay conveniently near, the

boys were convulsed with laughter at his appearance.

"Good-day, your 'ludship,'" said Rex, with a mocking bow; "will your

'ludship' hold court to-day?"

"Yes, let's have court and try a prisoner," cried Charlie, who began to

feel rather proud of his unusual appearance. "You don't mind, do you,

Rex?"

"Why, no! I think it'll be no end of fun," was the merry reply. "One

of us could be the prisoner, and the other the barrister who defends

him. I'd better be the barrister, because I know more about English

law than Selwyn does. And the furniture'll have to be the other

counsel and the gentlemen of the jury. Sit over there, Charlie, near

that railing, and we'll make believe it's the bar. The only trouble is

the barrister will have no gown and wig. Isn't it a pity?"

"Let's take the table cover," suggested Selwyn, which was immediately

acted upon. With their combined efforts, amid much laughter, it was

draped about Rex's shoulders in a fashion very nearly approaching the

graceful style of a North American Indian's blanket. A Russian bath

towel, which they also found in the closet, was arranged on his head

for a wig; then Selwyn was placed behind a chair which was supposed to

be the prisoner's box, the judge took his place, and court opened.

The ceremony differed from any previously known in judicial experience,

and bursts of merry laughter disturbed the dignity of the learned judge

and counsel, to say nothing of the prisoner.

"The prisoner at the bar, your 'ludship,'" began the counsel, striving

to steady his voice, "has stolen a--a--a--what shall I say you have

stolen?" addressing Selwyn in a stage whisper.

"Tom, Tom, the piper's son,

Stole a pig,

And away did run;

The pig was eat,

And Tom was beat,

And Tom went roaring

Down the street,"

sang the prisoner, in a sweet little voice.

"Your 'ludship,' singing is contempt of court; you will please fine the

prisoner at the bar," said the counsel, regardless of the fact that the

prisoner was supposed to be his client.

"Silence, both of you!" cried the judge, with impartial justice,

rapping his desk sharply with a brass paper-cutter. "Now, Mr.

Barrister, state the case." Then, in an aside, "Wasn't that well said?"

"The prisoner has stolen a pig, your 'ludship,'" said the counsel. "He

admits it, but as the animal has been eaten--"

"And the prisoner has been beaten," put in the incorrigible Selwyn.

"And the prisoner is a stranger in a strange land," continued Rex,

ignoring the irrelevant remark, "a most noble and learned

American--ahem!--what sentence, your 'ludship,' shall be passed upon

him?"

"Hum, hum!" said his "ludship," resting his cheek on his hand

meditatively, trying to assume the expression which he had seen

sometimes on papa's face when he and Selwyn were under consideration

for some childish offence.

"The court waits, your 'ludship,'" remarked the counsel, throwing a

paper ball at the judge.

"Silence!" again shouted the judge, rapping vigorously. "The sentence

is this: the prisoner shall stand on his head for two seconds, then

recite a piece of poetry, and then--in the course of a week--leave the

country."

"Your 'ludship' will please sign the sentence and we will submit it to

the jury," suggested the learned counsel, who, as you will perceive,

had rather peculiar ideas about court formula.

"What shall I sign?" asked his "ludship."

"Anything," said Rex. "Those papers all look like old things--quick!

I think I hear Jarvis coming. Sign the one in your hand. Just write

Geoffrey Addison Barrington. It's only for fun, you know."

He caught up a dingy-looking document, opened it, and, thrusting the

pen which was in his "ludship's" hand into the ink, he and the prisoner

at the bar crowded up to see the signature which Charlie wrote as he

had been told to do, in a distinct schoolboy's hand. He had barely

crossed the "t" and dotted the last "i" when they heard a step, and

scurrying into the cupboard, they saw Jarvis come in, take something

from the desk, and go out without a glance in their direction. As the

door closed behind him it opened again to admit Justice Barrington and

Dr. Kingsley.

"Where are they?" asked Uncle Geof, peering about the dark room as if

the boys might be hidden behind some table or chair.

"Boys," called the doctor, "where are you?"

Then they walked out--such a funny-looking trio! Rex's table-cover

robe floated behind him, and the style of his wig was certainly unique.

Selwyn had brought away on his coat a goodly share of the dust of the

cupboard. His brown hair stood on end, and his blue eyes were shining

with excitement. But his "ludship" brought down the house. He came

forth holding up his long gown on each side, his bands were almost

under his left ear, his wig was on one side, and his glasses awry! The

contrast between his magisterial garb and his round young face and

merry hazel eyes was too much for the gravity of the two gentlemen.

With a glance at each other they burst into a long, hearty laugh, in

which the boys joined.

A little later, the gown and wig having been restored to their proper

places by the much scandalized Jarvis, the party returned to Portland

Square. And none of the boys thought of mentioning that Charlie had

signed a document with his uncle's name, which he had not read.

A few days after this Dr. Kingsley and his family left England for the

Continent, taking Rex with them, and not until September did they

return to London for a short visit before sailing for America.

"I have an account to settle with you, Master Charlie," said Uncle

Geoffrey, the first evening, when they were all assembled in the

drawing-room. "Do you recollect a certain visit to my chambers when

you represented a judge of the Queen's Bench?"

Charlie, Selwyn and Rex looked at each other, laughed, and nodded.

"Do you remember signing a paper?" asked the justice.

"Yes," said Charlie; "but it was an old dingy-looking one--we didn't

read it--I just signed it for fun."

"I told Charlie to put your name to it," broke in Rex, eagerly. "Is

anything wrong, papa?"

"I will tell you the story and you shall judge for yourself," said the

justice, smiling. "As it happened, the paper Charlie signed was not an

old one. It was in reference to removing an orphan boy from one

guardianship to another. He is about as old as Charlie, and it appears

that the first guardian ill-treated the little fellow under the guise

of kindness, being only intent on gain. When the paper which 'his

ludship,'" with a deep bow in Charlie's direction--"signed arrived, the

boy was delighted, and he thoroughly enjoys the excellent home he is

now in. Imagine my surprise when a letter reached me thanking me for

my wise decision. I could not understand it, as I thought I knew the

paper in reference to it was lying on my desk waiting its turn. You

may well laugh, you young rogues."

"How did you find out?" asked Charlie, divided between contrition and a

desire to enjoy the joke.

"Jarvis and I traced it out. I paid a visit to Wales and put the

signature of the original Barrington to the document. The present

guardian of the boy declares the little fellow's disposition would have

been completely ruined if he had remained much longer under his former

guardian's care, and I am afraid, in the ordinary course of the law,

which moves slowly, it would have been some time before the matter

could have been attended to. So you have done that much good to a

fellow-boy. Only be careful in the future, dear lad, to read a

document before signing it, for carelessness in that direction might

not always end as well as it has in this instance. What puzzles me is

how you came to take that particular paper when so many others lay

about; it was but one chance in a million."

"'A chance--the eternal God that chance did guide,'" quoted Dr.

Kingsley, in his quiet, gentle voice.

"What lots we'll have to tell Ned! O boys, do let's cheer!" cried

Selwyn eagerly, springing to his feet. "Here goes--three cheers for

Uncle Geof and dear papa, and a big, big 'tiger' for his 'ludship!'"

THE PIOUS CONSTANCE.

Once upon a time the Emperor of Rome had a beautiful daughter named

Constance. She was so fair to look on, that far and wide, she was

spoken of as "the beautiful princess." But, better than that, she was

so good and so saintly that everybody in her father's dominions loved

her, and often they forgot to call her "the beautiful princess," but

called her instead, "Constance the good."

All the merchants who came thither to buy and sell goods, carried away

to other countries accounts of Constance, her beauty, and her holiness.

One day there came to Rome some merchants from Syria, with shiploads of

cloths of gold, and satins rich in hue, and all kinds of spicery, which

they would sell in the Roman markets. While they abode here, the fame

of Constance came to their ears, and they sometimes saw her lovely face

as she went about the city among the poor and suffering, and were so

pleased with the sight that they could talk of nothing else when they

returned home; so that, after a while, their reports came to the ear of

the Soldan of Syria, their ruler, and he sent to the merchants to hear

from their lips all about the fair Roman maiden.

As soon as he heard this story, this Soldan began secretly to love the

fair picture which his fancy painted of the good Constance, and he shut

himself up to think off her, and to study how he could gain her for his

own.

At length he sent to all his wise men, and called them together in

council.

"You have heard," he said to them, "of the beauty and goodness of the

Roman princess. I desire her for my wife. So cast about quickly for

some way by which I may win her."

Then all the wise men were horrified; because Constance was a

Christian, while the Syrians believed in Mohammed as their sacred

prophet. One wise man thought the Soldan had been bewitched by some

fatal love-charm brought from Rome. Another explained that some of the

stars in the heavens were out of place, and had been making great

mischief among the planets which governed the life of the Soldan. One

had one explanation and one another, but to all the Soldan only

answered,--"All these words avail nothing. I shall die if I may not

have Constance for my wife."

One of the wise men then said plainly,--"But the Emperor of Rome will

not give his daughter to any but a Christian."

When the Soldan heard that he cried joyfully: "O, if that is all, I

will straight-way turn Christian, and all my kingdom with me."

So they sent an ambassador to the Emperor to know if he would give his

daughter to the Soldan of Syria, if he and all his people would turn

Christian. And the Emperor, who was very devout, and thought he ought

to use all means to spread his religion, answered that he would.

So poor little Constance, like a white lamb chosen for a sacrifice, was

made ready to go to Syria. A fine ship was prepared, and with a

treasure for her dowry, beautiful clothes, and hosts of attendants, she

was put on board.

She herself was pale with grief and weeping at parting from her home

and her own dear mother. But she was so pious and devoted that she was

willing to go if it would make Syria a good Christian land. So, as

cheerfully as she could, she set sail.

Now the Soldan had a very wicked mother, who was all the time angry in

her heart that the Soldan had become a Christian. Before Constance

arrived in Syria she called together all the lords in the kingdom whom

she knew to be friendly to him. She told them of a plot she had made

to kill the Soldan and all those who changed their religion with him,

as soon as the bride bad come. They all agreed to this dreadful plot,

and then the old Soldaness went smiling and bland, to the Soldan's

palace.

"My dear son," she said, "at last I am resolved to become a Christian;

I am surprised I have been blind so long to the beauty of this new

faith. And, in token of our agreement about it, I pray you will honor

me by attending with your bride at a great feast which I shall make for

you."

The Soldan was overjoyed to see his mother so amiable. He knelt at her

feet and kissed her hand, saying,--"Now, my dear mother, my happiness

is full, since you are reconciled to this marriage. And Constance and

I will gladly come to your feast."

Then the hideous old hag went away, nodding and mumbling,--"Aha!

Mistress Constance, white as they call you, you shall be dyed so red

that all the water in your church font shall not wash you clean again!"

Constance came soon after, and there was great feasting and

merry-making, and the Soldan was very happy.

Then the Soldaness gave her great feast, and while they sat at the

table, her soldiers came in and killed the Soldan and all the lords who

were friendly to him, and slaughtered so many that the banquet hall

swam ankle deep in blood.

But they did not slay Constance. Instead, they bore her to the sea and

put her on board her ship all alone, with provisions for a long

journey, and then set her adrift on the wide waters.

So she sailed on, drifting past many shores, out into the limitless

ocean, borne on by the billows, seeing the day dawn and the sun set,

and never meeting living creature. All alone on a wide ocean! drifting

down into soft southern seas where the warm winds always blew, then

driving up into frozen waters where green, glittering icebergs sailed

solemnly past the ship, so near, it seemed as if they would crush the

frail bark to atoms.

So for three long years, day and night, winter and summer, this lonely

ship went on, till at length the winds cast it on the English shores.

As soon as the ship stranded, the governor of the town, with his wife

and a great crowd of people, came to see this strange vessel. They

were all charmed with the sweet face of Constance, and Dame Hennegilde,

the governor's wife, on the instant loved her as her life. So this

noble couple took her home and made much of her. But Constance was so

mazed with the peril she had passed that she could scarcely remember

who she was or whence she came, and could answer naught to all their

questionings.

While she lived with the good Hennegilde, a young knight began to love

her, and sued for her love in return. But he was so wicked that

Constance would not heed him. This made him very angry. He swore in

his heart that he would have revenge. He waited until one night when

the governor was absent, and going into the room where Dame Hennegilde

lay, with Constance sleeping in the same chamber, this wicked knight

killed the good lady. Then he put the dripping knife into the hand of

Constance, and smeared her face and clothes with blood, that it might

appear she had done the deed.

When the governor returned and saw this dreadful sight, he knew not

what to think. Yet, even then, he could not believe Constance was

guilty. He carried her before the king to be judged. This king, Alla,

was very tender and good, and when he saw Constance standing in the

midst of the people, with her frightened eyes looking appealing from

one to another like a wounded deer who is chased to its death, his

heart was moved with pity.

The governor and all his people told how Constance had loved the

murdered lady, and what holy words she had taught. All except the real

murderer, who kept declaring she was the guilty one, believed her

innocent.

The king asked her, "Have you any champion who could fight for you?"

At this Constance, falling on her knees, cried out that she had no

champion but God, and prayed that He would defend her innocence.

"Now," cried the king, "bring the holy book which was brought from

Brittany by my fathers, and let the knight swear upon it that the

maiden is guilty."

So they brought the book of the Gospels, and the knight kissed it, but

as soon as he began to take the oath he was felled down as by a

terrible blow, and his neck was found broken and his eyes burst from

his head. Before them all, in great agony, he died, confessing his

guilt and the innocence of Constance.

King Alla had been much moved by the beauty of Constance and her

innocent looks, and now she was proved guiltless, all his heart went

out to her. And when he asked her to become his queen she gladly

consented, for she loved him because he had pitied and helped her.

They were soon married amidst the great rejoicing of the people, and

the king and all the land became converted to the Christian faith.

This king also had a mother, named Donegilde, an old heatheness, no

less cruel than the mother of the Soldan. She hated Constance because

she had been made queen though for fear of her son's wrath she dared

not molest her.

After his honeymoon, King Alla went northward to do battle with the

Scots, who were his foemen, leaving his wife in charge of a bishop and

the good governor, the husband of the murdered Hennegilde. While he

was absent heaven sent Constance a beautiful little son, whom she named

Maurice.

As soon as the babe was born, the governor sent a messenger to the king

with a letter telling him of his good fortune. Now it happened this

messenger was a courtier, who wished to keep on good terms with all the

royal family. So, as soon as he got the letter, he went to Donegilde,

the king's mother, and asked her if she had any message to send her son.

Donegilde was very courteous and begged him to wait till next morning,

while she got her message ready. She plied the man with wine and

strong liquor till evening, when he slept so fast that nothing could

wake him. While he was asleep she opened his letters and read all that

the governor had written. Then this wicked old woman wrote to Alla

that his wife Constance was a witch who had bewitched him and all his

people, but now her true character became plain, and she had given

birth to a horrible, fiend-like creature, who, she said, was his son.

This she put in place of the governor's letter, and dispatched the

messenger at dawn.

King Alla was nearly heart-broken when he read these bad tidings, but

he wrote back to wait all things till he returned, and to harm neither

Constance nor her son. Back rode the messenger to Donegilde once

again. She played her tricks over again and got him sound asleep.

Then she took the king's letter and put one in its place commanding the

governor to put Constance and her child aboard the ship in which she

came to these shores and set her afloat.

The good governor could hardly believe his eyes when he read these

orders, and the tears ran over his cheeks for grief. But he dared not

disobey what he supposed was the command of his king and master, so he

made the vessel ready and went and told Constance what he must do.

She, poor soul, was almost struck dumb with grief. Then, kneeling

before the governor, she cried, with many tears,--

"If I must go again on the cruel seas, at least this poor little

innocent, who has done no evil, may be spared. Keep my poor baby till

his father comes back, and perchance he will take pity on him."

But the governor dared not consent, and Constance must go to the ship,

carrying her babe in her arms. Through the street she walked, the

people following her with tears, she with eyes fixed on heaven and the

infant sobbing on her bosom. Thus she went on board ship and drifted

away again.

Now, for another season, she went about at the mercy of winds and

waves, in icy waters where winds whistled through the frozen rigging,

and down into tropical seas where she lay becalmed for months in the

glassy water. Then fresh breezes would spring up and drive her this

way or that, as they listed. But this time she had her babe for

comfort, and he grew to be a child near five years old before she was

rescued. And this is the way it happened. When the Emperor of Rome

heard of the deeds the cruel Soldaness had done, and how his daughter's

husband had been slain, he sent an army to Syria, and all these years

they had besieged the royal city till it was burnt and destroyed. Now

the fleet, returning to Rome, met the ship in which Constance sailed,

and they fetched her and her child to her native country. The senator

who commanded the fleet was her uncle, but he knew her not, and she did

not make herself known. He took her into his own house, and her aunt,

the senator's wife, loved her greatly, never guessing she was her own

princess and kinswoman.

When King Alla got back from his war with the Scots and heard how

Constance had been sent away, he was very angry; but when he questioned

and found the letter which had been sent him was false, and that

Constance had borne him a beautiful boy, he knew not what to think.

When the governor showed him the letter with his own seal which

directed that his wife and child should be sent away, he knew there was

some hidden wickedness in all this. He forced the messenger to tell

where he had carried the letters, and he confessed he had slept two

nights at the castle of Donegilde.

So it all came out, and the king, in a passion of rage, slew his

mother, and then shut himself up in his castle to give way to grief.

After a time he began to repent his deed, because he remembered it was

contrary to the gentle teachings of the faith Constance had taught him.

In his penitence he resolved to go to Rome on a pilgrimage to atone for

his sin. So in his pilgrim dress he set out for the great empire.

Now when it was heard in Rome that the great Alla from the North-land

had come thither on a Christian pilgrimage, all the noble Romans vied

to do him honor. Among others, the senator with whom Constance abode

invited him to a great banquet which he made for him. While Alla sat

at this feast, his eyes were constantly fixed upon a beautiful boy, one

of the senator's pages, who stood near and filled their goblets with

wine. At length he said to his host,--"Pray tell me, whence came the

boy who serves you? Who is he, and do his father and mother live in

the country?"

"A mother he has," answered the senator: "so holy a woman never was

seen. But if he has a father I cannot tell you." Then he went on and

told the king of Constance, and how she was found with this bey, her

child, on the pathless sea.

Alla was overjoyed in his heart, for he knew then that this child was

his own son. Immediately they sent for Constance to come thither. As

soon as she saw her husband, she uttered a cry and fell into a deep

swoon. When she was recovered she looked reproachfully at Alla, for

she supposed it was by his order she had been so ruthlessly sent from

his kingdom. But when, with many tears of pity for her misfortunes,

King Alla told her how he had grieved for her, and how long he had

suffered thus, she was convinced.

Then they embraced each other, and were so happy that no other

happiness, except that of heavenly spirits, could ever equal theirs.

After this, she made herself known to the Emperor, her father, who had

great rejoicing over his long-lost daughter, whom he had thought dead.

For many weeks Rome was full of feasting, and merry-making, and

happiness. These being over, King Alla, with his dear wife, returned

to his kingdom of England, where they lived in great happiness all the

rest of their days.

THE DOCTOR'S REVENGE.

BY ALOE.

Painfully toiled the camels over the burning sands of Arabia. Weary

and thirsty were they, for they had not for days had herbage to crop,

or water to drink, as they trod, mile after mile, the barren waste,

where the sands glowed red like a fiery sea. And weary were the

riders, exhausted with toil and heat, for they dared not stop to rest.

The water which they carried with them was almost spent; some of the

skins which had held it flapped empty against the sides of the camels,

and too well the travelers knew that if they loitered on their way, all

must perish of thirst.

Amongst the travelers in that caravan was a Persian, Sadi by name, a

tall, strong man, with black beard, and fierce, dark eye. He urged his

tired camel to the side of that of the foremost Arab, the leader and

guide of the rest, and after pointing fiercely toward one of the

travelers a little behind him, thus he spake:

"Dost thou know that yon Syrian Yusef is a dog of a Christian, a

kaffir?" (Kaffir--unbeliever--is a name of contempt given by Moslems,

the followers of the false Prophet, to those who worship our Lord.)

"I know that the hakeem (doctor) never calls on the name of the

Prophet," was the stern reply.

"Dost thou know," continued Sadi, "that Yusef rides the best camel in

the caravan, and has the fullest water-skin, and has shawls and

merchandise with him?"

The leader cast a covetous glance toward the poor Syrian traveler, who

was generally called the hakeem because of the medicines which he gave,

and the many cures which he wrought.

"He has no friends here," said the wicked Sadi; "if he were cast from

his camel and left here to die, there would be none to inquire after

his fate; for who cares what becomes of a dog of a kaffir?"

I will not further repeat the cruel counsels of this bad man, but I

will give the reason for the deadly hatred which he bore toward the

poor hakeem. Yusef had defended the cause of a widow whom Sadi had

tried to defraud; and Sadi's dishonesty being found out, he had been

punished with stripes, which he had but too well deserved. Therefore

did he seek to ruin the man who had brought just punishment on him,

therefore he resolved to destroy Yusef by inducing his Arab comrades to

leave him to die in the desert.

Sadi had, alas! little difficulty in persuading the Arabs that it was

no great sin to rob and desert a Christian. Just as the fiery sun was

sinking over the sands, Yusef, who was suspecting treachery, but knew

not how to escape from it, was rudely dragged off his camel, stripped

of the best part of his clothes, and, in spite of his earnest

entreaties, left to die in the terrible waste. It would have been less

cruel to slay him at once.

"Oh! leave me at least water--water!" exclaimed the poor victim of

malice and hatred.

"We'll leave you nothing but your own worthless drugs, hakeem!--take

that!" cried Sadi, as he flung at Yusef's head a tin case containing a

few of his medicines.

Then bending down from Yusef's camel, which he himself had mounted,

Sadi hissed out between his clenched teeth, "Thou hast wronged me--I

have repaid thee, Christian! this is a Moslem's revenge!"

They had gone, the last camel had disappeared from the view of Yusef;

darkness was falling around, and he remained to suffer alone, to die

alone, amidst those scorching-sands! The Syrian's first feeling was

that of despair, as he stood gazing in the direction of the caravan

which he could no longer see. Then Yusef lifted up his eyes to the sky

above him: in its now darkened expanse shone the calm evening star,

like a drop of pure light.

Yusef, in thinking over his situation, felt thankful that he had not

been deprived of his camel in an earlier part of his journey, when he

was in the midst of the desert. He hoped that he was not very far from

its border, and resolved, guided by the stars, to walk as far as his

strength would permit, in the faint hope of reaching a well, and the

habitations of men. It was a great relief to him that the burning

glare of day was over: had the sun been still blazing over his head, he

must soon have sunk and fainted by the way. Yusef picked up the small

case of medicines which Sadi in mockery had flung at him; he doubted

whether to burden himself with it, yet was unwilling to leave it

behind. "I am not likely to live to make use of this, and yet--who

knows?" said Yusef to himself, as, with the case in his hand, he

painfully struggled on over the wide expanse of dreary desert. "I will

make what efforts I can to preserve the life which God has given."

Struggling against extreme exhaustion, his limbs almost sinking under

his weight, Yusef pressed on his way, till a glowing red line in the

east showed where the blazing sun would soon rise. What was his eager

hope and joy on seeing that red line broken by some dark pointed

objects that appeared rise out of the sand. New strength seemed given

to the weary man, for now his ear caught the welcome sound of the bark

of a dog, and then the bleating of sheep.

"God be praised!" exclaimed Yusef, "I, am near the abodes of men!"

Exerting all his powers, the Syrian, made one great effort to reach the

black tents which he now saw distinctly in broad daylight, and which he

knew must belong to some tribe of wandering Bedouin Arabs: he tottered

on for a hundred yards, and then sank exhausted on the sand.

But the Bedouins had seen the poor, solitary stranger, and as

hospitality is one of their leading virtues, some of these wild sons of

the desert now hastened toward Yusef. They raised him, they held to

his parched lips a most delicious draught of rich camel's milk. The

Syrian felt as if he were drinking in new life, and was so much revived

by what he had taken, that he was able to accompany his preservers to

the black goat's-hair tent of their Sheik or chief, an elderly man of

noble aspect, who welcomed the stranger kindly.

Yusef had not been long in that tent before he found that he had not

only been guided to a place of safety, but to the very place where his

presence was needed. The sound of low moans made him turn his eyes

toward a dark corner of the tent. There lay the only son of the Sheik,

dangerously ill, and, as the Bedouins believed, dying. Already all

their rough, simple remedies had been tried on the youth, but tried in

vain. With stern grief the Sheik listened to the moans of pain that

burst from the suffering lad and wrung the heart of the father.

The Syrian asked leave to examine the youth, and was soon at his side.

Yusef very soon perceived that the Bedouin's case was not

hopeless,--that God's blessing on the hakeem's skill might in a few

days effect a wonderful change. He offered to try what his art and

medicines could do. The Sheik caught at the last hope held out to him

of preserving the life of his son. The Bedouins gathered round, and

watched with keen interest the measures which were at once taken by the

stranger hakeem to effect the cure of the lad.

Yusef's success was beyond his hopes. The medicine which he gave

afforded speedy relief from pain, and within an hour the young Bedouin

had sunk into a deep and refreshing sleep. His slumber lasted long,

and he awoke quite free from fever, though of course some days elapsed

before his strength was fully restored.

Great was the gratitude of Azim, the Sheik, for the cure of his only

son; and great was the admiration of the simple Bedouins for the skill

of the wondrous hakeem. Yusef soon had plenty of patients. The sons

of the desert now looked upon the poor deserted stranger as one sent to

them by heaven; and Yusef himself felt that his own plans had been

defeated, his own course changed by wisdom and love. He had intended,

as a medical missionary, to fix his abode in some Arabian town: he had

been directed instead to the tents of the Bedouin Arabs. The wild

tribe soon learned to reverence and love him, and listen to his words.

Azim supplied him with a tent, a horse, a rich striped mantle, and all

that the Syrian's wants required. Yusef found that he could be happy

as well as useful in his wild desert home.

One day, after months had elapsed, Yusef rode forth with Azim and two

of his Bedouins, to visit a distant encampment of part of the tribe.

They carried with them spear and gun, water, and a small supply of

provisions. The party had not proceeded far when Azim pointed to a

train of camels that were disappearing in the distance. "Yonder go

pilgrims to Mecca," he said: "long and weary is the journey before

them; the path which they take will be marked by the bones of camels

that fall and perish by the way."

"Methinks by yon sand-mound," observed Yusef, "I see an object that

looks at this distance like a pilgrim stretched on the waste."

"Some traveler may have fallen sick," said the Sheik, "and be left on

the sand to die."

The words made Yusef at once set spurs to his horse: having himself so

narrowly escaped a dreadful death in the desert, he naturally felt

strong pity for any one in danger of meeting so terrible a fate. Azim

galloped after Yusef, and having the fleeter horse outstripped him, as

they approached the spot on which lay stretched the form of a man,

apparently dead.

As soon as Azim reached the pilgrim he sprang from his horse, laid his

gun down on the sand, and, taking a skin-bottle of water which hung at

his saddle bow, proceeded to pour some down the throat of the man, who

gave signs of returning life.

Yusef almost instantly joined him; but what were the feelings of the

Syrian when in the pale, wasted features of the sufferer before him he

recognized those of Sadi, his deadly, merciless foe!

"Let me hold the skin-bottle, Sheik!" exclaimed Yusef; "let the draught

of cold water be from my hand." The Syrian remembered the command, "If

thine enemy thirst, give him drink."

Sadi was too ill to be conscious of anything passing around him; but he

drank with feverish eagerness, as if his thirst could never be slaked.

"How shall we bear him hence?" said the Sheik; "my journey cannot be

delayed."

"Go on thy journey, O Sheik," replied Yusef; "I will return to the

tents with this man, if thou but help me to place him on my horse. He

shall share my tent and my cup,--he shall be to me as a brother."

"Dost thou know him?" inquired the Sheik.

"Ay, well I know him," the Syrian replied.

Sadi was gently placed on the horse, for it would have been death to

remain long unsheltered on the sand. Yusef walked beside the horse,

with difficulty supporting the drooping form of Sadi, which would

otherwise soon have fallen to the ground. The journey on foot was very

exhausting to Yusef, who could scarcely sustain the weight of the

helpless Sadi. Thankful was the Syrian hakeem when they reached the

Bedouin tents.

Then Sadi was placed on the mat which had served Yusef for a bed.

Yusef himself passed the night without rest, watching at the sufferer's

side. Most carefully did the hakeem nurse his enemy through a raging

fever. Yusef spared no effort of skill, shrank from no painful

exertion, to save the life of the man who had nearly destroyed his own!

On the third day the fever abated; on the evening of that day Sadi

suddenly opened his eyes, and, for the first time since his illness,

recognized Yusef, who had, as he believed, perished months before in

the desert.

"Has the dead come to life?" exclaimed the trembling Sadi, fixing upon

Yusef a wild and terrified gaze; "has the injured returned for

vengeance?"

"Nay, my brother," replied Yusef soothingly; "let us not recall the

past, or recall it but to bless Him who has preserved us both from

death."

Tears dimmed the dark eyes of Sadi; he grasped the kind hand which

Yusef held out. "I have deeply wronged thee," he faltered forth; "how

can I receive all this kindness at thy hand?"

A gentle smile passed over the lips of Yusef; he remembered the cruel

words once uttered by Sadi, and made reply: "If thou hast wronged me,

thus I repay thee: Moslem, this is a Christian's revenge!"

THE WOODCUTTER'S CHILD.

Once upon a time, near a large wood, there lived a woodcutter and his

wife, who had only one child, a little girl three years old; but they

were so poor that they had scarcely food sufficient for every day in

the week, and often they were puzzled to know what they should get to

eat. One morning the woodcutter went into the wood to work, full of

care, and, as he chopped the trees, there stood before him a tall and

beautiful woman, having a crown of shining stars upon her head, who

thus addressed him:

"I am the Guardian Angel of every Christian child; thou art poor and

needy; bring me thy child, and I will take her with me. I will be her

mother, and henceforth she shall be under my care." The woodcutter

consented, and calling his child gave her to the Angel, who carried her

to the land of Happiness. There everything went happily; she ate sweet

bread and drank pure milk; her clothes were gold, and her playfellows

were beautiful children. When she became fourteen years old, the

Guardian Angel called her to her side and said, "My dear child, I have

a long journey for thee. Take these keys of the thirteen doors of the

land of Happiness; twelve of them thou mayest open, and behold the

glories therein; but the thirteenth, to which this little key belongs,

thou art forbidden to open. Beware! if thou dost disobey, harm will

befall thee."

The maiden promised to be obedient, and, when the Guardian Angel was

gone, began her visits to the mansions of Happiness. Every day one

door was unclosed, until she had seen all the twelve. In each mansion

there sat an angel, surrounded by a bright light. The maiden rejoiced

at the glory, and the child who accompanied her rejoiced with her. Now

the forbidden door alone remained. A great desire possessed the maiden

to know what was hidden there; and she said to the child, "I will not

quite open it, nor will I go in, but I will only unlock the door so

that we may peep through the chink." "No, no," said the child; "that

will be a sin. The Guardian Angel has forbidden it, and misfortune

would soon fall upon us."

At this the maiden was silent, but the desire still remained in her

heart, and tormented her continually, so that she had no peace. One

day, however, all the children were away, and she thought, "Now I am

alone and can peep in, no one will know what I do;" so she found the

keys, and, taking them in her hand, placed the right one in the lock

and turned it round. Then the door sprang open, and she saw three

angels sitting on a throne, surrounded by a great light. The maiden

remained a little while standing in astonishment; and then, putting her

finger in the light, she drew it back and it was turned into gold.

Then great alarm seized her, and, shutting the door hastily, she ran

away. But her fear only increased more and more, and her heart beat so

violently that she thought it would burst; the gold also on her finger

would not come off, although she washed it and rubbed it with all her

strength.

Not long afterward the Guardian Angel came, back from her journey, and

calling the maiden to her, demanded the keys of the mansion. As she

delivered them up, the Angel looked in her face and asked, "Hast thou

opened the thirteenth door?"--"No," answered the maiden.

Then the Angel laid her hand upon the maiden's heart, and felt how

violently it was beating; and she knew that her command had been

disregarded, and that the child had opened the door. Then she asked

again, "Hast thou opened the thirteenth door?"--"No," said the maiden,

for the second time.

Then the Angel perceived that the child's finger had become golden from

touching the light, and she knew that the child was guilty; and she

asked her for the third time, "Hast thou opened the thirteenth

door?"--"No," said the maiden again.

Then the Guardian Angel replied, "Thou hast not obeyed me, nor done my

bidding; therefore thou art no longer worthy to remain among good

children."

And the maiden sank down in a deep sleep, and when she awoke she found

herself in the midst of a wilderness. She wished to call out, but she

had lost her voice. Then she sprang up, and tried to run away; but

wherever she turned thick bushes held her back, so that she could not

escape. In the deserted spot in which she was now enclosed, there

stood an old hollow tree; this was her dwelling-place. In this place

she slept by night, and when it rained and blew she found shelter

within it. Roots and wild berries were her food, and she sought for

them as far as she could reach. In the autumn she collected the leaves

of the trees, and laid them in her hole; and when the frost and snow of

the winter came, she clothed herself with them, for her clothes had

dropped into rags. But during the sunshine she sat outside the tree,

and her long hair fell down on all sides and covered her like a mantle.

Thus she remained a long time experiencing the misery and poverty of

the world.

But, once, when the trees had become green again, the King of the

country was hunting in the forest, and as a bird flew into the bushes

which surrounded the wood, he dismounted, and, tearing the brushwood

aside, cut a path for himself with his sword. When he had at last made

his way through, he saw a beautiful maiden, who was clothed from head

to foot with her own golden locks, sitting under the tree. He stood in

silence, and looked at her for some time in astonishment; at last he

said, "Child, how came you into this wilderness?" But the maiden

answered not, for she had become dumb. Then the King asked, "Will you

go with me to my castle?" At that she nodded her head, and the King,

taking her in his arms, put her on his horse and rode away home. Then

he gave her beautiful clothing, and everything in abundance. Still she

could not speak; but her beauty was so great, and so won upon the

King's heart, that after a little while he married her.

When about a year had passed away, the Queen brought a son into the

world, and in that night, while lying alone in her bed the Guardian

Angel appeared to her and said:

"Wilt thou tell the truth and confess that thou didst unlock the

forbidden door? For then will I open thy mouth and give thee again the

power of speech; but if thou remainest obstinate in thy sin then will I

take from thee thy new-born babe."

And the power to answer was given to her, but she remained hardened,

and said, "No, I did not open the door;" and at those words the

Guardian Angel took the child out of her arms and disappeared with him.

The next morning, when the child was not to be seen, a murmur arose

among the people, that their Queen was a murderess, who had destroyed

her only son; but, although she heard everything, she could say

nothing. But the King did not believe the ill report because of his

great love for her.

About a year afterward another son was born, and on the night of his

birth the Guardian Angel again appeared, and asked, "Wilt thou confess

that thou didst open the forbidden door? Then will I restore to thee

thy son, and give thee the power of speech; but if thou hardenest

thyself in thy sin, then will I take this new-born babe also with me."

Then the Queen answered again, "No, I did not open the door;" so the

Angel took the second child out of her arms and bore him away. On the

morrow, when the infant could not be found, the people said openly that

the Queen had slain him, and the King's councillors advised that she

should be brought to trial. But the King's affection was still so

great that he would not believe it, and he commanded his councillors

never again to mention the report on pain of death.

The next year a beautiful little girl was born, and for the third time

the Guardian Angel appeared and said to the Queen, "Follow me;" and,

taking her by the hand, she led her to the kingdom of Happiness, and

showed to her the two other children, who were playing merrily. The

Queen rejoiced at the sight, and the Angel said, "Is thy heart not yet

softened? If thou wilt confess that thou didst unlock the forbidden

door, then will I restore to thee both thy sons." But the Queen again

answered, "No, I did not open it;" and at these words she sank upon the

earth, and her third child was taken from her.

When this was rumored abroad the next day, all the people exclaimed,

"The Queen is a murderess; she must be condemned;" and the King could

not this time repulse his councillors. Thereupon a trial was held, and

since the Queen could make no good answer or defence, she was condemned

to die upon a funeral pile. The wood was collected; she was bound to

the stake, and the fire was lighted all around her. Then the iron

pride of her heart began to soften, and she was moved to repentance;

and she thought, "Could I but now, before my death, confess that I

opened the door!" And her tongue was loosened, and she cried aloud,

"Thou good Angel, I confess." At these words the rain descended from

heaven and extinguished the fire; then a great light shone above, and

the Angel appeared and descended upon the earth, and by her side were

the Queen's two sons, one on her right hand and the other on her left,

and in her arms she bore the new-born babe. Then the Angel restored to

the Queen her three children, and loosening her tongue promised her

great happiness and said, "Whoeverwill repent and confess their sins,

they shall be forgiven."

SHOW YOUR COLORS.

BY REV. C. H. MEAD.

I was riding on the train through the eastern section of North

Carolina. Nothing can be flatter than that portion of the country,

unless it be the religious experience of some people. The rain was

pouring down fast, and, for a person so inclined, not a better day and

place for the blues could be found. Looking out of the car windows

brought nothing more interesting to view than pine trees, bony mules

and razor-back hogs. Groups of men, white and black, gathered at each

station to see the train arrive and depart. Each passenger that

entered brought in more damp, moisture and blues.

Two men at last came in and took the seat in front of me. Shortly

after, one of them took a bottle from his pocket, pulled the cork, and

handed the bottle to his companion. He took a drink, and the smell of

liquor filled the car. Then the first one took a drink, and back and

forth the bottle passed, until at last it was empty and they were full.

Then one of them commenced swearing, and such blasphemy I never heard

in all my life. It made the very air blue--women shrank back, while

the heads of men were uplifted to see where the stream of profanity

came from. It went on for some time, until I began talking to myself.

I always did like to talk to a sensible man.

"Henry, that man belongs to the devil."

"There is no doubt about that," I replied.

"He is not ashamed of it."

"Not a bit ashamed."

"Whom do you belong to?"

"I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Are you glad or sorry?"

"I am glad--very glad."

"Who in the car knows that man belongs to the devil?"

"Everybody knows that, for he has not kept it a secret."

"Who in the car knows you belong to the Lord Jesus?"

"Why, no one knows it, for you see I am a stranger around here."

"Are you willing they should know whom you belong to?"

"Yes; I am willing."

"Very well, will you let them know it?"

I thought a moment and then said, "By the help of my Master I will."

Then straightening up and taking a good breath, I began singing in a

voice that could be heard by all in the car:

There is a fountain filled with blood,

Drawn from Immanuel's veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood,

Lose all their guilty stains.

Before I had finished the first verse and chorus, the passengers had

crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned round and looked

at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud. As I finished the

chorus, he said:

"What are you doing?"

"I am singing," I replied.

"Well," said he, "any fool can understand that."

"I am glad you understand it."

"What are you singing?"

"I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus."

"Well, you quit."

"Quit what?"

"Quit singing your religion on the cars."

"I guess not," I replied, "I don't belong to the Quit family; my name

is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master;

now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master."

"Who is my master?"

"The devil is your master--while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my

Master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the

passengers don't object."

A chorus of voices cried out: "Sing on, stranger, we like that."

I sung on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned

his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his

head, and that was the handsomest part of him. He left the train soon

after, and I am glad to say I've never seen him since. Song after song

followed, and I soon had other voices to help me. When the song

service ended, an old man came to me, put out his hand, and said, "Sir,

I owe you thanks and a confession."

"Thanks for what?"

"Thanks for rebuking that blasphemer."

"Don't thank me for that, but give thanks to my Master. I try to stand

up for Him wherever I am. What about the confession?"

"I am in my eighty-third year. I have been a preacher of the Gospel

for over sixty years. When I heard that man swearing so, I wanted to

rebuke him. I rose from my seat two or three times, to do so, but my

courage failed. I have not much longer to live, but never again will I

refuse to show my colors anywhere."

HER DANGER SIGNAL.

BY EMMA C. HEWITT.

She did--I am sorry to record it, but she did--Letty Bascombe salted

her pie-crust with a great, big tear.

Not that she had none of the other salt, nor that she intended to do

it, but, all of a sudden, a big tear, oh, as big as the end of your

thumb, if you are a little, little girl, ran zigzag across her cheek

down to her chin, and, before she could wipe it off, a sudden, sharp

sob took her unawares and, plump, right into the pastry, went this big

fat tear. Of course, if you are even a little girl you must know that

it is as useless to hunt for tears in pie-crust as it is to "hunt for a

needle in a hay-stack." So Letty did not even try to recover her lost

property. But it had one good effect, it made her laugh, and, between

you and me (I tell this to you as a secret), Letty, like every other

girl, little or big, fat or thin, was much pleasanter to look upon when

she smiled than when she cried. But she didn't smile for that. Oh,

dear, no. She smiled because she couldn't help it. She was a

good-natured, sweet-tempered little puss, most times, and possessed of

a very sunny disposition. "Why did she salt her pie-crust with tears,

then?" I hear you ask. Ah, "Why?" And wait till I tell you. The most

curious part of it all was that it was a Thanksgiving crust. There,

now. The worst is out. A common, every-day, week-a-day pie, or even a

Sunday pie, would be bad enough, but a Thanksgiving pie of all things.

Why, everybody is happy at Thanksgiving.

Well, not quite everybody, it seems, because if that was so Letty

wouldn't be crying.

Now let me tell you why poor Letty Bascombe, with her sunny temper,

cried on this day while she was making pies.

You see, she was only fifteen, and when one is fifteen, and there is

fun going on that one can't be in, it is very trying, to say the least.

Not that tears help it the least in the world, no, indeed. In fact,

tears at such times always make matters worse.

Well, she was only fifteen, as I was saying, and, instead of going with

the family into town, she had to stay home and make pies.

Now the family were no relation to her. She was only Mrs. Mason's

"help." Eighteen months ago Letty's mother (a widow) had died. Her

brother had gone away off to a large city, and she had come to Mrs.

Mason's to live. Mrs. Mason was as kind as she could be to her, but

you know one must feel "blue" at times when one has lost all but one

relative in the world, and that one is a dear brother who is way, way

off, even if one is surrounded by the kindest friends.

So now, tell me, don't you think Letty had something to shed tears

about?

"I j-just c-can't help it. I'm not one bit 'thankful' this

Thanksgiving, and I'm not going to pretend I am. So there. And here I

am making nasty pies, when everybody else has gone to town having a

good time. No, I'm not one bit thankful, so there, and I feel as if

turkey and cranberries and pumpkin pie would choke me."

But after Letty "had her cry out" she felt better, and in a little

while her nimble fingers had finished her work and she was ready for a

little amusement. This amusement she concluded to find by taking a

little walk to the end of the garden. The garden ended abruptly in a

ravine, and it was a source of unfailing delight to go down there and,

from a secure position, see the trains go thundering by.

In fifteen minutes the train would be along and then she would go back.

Idly gazing down from her secure height, her eye was suddenly caught by

something creeping along the ground. Letty's keen sight at once

decided this to be a man--a man with a log in his hand. This log he

carefully adjusted across the track.

"What a very curious--" began Letty. But her exclamation was cut short

by the awful intuition that the man meant to wreck the on-coming train.

All thought of private sorrow fled in an instant. What could she do?

What must she do, for save the train she must, of course. Who else was

there to do it? And oh, such a little time to do it in. To go around

by the path would take a half-hour. To climb down the side of the

ravine would be madness. Suddenly her mind was illuminated. Yes, she

could do that, and like the wind she was up at the house and back

again, only this time she steered for a spot a hundred rods up, just

the other side of the curve.

In a trice she had whipped off her scarlet balmoral, the balmoral she

hated so, and had attached to it one end of the hundred feet of rope

she had brought from the house.

Could she do it? Could she crawl out on that branch there and hold

that danger signal down in front of the train?

She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. O, no, no, she

never could do it. Suppose she should fall off or the limb break. But

she wouldn't fall, she mustn't fall. Hark! There is the engine. If

she is going to save the train there is no time for further delay.

With a prayer for guidance and protection, slowly, oh so slowly, that

it seemed hours before she got there, Letty crawled out to the branch

and dangled below her, across the track, her flag of danger. She could

not see what was going on, because she dared not look down. So,

looking constantly up (and, children, believe me, "looking up" is one

of the best things you can do when in danger or trouble), and sending a

silent wordless petition for the safety of the train, Letty held her

precarious post. Hark, it is slowing up. Her balmoral has been seen

and the train is saved. The tension over, she cautiously turned and

crawled slowly back to land, and then dropped in a dead faint.

Recovering, however, she went slowly up to the house, trembling and

sick and shivering with the cold from the loss of the warm skirt

hanging on the clothes-line down in the ravine.

Relaxed and limp she sat down in the big rocker before the kitchen

stove, a confused mass of thoughts racing through her head. Dazed and

excited, she hardly knew how time was passing until she heard the sound

of wheels.

"O, Letty, the funniest thing--" shouted Laura, bursting into the

kitchen.

"Wait, let me tell," interrupted Jamie. "Why, Letty, somebody's hung--"

"Somebody hung," exclaimed Letty, in horror. "Why, Laura Mason, how

dare you say that was funny?"

"I didn't--" began Laura, indignantly, but here Mrs. Mason interfered

with a "Sh-sh-sh, children, mercy, goodness, you nearly drive me wild.

Here. Laura, take mother's bonnet and shawl up-stairs.

"Here, Jamie, take my boots and bring me my slippers. I'm that tired I

don't know what to do with myself. Goodness, but it feels good to get

home. The strangest thing's happened, Letty. The afternoon express

was coming into town this afternoon, and, when it was about two miles

out, all of a sudden the engineer saw a red flannel petticoat hanging

right down in the middle of the track, hanging by a clothes-line, mind,

from the limb of a tree. He thought at first it was a joke, but

changed his mind and thought he'd look further, and would you believe

it, he found a great, big log across the track. If the train had come

on that I guess there'd been more grief than Thanksgiving in this

neighborhood to-morrow."

Mrs. Mason had said all this along in one steady strain, while she was

walking round the room putting away her parcels.

Getting no response, she turned to look at Letty for the first time.

"Why goodness! The girl has fainted. What on earth do you suppose is

the matter with her?

"Jamie, come quick. Get me some water.

"There," when the restorative had had the desired effect. "Why, what

ailed you, Letty? You weren't sick when I went away. Bless me! I

hope you ain't going to be sick, and such a surprise as we've got for

you, too, out in the barn. But there. If that isn't just like me. I

didn't mean to tell you yet."

"Why, mother, mother," exclaimed Father Mason excitedly as he rushed

into the room. "Somebody's just come from the village with this,"

flourishing Letty's skirt wildly around, "and they say the train was

stopped right back of our house."

"For the land's sake, Job! Well, if that ain't our Letty's red

balmoral. How did it--is that the--Letty, was it you?" she finished up

rather disjointedly.

Letty nodded, unable to speak just then.

"Well, who'd 'a' thought it. So you saved the train! Do tell us all

about it."

"Mother, don't you think we'd better wait a bit till she looks a mite

stronger," suggested kind-hearted Job Mason.

"Well, I don't know but you're right, but I'm clean beat out. Don't

you think, Job, that we might bring Letty's surprise--but there's the

surprise walking in from the barn of itself. Tired of waiting, likely

as not."

"Yes, Letty," broke in Laurie. "Did you know your brother had come

home and that you saved his life this afternoon with that old red skirt

of yours?" So the mischief was out at last, and though the excitement

and everything nearly killed Letty, it didn't quite, or I don't think I

would have undertaken to tell this story. I don't like sad

Thanksgiving stories. Not that there aren't any; I only say I don't

like them, that's all.

Well, sitting in her brother's lap--(what, fifteen years old?)--yes,

sitting in her brother's lap, she had to tell over and over again all

she thought and felt that afternoon, and to hear over and over again

what a dreadful time they had keeping the secret from her. How they

were so afraid that she would find out that they expected to meet her

brother--how he had been so anxious that she should not be told lest by

some accident he shouldn't arrive, and then she would be bitterly

disappointed and her Thanksgiving spoiled.

Accident! Letty shuddered each time that they reached that part of the

story, for she thought how nearly the accident had happened, and as she

knelt to say her prayers that night it was with a penitent heart that

she remembered how she had felt in the morning, and she had added

fervently, "Dear Lord, I thank Thee for this beautiful Thanksgiving."

THE KNIGHT'S DILEMMA.

(FROM CHAUCER.)

One of the nobles of King Arthur's court had grievously transgressed

the laws of chivalry and knightly honor, and for this cause had he been

condemned to suffer death. Great sorrow reigned among all the lords

and dames, and Queen Guinevere, on bent knees, had sued the king's

pardon for the recreant knight. At length, after many entreaties,

Arthur's generous heart relented, and he gave the doomed life into the

queen's hands to do with it as she willed.

Then Guinevere, delighted at the success of her suit with her royal

husband, sent for the knight to appear before her, in her own bower,

where she sat among the ladies of her chamber.

When the knight, who was called Sir Ulric, had reached the royal lady's

presence, he would have thrown himself at her feet with many thanks for

the dear boon which she had caused the king to grant him. But she

motioned him to listen to what she had to say, before she would receive

his gratitude.

"Defer all thanks, Sir Knight," said the queen, "until first I state to

thee the conditions on which thou yet holdest thy life. It is granted

thee to be free of death, if within one year and a day from this

present thou art able to declare to me what of earthly things all women

like the best. If in that time thou canst tell, past all dispute, what

this thing be, thou shalt have thy life and freedom. Otherwise, on my

queenly honor, thou diest, as the king had first decreed."

When the knight heard this he was filled with consternation and dismay

too great for words. At once in his heart he accused the king of

cruelty in permitting him to drag out a miserable existence for a whole

year in endeavoring to fulfill a condition which in his thoughts he at

once resolved to be impossible. For who could decide upon what would

please all ladies best, when it was agreed by all wise men that no two

of the uncertain sex would ever fix upon one and the same thing?

With these desponding thoughts Sir Ulric went out of the queen's

presence, and prepared to travel abroad over the country, if perchance

by inquiring far and wide he might find out the answer which would save

his life.

From house to house and from town to town traveled Sir Ulric, asking

maid and matron, young or old, the same question. But never, from any

two, did he receive a like answer. Some told him that women best loved

fine clothes; some that they loved rich living; some loved their

children best; others desired most to be loved; and some loved best to

be considered free from curiosity, which, since Eve, had been said to

be a woman's chief vice. But among all, no answers were alike, and at

each the knight's heart sank in despair, and he seemed as if he

followed and ignis fatuus which each day led him farther and farther

from the truth.

One day, as he rode through a pleasant wood, the knight alighted and

sat himself down under a tree to rest, and bewail his unhappy lot.

Sitting here, in a loud voice he accused his unfriendly stars that they

had brought him into so sad a state. While he spoke thus, he looked up

and beheld an old woman, wrapped in a heavy mantle, standing beside

him. Sir Ulric thought he had never seen so hideous a hag as she who

now stood gazing at him. She was wrinkled and toothless, and bent with

age. One eye was shut, and in the other was a leer so horrible that he

feared her some uncanny creature of the wood, and crossed himself as he

looked on her.

"Good knight," said the old crone, before he could arise to leave her

sight, "tell me, I pray thee, what hard thing ye seek. I am old, and

have had much wisdom. It may happen that I can help you out of the

great trouble into which you have come."

The knight, in spite of her loathsomeness, felt a ray of hope at this

offer, and in a few words told her what he was seeking.

As soon as she had heard, the old creature burst into so loud a laugh

that between laughing and mumbling Sir Ulric feared she would choke

herself before she found breath to answer him.

"You are but a poor hand at riddles," she said at length, "if you

cannot guess what is so simple. Let me but whisper two words in your

ear, and you shall be able to tell the queen what neither she nor her

ladies nor any woman in all the kingdom shall be able to deny. But I

give my aid on one condition,--that if I be right in what I tell, you

shall grant me one boon, whatever I ask, if the same be in your power."

The knight gladly consented, and on this the old hag whispered in his

ear two little words, which caused him to leap upon his horse with

great joy and set out directly for the queen's court.

When he had arrived there, and given notice of his readiness to answer

her, Guinevere held a great meeting in her chief hall, of all the

ladies in the kingdom. Thither came old and young, wife, maid and

widow, to decide if Sir Ulric answered aright.

The queen was placed on a high throne as judge if what he said be the

truth, and all present waited eagerly for his time to speak. When,

therefore, it was demanded of him what he had to say, all ears

stretched to hear his answer.

"Noble lady," said the knight, when he saw all eyes and ears intent

upon him, "I have sought far and wide the answer you desired. And I

find that the thing of all the world which pleaseth women best, is to

have their own way in all things."

When the knight had made this answer in a clear and manly voice, which

was heard all over the audience chamber, there was much flutter and

commotion among all the women present, and many were at first inclined

to gainsay him. But Queen Guinevere questioned all thoroughly, and

gave fair judgment, and at the end declared that the knight had solved

the question, and there was no woman there who did not confess that he

spoke aright.

On this Ulric received his life freely, and was preparing to go out in

great joy, when suddenly as he turned to go, he saw in his way the

little old woman to whom he owed the answer which had bought his life.

At sight of her, more hideous than ever, among the beauty of the court

ladies, who looked at her in horror of her ugliness, the knight's heart

sank again. Before he could speak she demanded of him her boon.

"What would you ask of me?" said Ulric, fearfully.

"My boon is only this," answered the hag, "that in return for thy life,

which my wit has preserved to thee, thou shalt make me thy true and

loving wife."

Sir Ulric was filled with horror, and would gladly have given all his

goods and his lands to escape such a union. But not anything would the

old crone take in exchange for his fair self; and the queen and all the

court agreeing that she had the right to enforce her request, which he

had promised on his knightly honor, he was at last obliged to yield and

make her his wife.

Never in all King Arthur's court were sadder nuptials than these. No

feasting, no joy, but only gloom and heaviness, which, spreading itself

from the wretched Sir Ulric, infected all the court. Many a fair dame

pitied him sorely, and not a knight but thanked his gracious stars that

he did not stand in the like ill fortune.

After the wedding ceremonies, as Ulric sat alone in his chamber, very

heavy-hearted and sad, his aged bride entered and sat down hear him.

But he turned his back upon her, resolving that now she was his wife,

he would have no more speech with her.

While he sat thus inattentive, she began to speak with him, and in

spite of his indifference, Sir Ulric could but confess that her voice

was passing sweet, and her words full of wit and sense. In a long

discourse she painted to him the advantage of having a bride who from

very gratitude would always be most faithful and loving. She instanced

from history and song all those who by beauty had been betrayed, and by

youth had been led into folly. At last she said:--

"Now, my sweet lord, I pray thee tell me this. Would you rather I

should be as I am, and be to you a true and humble wife, wise in

judgment, subject in all things to your will, or young and foolish, and

apt to betray your counsels. Choose now betwixt the two."

Then the knight, who had listened in much wonder to the wisdom with

which she spoke, and had pondered over her words while speaking, could

not help being moved by the beauty of her conversation, which surpassed

the beauty of any woman's face which he had ever seen. Under this

spell he answered her:--

"Indeed I am content to choose you even as you are. Be as you will. A

man could have no better guidance than the will of so sensible a wife."

On this his bride uttered a glad cry.

"Look around upon me, my good lord," she said; "since you are willing

to yield to my will in this, behold that I am not only wise, but young

and fair also. The enchantment, which held me thus aged and deformed,

till I could find a knight who in spite of my ugliness would marry me,

and would be content to yield to my will, is forever removed. Now, I

am your fair, as well as your loving wife."

Turning around, the knight beheld a lady sweet and young, more lovely

in her looks than Guinevere herself. With happy tears she related how

the enchantments had been wrought which held her in the form of an

ancient hag until he had helped to remove the spell. And from that

time forth they lived in great content, each happy to yield equally to

each other in all things.

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS.

BY REV. C. H. MEAD.

"Black yer boots, mister? Shine 'em up--only a nickel." Such were the

cries that greeted me from half a dozen boot-blacks as I came through

the ferry gates with my boots loaded down with New Jersey mud. Never

did barnacles stick to the bottom of a vessel more tenaciously, or

politician hold on to office with a tighter grip, than did that mud

cling to my boots. And never did flies scent a barrel of sugar more

quickly than that horde of boot-blacks discovered my mud-laden

extremities. They swooped down upon me with their piercing cries,

until many of my fellow-passengers gazed on my boots with looks that

seemed to rebuke me for my temerity in daring to bring such a large

amount of soil to add to the already over-stocked supply of the city.

My very boots seemed to plead with me to let one of those boys relieve

them of the load that weighed them down. But, behold my dilemma--six

persistent, lusty, vociferous boys clamoring for one job, while I, as

arbiter, must deal out elation to one boy, and dejection to the five.

"Silence! Fall into line for inspection!" Behold my brigade, standing

in line, and no two of them alike in size, feature or dress. All

looked eager, and five of them looked at my boots and pointed their

index fingers at the same objects. The sixth boy held up his head in a

manly way and looked me in the eye. I looked him over and was affected

in two ways. His clothes touched my funny bone and made me laugh

before I knew it. If those pants had been made for that boy, then

since that time there had been a great growth in that boy or a great

shrinkage in the pants. But, if the pants were several sizes too small

and fit him too little, the coat was several sizes too large and fit

him too much, so that his garments gave him the appearance of being a

small child from his waist down, and an old man from his waist up. The

laugh that came as my sense of humor was touched, instantly ceased as I

saw the flush that came to the boy's face. The other five boys wanted

to get at my boots, but this one had got at my heart, and I made up my

mind he should get at my boots as well, and straightway made known my

decision. This at once brought forth a volley of jibes and jeers and

cutting remarks. "Oh, 'His Royal Highness' gets the job, and he will

be prouder and meaner than ever, he will. Say, mister, he's too proud

to live, he is. He thinks he owns the earth, he does."

The flush deepened on the boy's face, and I drove his assailants away

ere I let him begin his work.

"Now, my boy, take your time, and you shall have extra pay for the job;

pardon me for laughing at you; don't mind those boys, but tell me why

they call you 'His Royal Highness?'"

He gazed up in my face a moment with a hungry look, and I said, "You

can trust me."

"Well, sir, they thinks I'm proud and stuck-up, 'cause I won't pitch

pennies and play 'craps' with 'em, and they says I'm stingy and trying

to own the earth, 'cause I won't chew tobacco and drink beer, or buy

the stuff for 'em. They says my father must be a king, for I wears

such fashionable clothes, and puts on so many airs, but that I run away

from home 'cause I wanted to boss my father and be king myself. So

they calls me 'His Royal Highness.'"

There was a tremble in his voice as he paused a moment, and then he

continued:

"If I ever had a father, I never seen him, and if, I had a mother, I

wish someone would tell me who she was. How can a feller be proud and

stuck-up who ain't got no father and no mother, and no name only Joe?

They calls me stingy 'cause I'm saving all the money I can, but I ain't

saving it for myself--I'm saving it for Jessie."

"Is Jessie your sister?" I asked.

"No, sir; I ain't got no relatives."

"Perhaps, then, she is your sweetheart," I said.

Again he looked up in my face and said very earnestly, "Did you ever

know a boot-black without any name to have an angel for a sweetheart?"

His eyes were full of tears, and I made no answer, though I might have

told him I had found a boot-black who had a big, warm heart even if he

had no sweetheart. Very abruptly he said:

"You came over on the boat; what kind of a land is it over across the

river?"

"It is very pleasant in the country," I replied.

"Is it a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign?"

Having just come from New Jersey where the infamous race track, and the

more infamous rum-traffic legalized by law, would sink the whole State

in the Atlantic Ocean, if it were not that it had a life preserver in

Ocean Grove, I was hardly prepared to vouch for it being that kind of a

land.

"Why do you ask that?" I said.

"Because I hear Jessie sing about it so much, and when I asked her

about it, she said it's a land where there's green fields, and flowers

that don't wither, and rivers of delight, and where the sun always

shines, and she wants to go there so much. I hasn't told anybody about

it before, but I eats as little as I can and gets along with these

clothes what made you laugh at me, and I'm saving up my money to take

Jessie to that land of pure delight just as soon as I gets enough.

Does yer know where that land is?"

"I think I do, my boy, but you haven't told me yet who Jessie is."

"Jessie's an angel, but she's sick. She, lives up in a room in the

tenement, and I lives in the garret near by. She ain't got no father,

and her mother don't get much work, for she can't go out to work and

take care of Jessie, too. She cries a good deal when Jessie don't see

her, 'cause she thinks she is going to lose Jessie, but over in that

land of pure delight, Jessie says nobody is sick, and everybody who

goes there gets well right away, and, oh sir, I wants to take Jessie

there just as soon as I can. I takes her a flower every night, and

then I just sits and looks at her face, until my heart gets warmer and

warmer, and do yer think I could come out of such a place and then

swear and drink, and chew tobacco, and pitch pennies, and tell lies? I

tells Jessie how the boys calls me 'His Royal Highness,' and she tells

me I musn't mind it, and I musn't get mad, but just attend to my work.

And--and--and, oh sir, I wanted to tell somebody all this, for I always

tries to look bright when I goes in to see Jessie, and not let her know

I am fretting about anything; but I does want to take Jessie to the

land where flowers always bloom and people are always well. That's so

little for me to do after all the good that's come to me from knowing

Jessie. But, I begs yer pardon for keeping yer so long, and I thanks

yer for letting me tell yer about Jessie."

Ah, the boys named him better than they knew, for here was a prince in

truth, and despite his rags "His Royal Highness" was a more befitting

name than Joe.

"Where does Jessie live, my boy?"

"Oh, sir, yer isn't going to take Jessie to that land of pure delight,

and spoil all my pleasure. I does want to do it myself. Yer won't be

so mean as that, after listening to what I've been telling yer, will

yer?"

"Not I, my boy, not I. Just let me go and see Jessie and her mother,

and whatever I can do for them, I'll do it through you."

A little persuasion, and then "His Royal Highness" and I made our way

to the tenement and began climbing the stairs. We had gone up five

flights and were mounting the sixth, when the boy stopped suddenly and

motioned for me to listen. The voice of a woman reached my ear--a

voice with deep grief in every tone--saying, "God is our refuge and

strength, a very present help in time of trouble." A pause--then a

sob--and the voice wailing rather than singing:

Other refuge have I none,

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;

Leave, oh, leave me not alone,

Still support and comfort me.

All my trust on Thee is stayed,

All my help from Thee I bring,

Cover my defenceless head,

With the shadow of Thy wing.

The boy grasped my hand a moment--gasped out "That's Jessie's mother,

something's happened"--and then bounded up the stairs and into the

room. I followed him and found sure enough something had happened, for

Jessie had gone to the land of pure delight, and the mother stood

weeping beside her dead. On the face of Jessie lingered a smile, for

she was well at last. In her hand was a pure white rosebud, the last

flower Joe had carried to her the evening before. Her last message to

him was that she had gone to the land of pure delight, and for him to

be sure and follow her there.

I draw the curtain over the boy's grief. His savings bought the coffin

in which Jessie was laid under the green sod. Where "His Royal

Highness" is, must for the present remain a secret between Joe and

myself. His face and his feet are turned toward the land of pure

delight. His heart is there already. You have his story, and it may

help you to remember that some paupers wear fine linen and broadcloth,

while here and there a prince is to be found clothed in rags.

PATIENT GRISELDA.

Many years ago, in a lovely country of Italy, shut in by Alpine

mountains, there lived a noble young duke, who was lord over all the

land. He was one of a long line of good princes, and his people loved

him dearly. They had only one fault to find with him, for he made good

laws, and ruled them tenderly; but alas! he would not marry. So his

people feared he would not leave any son to inherit his dukedom. Every

morning his wise counsellors asked him if he had made up his mind on

the subject of marriage, and every morning the young duke heard them

patiently; and as soon as they had spoken, he answered, "I am thinking

of marriage, my lords; but this is a matter which requires much

thought."

Then he called for his black hunting-steed and held up his gloved hand

for his white falcon to come and alight upon his wrist, and off he

galloped to the hunt, of which he was passionately fond, and which

absorbed all the time that was not occupied with the cares of his

government.

But after a while, his counsellors insisted on being answered more

fully.

"Most dear prince," urged they, "only fancy what a dreadful thing it

would be if you should be taken from your loving people, and leave no

one in your place. What fighting, and confusion, and anarchy there

would be over your grave! All this could never happen, if you had a

sweet wife, who would bring you, from God, a noble son, to grow up to

be your successor."

The morning on which they urged this so strongly, Duke Walter stood on

the steps of his palace, in his hunting-suit of green velvet, with his

beautiful falcon perched on his wrist, while a page in waiting stood by

holding his horse. Suddenly he faced about, and looked full at his

advisers.

"What you say is very wise," he answered. "To-day I am going to follow

your advice. This is my wedding-day."

Here all the counsellors stared at each other with round eyes.

"Only you must promise me one thing," continued the duke. "Whoever I

marry, be she duchess or beggar, old or young, ugly or handsome, not

one of you must find fault with her, but welcome her as my wife, and

your honored lady."

All the courtiers, recovering from their surprise, cried out, "We will;

we promise."

Thereupon, all the court who were standing about gave a loud cheer; and

the little page, who held the horse's bridle, tossed up his cap, and

turned two double somersaults on the pavement of the court-yard. Then

the duke leaped into his saddle, humming a song of how King Cophetua

wooed a beggar maid; tootle-te-tootle went the huntsmens' bugles;

clampety-clamp went the horses' hoofs on the stones, and out into the

green forest galloped the royal hunt.

Now, in the farther border of the wood was a little hut which the

hunting-train passed by daily. In this little cottage lived an old

basketmaker named Janiculo, with his only daughter Griselda, the child

of his old age. He had also a son Laureo, who was a poor scholar in

Padua, studying hard to get money enough to make himself a priest. But

Laureo was nearly always away, and Griselda took care of her father,

kept the house, and wove baskets with her slender, nimble fingers, to

sell in the town close by.

I cannot tell you in words of the loveliness of Griselda. She was as

pure as the dew which gemmed the forest, as sweet-voiced as the birds,

as light-footed and timid as the deer which started at the hunters'

coming. Then her heart was so tender and good, she was so meek and

gentle, that to love her was of itself a blessing; and to be in her

presence was like basking in the beams of the May sun.

This morning she and her father sat under the tree by their cottage

door, as the hunting-train passed by. They were weaving baskets; and,

as they worked, they sang together.

As the hunting party swept by, Griselda looked up, and noted again, as

had happened several mornings before, that the penetrating eyes of the

handsome duke were fixed on her.

"I fear he is angry that we sit so near his path," mused Griselda.

"How his eyes look into one's soul. His gaze really makes me tremble.

I will not sit here on his return, lest it be displeasing to him."

Before the hunt was fairly out of sight, a gossiping neighbor came to

the hut of Janiculo, to tell the good news. Now, indeed, the duke was

really going to wed. He had promised to bring a wife with him when he

came back from the hunt. People said he had ridden into the next

province, to ask the hand of the duke's beautiful daughter in marriage.

And it might be depended on he would bring the bride home on the

milk-white palfrey, which one of his squires had led by a silver bridle.

It was almost sunset when the trampling of hoofs told Griselda that the

hunting party were coming back; and remembering what the talkative

neighbor had said, she thought she would like to take a peep at the

young bride when they passed on their way to the palace. She had just

been to the well for some water, and she stood in the doorway, with her

bare, round arm poising the earthen pitcher on her head, and the rosy

toes of her little bare feet peeping from beneath her brown gown, to

watch the hunt go by.

Nearer and nearer came the train; louder and louder sounded the

clatter, and full in sight came the duke, with the white palfrey, led

by its silver bridle, close beside him. But the saddle was empty, and

no bride was among the huntsmen.

"Can it be possible the lady would refuse him,--so handsome and noble

as he looks?" thought Griselda.

How astonished she was when the duke, riding up to the hut, asked for

her father. She was pale with fright, lest their humble presence had

in some way offended the prince; and, all in a tremble, ran in to call

old Janiculo. He came out, as much puzzled and frightened as his

daughter. "Look up, Janiculo," said the duke, graciously. "You have

heard, perhaps, that to-day is my wedding-day. With your good will, I

propose to take to wife your daughter Griselda. Will you give her to

me in marriage?"

If a thunder-bolt had struck the earth at old Janiculo's feet, he could

not have been more stunned. He gazed at the earth, the sky, and into

his lord's face, who had to repeat his question three times, before the

old man could speak.

"I crave your lordship's pardon," he stammered at length. "It is not

for me to give anything to your lordship. All that is in your kingdom

belongs to yourself. And my daughter is only a part of your kingdom."

And when he had said this, he did not know whether he was dreaming or

awake.

Griselda had modestly stayed in-doors; but now they called her out, and

told her she was to be the duke's bride. All amazed, she suffered them

to mount her on the snow-white steed, and lead her beside the duke, to

the royal palace. All along the road the people had gathered, and

shouts rent the air; and at the palace gates the horses' feet sank to

the fetlocks in roses, which had been strewn in their pathway.

Everywhere the people's joy burst bounds, that now their prince had

taken a bride. As for Griselda, she rode along, still clad in her

russet gown, her large eyes looking downward, while slow tears, unseen

by the crowd, ran over her cheeks, caused half by fear and half by

wonder at what had happened. Not once did she look into her lord's

face, till the moment when they reached the palace steps; and leaping

lightly from his horse, Duke Walter took her from the palfrey in his

own royal arms. Then he said, "How say'st thou, Griselda? Wilt be my

true wife, subject to my will, as a dutiful wife should be?"

And looking in his face, she said solemnly, as if it were her marriage

vow, "I will be my lord's faithful servant, obedient in all things."

Then they brought rich robes to put on Griselda, and the priest

pronounced the wedding ceremony, and the bridal feast was eaten, and

patient Griselda became a great duchess.

For a time all went on happily in the country of Saluzzo, where Duke

Walter held reign. The people loved the meek duchess no less that she

was lowly born; and when two beautiful twin babes were born to the

duke, a boy and girl, the joy was unbounded all over the kingdom.

Walter, too, was very joyful; or, he would have been very happy, if a

demon of distrust had not been growing up in his heart ever since he

had married the beautiful Griselda. He saw how gentle she was, and how

obedient to him in all things, and he was all the time uncertain

whether this yielding spirit was caused by love of him, or by gratitude

at the high place to which he had lifted her, and the grandeur with

which he had surrounded her. He remembered the vow she had taken when

she looked into his eyes and said, "I will be my lord's faithful

servant, obedient in all things," and thinking of it, day by day, there

arose in his heart a desire to put her love and faith to the test.

The resolution to which he came was so cruel, that we can scarcely

believe he could have loved Griselda, and had the heart to attempt to

carry out his design. He took into his counsel only an old servant

named Furio, and to him he gave the execution of his plan.

One day Griselda sat in her chamber, caressing and playing with her two

babes. She had never intrusted their care and rearing to any but

herself, and her chief delight had been to tend them, to note their

pretty ways, to rock them asleep, and to watch their rosy slumbers. At

this moment, tired out with play, her noble boy, the younger Walter,

lay in his cradle at her foot; and the sweet girl, with her father's

dark eyes, lay on the mother's bosom, while she sang softly this cradle

song, to lull them to sleep:

"Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,

Smiles awake when you do rise;

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby;

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

"Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,

You are care, and care must keep you;

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby;

Rock them, rock them, lullaby."

While the young duchess sang the last notes of her song, Furio appeared

on the threshold. Some remorse for what he was to do, made the water

for an instant dim his eyes, as he watched the group. But he had sworn

to do his lord's bidding, and he only hesitated for a moment, looking

up, Griselda saw him, and greeted him with a smile.

"Enter, good Furio," she said. "See, they are both asleep. When he

sleeps, my boy is most like his father; but awake, my girl's dark eyes

recall him most. Have you any message from my lord, Furio?"

"My lady," answered the old man, hesitatingly, "I have a message. It

is somewhat hard to deliver, but the duke must have his own will. My

lord fears you are too much with the babes; that you are not quite a

fitting nurse for them. Not that he fears your low birth will taint

the manners of his children, but he fears the people might fancy it was

so, and he must consult the wishes of his people."

"If my lord thinks so," answered Griselda, "he may find nurses for his

babes. It seems as if no love could be so dear as mine. But perchance

he is right. My ways are uncouth beside those of royal blood. I will

give my babes a better teacher. Only I may see them often, and love

them still as dear, can I not, Furio?"

"That is not my lord's wish, madam," said Furio, not daring to look

full at the duchess, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "The

duke fears that even now the people murmur that an heir of base origin

shall grow up to rule over them. And he is forced to study the will of

his people. So he has sent me to take away the babes, and dispose of

them according to his royal orders."

When he had said this, Griselda looked at him as one who did not

understand the language which he spake. All the blood forsook her

cheek, her strength gave way, and falling at the feet of the old

servant, still holding her baby clasped to her breast, she looked up in

his face imploringly, like the deer who lies under the knife of the

hunter.

But when Furio began to take up the babes, the boy from his nest among

his cradle pillows, the girl from her soft refuge in the mother's

bosom,--then the sorrow of Griselda would have melted the tough flint

to tears. She prayed with moving words, she shed such floods of tears,

she gave such piteous cries of agony, that Furio, tearing the children

away with one strong effort, ran from the room with the screaming

infants, his own face drenched with weeping. When the duke heard of

all this, though it did not move him from his obstinacy of purpose, he

yet grieved in secret, and wondered if Griselda's love could outlast

this trial.

The twin babes, torn so rudely from their mother, were sent to a noble

sister of the duke, who dwelt in Pavia; but no word was told to

Griselda of their fate; and she, poor mother, submissive to her

husband's will, because she believed it supreme, like God's, dared not

ask after them, lest she should hear that they were slain.

When the duke saw how Griselda had no reproaches, nothing but grief, to

oppose to his will, even his jealousy was forced to confess that her

faith had stood the test. Whenever he looked on her, her gentle

patience moved his heart to pity, and many times he half repented his

cruelty.

Month after month, and year after year went by, and again and again did

this demon of suspicion stir the duke to some trial of his wife's

obedience and patience. He drove out the aged Janiculo from the

comfortable lodgment in the palace in which Griselda had bestowed him,

and forced him to return to the hut where he had lived before his

daughter's greatness. And though Griselda's paling face and sad eye

told her sorrow, she uttered no word of complaint or anger against the

duke.

"Is he not my liege lord?" she said to her own heart, when it sometimes

rose in bitter complainings, "and did I not swear to obey his will in

all things?"

At last the day came when they had been wedded twelve years. Long ago

had Griselda won the hearts of the people by her gentle manners, her

sweet, sad face, her patient ways. If Walter's heart had not been made

of senseless stone, he would now have been content. But in his

scheming brain he had conceived one final test, one trial more, from

which, if Griselda's patience came out unmoved, it would place her as

the pearl of women, high above compare.

On this wedding morn, then, he came into her bower, and in cold speech,

thus spoke to her,--"Griselda, thou must have guessed that for many

years I have bewailed the caprice which led me to take thee, low-born,

and rude in manners, as my wife. At last my people's discontent, and

my own heart, have told me that I must take a bride who can share fitly

my state, and bring me a noble heir. Even now from Pavia, my sister's

court, my young bride, surpassing beautiful, is on her way hither.

Canst though be content to go back to thy father, and leave me free to

marry her?"

"My dear lord," answered Griselda, meekly, "in all things I have kept

my vow. I should have been most happy if love for me had brought thy

heart to forget my low station. But in all things I am content. Only

one last favor I ask of thee. Thy new wife will be young, high-bred,

impatient of restraint, tender to rude sorrow. Do not put on her faith

such trials as I have borne, lest her heart bend not under them, but

break at once."

When she had done speaking, she turned to her closet, where all these

years she had kept the simple russet gown which she had worn on the day

Duke Walter wooed her, and laying aside her velvet robes, her laces,

and jewels, she put it on, went before the duke again, ready to depart

from the palace forever. But he had one request to make of her. It

was that she would stay to superintend the bride's coming, to see that

the feast was prepared, the wedding chamber ready, and the guests made

welcome, because none so well as she knew the management of the affairs

in the palace.

Then Griselda went among the servants and saw that the feast was made,

and all things were in order, concealing her aching heart under a face

which tried to smile. When at evening she heard the fickle people

shouting in the streets, and saw the roses strewn as they had been on

her wedding-day, then the tears began to fall, and her soul sank within

her. But at that moment the duke called, "Griselda, where is Griselda?"

On this, she came forth into the great feast chamber from whence he

called. At the head of the room stood the duke, still handsome and

youthful; and on each side of him a noble youth and maiden, both fresh,

blooming and beautiful.

A sudden faintness overcame Griselda at the sight. She grew dizzy, and

would have fallen, if Duke Walter had not quickly caught her in his

arms.

"Look up, Griselda, dear wife," he cried, "for thou art my dear wife,

and all I shall ever claim. I have tried enough thy faith and

patience. Know, truly, that I love thee most dear; and these are thy

children returned to thee, whom for so many years I have cruelly kept

hid from thee."

When Griselda heard these words, as one who hears in a dream, she fell

into a deep swoon, from which for a time neither the voice of her

husband, nor the tears and kisses of her children, could rouse her.

But when she was brought back to life, to find herself in the arms of

her lord, and meet the loving looks of her children, she was speedily

her calm and gentle self again.

Then they led her to her chamber, and put on her richest robes, and a

crown of jewels on her head; and, radiant with happiness, all the

beauty of her girlhood seemed to come back to her face. Nay, a greater

beauty than that of girlhood; for, softened by heavenly patience, her

face was sweet as an angel's. From that time forth the duke strove, by

every look and deed, and tender word, to make amends for her hard

trials. And to all ages will her story be known, and in all poetry

will she be enshrined as the sweet image of wifely patience, the

incomparable Griselda.

LET IT ALONE.

BY MARY E. BAMFORD.

"Hold him tight, Sid!"

"I'm a-holding, Dave!"

The two-year colt, Rix, lay on the ground. Sid was holding tightly to

the lasso, while Dave was trying to put the points of a pair of small

nippers into Rix's right eye. Rix had objected very much, but Dave was

determined; he knew something was wrong with that eye.

"There!" said Dave at last, holding up the nippers. "See? Fox-tail,

just's I thought. Got it in his eye."

Dave jumped up, holding the piece of fox-tail grass yet in the nippers.

Sid relaxed the lasso, and Rix rose slowly to his feet. The colt shut

his eyes, and shook his head, as if wondering whether the agonizing

fox-tail was really out at last.

"Poor fellow!" said Sid.

"I knowed that was it," asserted Dave. "I see something was the matter

with his eye when he come in this noon."

Rix, released, trotted away.

"Guess he'll stay out of fox-tail after this," said Sid.

"I dunno," said Dave. "Critters walk right into trouble with their

eyes wide open. I'm going to make bread now."

Sid followed into the shanty, and watched Dave stir together sour milk

and soda for bread. The ranch was away in the hills, much too far from

any town for visits from the baker's wagon. The treeless hills were

the ranging-place of cattle and horses. Far away in the valley Sid

could see the river-bed. It was dry now, but Dave said that if one dug

down anywhere in the sand, one could find a current of water a few feet

below the surface. Dave always knew things. Sid liked to hear him

talk. All this country was new to Sid.

"Does your bread always rise?" he asked.

"If it don't I give it to the chickens," said Dave, putting in some

more soda. "Tried yeast-cakes, but I couldn't make them work."

"Is fox-tail grass much bother to folks?" questioned Sid, seeing Rix

from the door.

"Awful!" said Dave. "Gets in the hogs' eyes, and the sheep's too.

Sheep-men try to burn the fox-tail off the pasture land, and the fire

runs into the farmers' grain, lots of times. That's what makes farmers

hate sheep-men so. Folks down 'n the valley round up the hogs every

June to pick fox-tail out of their eyes. If they didn't, half the

hogs'd go blind."

"Round up?" questioned Sid.

"Drive 'em together," explained Dave. "You'll see a round-up of my

cattle 'fore long. Got to go out and hunt the hills for 'em, and drive

'em away down to the railroad. The other men are going to do it on

their ranches too. Takes about a day for us little cattle-men to round

up, and then about two days more to drive them down to the railroad.

Big cattle-men it takes longer."

"You like it?" asked Sid.

Dave laughed.

"Well 'nough," he said. "We stop, you know, and have a good time on

the road every little while."

"What do you do?" questioned Sid.

"Oh! drink--some," answered Dave.

"You don't though--do you?" asked Sid.

"Oh! well--some," said Dave slowly, as he poked the fire. "Have to

drink with other men, you know. They wouldn't think I was friendly if

I didn't."

Sid looked troubled. Dave never used to drink when he worked for Sid's

father two or three years before, on the fruit ranch up country.

Dave's bread was done. There were yellow streaks in it, but Sid ate it.

"The principal thing's to get something to eat when your [Transcriber's

note: you're?] ranching," apologized Dave.

About a week after this the round-up began.

"You take Rix," said Dave. "I'll take another horse, and we'll hunt

the cattle up."

In and out of the gullies they rode, here and there through the hills.

Late in the afternoon all the cattle that were to be shipped were

together. The moon rose full and bright, making the hills almost as

light as day. Sid and Dave stood by the shanty, looking back at the

corral, where the cattle were.

"We'll start early to-morrow morning, Sid," said Dave. "Guess we'll

meet some of the other ranchers on the road, most likely. You tired?

Musn't let one day's riding use you up. We'll be two days going down,

and one coming back. We can ride nights some, maybe. It'll be

pleasant."

Next night they were part way down the hills, far enough so that they

were leaving the bare portions behind, and entering the live-oak

districts. Sid stood in the moonlight by an oak, and watched some of

the men. They sat around a little fire, and played cards and drank.

Out in the moonlight were other men, taking charge of the droves of

cattle. Sid could see horns and heads, and once in a while a man would

come to the fire and drink and joke with the others. Dave came after a

time. He saw Sid with Rix by the tree. Sid had tied the horse there.

"Come over to the fire, and get warm," said Dave.

Sid went. One of the men held out a bottle to Dave. He took it, and

drank.

"Give some to the youngster," said the man good-naturedly. "He's tired

driving cattle, I reckon."

Dave looked at Sid, but Sid shook his head.

"Too fine to drink with us cowboys?" asked the man by the fire.

"Let him alone," said Dave. "He ain't going to drink if he don't want

to."

Sid went back to his tree. He put an old gray quilt around him, and

lay down. Then he remembered. He rose again, and knelt in the dark by

the tree trunk. He asked God to keep the cattle from injuring anybody,

and to keep the men and Dave from becoming very drunk. Sid was afraid.

He lay down again. Once in a while he looked over toward the fire.

Dave came to it sometimes, and always one or the other of the men

offered him a bottle. Sometimes Dave acted as though he were going to

refuse; but the other men always joked, and then Dave drank.

"Why doesn't he stay away from the fire if he doesn't want to drink?"

thought Sid. "Maybe he's cold. I wonder if mother--"

He went to sleep.

Next day they drove the cattle again a long, long way. At last they

came to a town. There was the railroad, and there were the stock cars.

When the cattle were on board, Dave and Sid jumped on their horses.

"Want to stay in town over night?" asked Dave. "Like a little change

from the hills?"

"Let's go and get something to eat," said one of the other men, who

rode up. "I want somethin' different from ranch cookin'. Ain't a

first-class cook myself."

Sid was glad to eat bread that did not have yellow streaks in it. He

was glad to have some meat, too. But, after eating, the other man said

to Dave:

"Come take a drink."

They were on the sidewalk, untying their horses. Sid pulled Dave by

the sleeve.

"Don't," whispered Sid.

Dave stopped and smiled.

"Come on!" said the other man.

"I don't get down to town only once in a while," said Dave. "Never

drink other times, Sid."

He went with the man. Sid waited; it seemed to him that he had to wait

a long time.

"Round-ups are bad things for Dave," thought he. "Mother'd be sorry."

There was a great noise from the saloon on the corner. Pretty soon

Dave came out. He looked very white as he came to the place where the

boy waited. Dave leaned against Rix, and groaned.

"What's the matter?" asked Sid in alarm.

"It's my arm," said Dave, growing whiter. "There was a fight--in that

place--somehow. They knocked against me. I fell. One man fell on top

of me and my arm was sort of doubled up under me. It hurts--awful. I

don't know whether it's sprained--or broken--or--"

They had to stay in town a week before they could go back to the ranch.

When they went back Dave had his arm in a sling.

"It's a good thing the twenty-three tons of hay are in," said Sid.

"You couldn't do much with that arm."

Dave did not say anything.

Next Sunday night Sid sat in the door of the shanty on the ranch. He

was singing to himself a little. "Safely through another week," he

hummed. His mother always sang that Sundays at home. Sid was a bit

homesick Sundays in the hills.

Dave came and sat down by Sid, and looked out at the sunset and the dry

river away down in the valley. Rix came trotting up near the shanty.

"He's a smart colt--ain't he?" said Sid. "He hasn't been bothered with

fox-tail since that day you'n and I took that piece out of his eye.

He's kept his eyes away from the stuff, whether he's meant to or not.

Do you suppose he has as much sense as that?"

"Critters ain't the only things that walk into trouble with their eyes

open," said Dave. "I ain't goin' to let Rix be smarter than I be. I'm

goin' to keep out of trouble, too, Sid. I ain't goin' to drink no

more, ever."

"Not round-up times?" asked Sid.

"Not round-up times, nor other times, if God will help me," said Dave,

soberly.

"He will," said Sid. "Oh, I'm so glad!"

THE MAN WHO LOST HIS MEMORY.

It was on a morning of May, 1613, that a lady, still young, might be

seen, followed by her two children, going toward the cemetery of a

village near Haerlem. The pale cheeks of this lady, her eyes red with

weeping, her very melancholy face, bespoke one of those deep sorrows over

which Time might fling its flowers, but it would be all in vain. Her

children, the elder of whom was barely four years old, accompanied her,

with the carelessness natural to their age. Indeed, they were astonished

to see their noble mansion still in mourning, and their mother and

themselves in mourning also, though a melancholy voice had said to them

one day, when they were shown a bier covered with funereal pall,

"Children, you have no more a father."

A month after this they were playing as gaily as ever. Can it be that

the griefs of our early years are so terrible that heaven will not permit

them to dwell in remembrance? It may be so; but at all events those

children forgot for whom they had been put into mourning.

As that lady arrived at the little cemetery gate, the passers-by asked

aloud (for curiosity respects neither modesty nor grief) who might be

that lady who passed on so sadly, and who it seemed had good cause for

her sadness.

And an old beggar-woman said, "That lady passing by is the widow of John

Durer, who died this three months gone, and who was in his time Minister

to his Majesty the Emperor."

II.

John Durer belonged to the family of a poor shepherd. He worked hard as

a scholar, but even when he was at play he showed a violent disposition

to domineer over the rest. He seemed to be devoured with ambition: at

all events he carried off every prize at school. By the time he was

fifteen he was the admiration, he was the pride, of all his masters. But

John was not loved by his schoolmates; he displayed a vanity which

repelled them, which sometimes provoked them. He made few friendships,

spoke freely with few, and looked haughtily down on such of his little

companions as were less happily gifted than he was. His words were

short, his look was cold, and the pride in which he shut himself up on

purpose, made him unapproachable. He lived by himself.

One evening this young Durer, feeling, even more than usually, the

necessity of solitude and meditation, went out into the country,

dreaming, no doubt, of the grandeur to which his pride aspired, and which

he was hopeless of ever reaching; for his face was sad, and he walked

with a slow step, as does some discouraged traveler on a road without

end, toward something in the distance that perpetually escapes him. At

last he stopped in a hollow, called the Valley of Bushes, on account of

the gigantic white-thorn trees that grew there. He sat down in their

shadow: a small bird was fluttering about, and singing blithely overhead;

but he did not hear her.

When the storm is loud, all natural sounds are silenced. Thus it was

with Durer; the throbbing of ambition in every vein with him absorbed all

the sweeter melodies which should charm the heart and fancy of youth.

He was dreaming of fame and fortune. How to rise was his sole thought;

and it was not probable, except by some very rare circumstance and

chance, that his dream should be realized; for in those days of the

world, at least, it was thought that a shepherd's son should have a

shepherd's tastes. The young man did not see a single path open in which

he could plant his foot--one was barred by wealth, another by position,

another by birth. All that he could dream of was some blest chance that

should break down for him one of these barriers. He was sullen,

afflicted, ashamed, indignant, and alarmed,--above all, when he thought

of one thing--that thing was his poverty.

For this had the shepherd of the village near Haerlem labored twenty

years; for this had he spent the savings of those twenty years, in giving

an education to this young nobleman.

John was buried deep in these reveries--too deep for his age--when some

one came up smiling to him. This was a little, fat, chubby-faced man, as

round as a barrel, with a low brown hat on his head. He had on a large

brown cloak, a handsome yellow doublet, black breeches in the old

fashion, and square-toed glossy shoes, with large roses of purple ribbon.

The glance of this man, whose hair was already becoming gray, was keen

and penetrating. Though his lips were thick, there was an open, honest

expression about his mouth; while his clear eyes and sharply-cut eyebrows

seemed to belong to a man of strict uprightness.

"I do not like to see youth melancholy," said the little man, coming

close to John Durer, and examining him--"it is a sign of the disease too

common among young people--which is a desire to be something and somebody

before they are well born into the world. I would bet my fortune against

this boy's dreams that he is already an old scholar. Plague take those

parents who fill their children's heads with learning ere they have made

men of them! who neglect all care to form a character, and think only how

to bring forward the understanding!--Vanity kills right feeling!"

Mumbling thus to himself, the little man went up to John, and began to

question him. The dreamer started as if a thunderbolt had fallen close

to his elbow.

"Young man, how far is it from the earth to the sun?"

"Thirty-three millions of leagues," replied John, without the least

hesitation.

"As if I did not know that he would know," said the little man to

himself, with a smile.

"And how long would it take a humming-bird who could fly a league in a

minute to get there!"

"Twenty-eight years, sir," was Durer's answer.

"When one calculates so well, and so rapidly, no wonder one is

melancholy," said the little man to himself. Then going on--"Who was the

greatest man of antiquity?" asked he.

"Alexander."

"Who was the wisest?"

"Socrates."

"Who was the proudest?"

"Diogenes."

"Which of these do you like the best?"

"Alexander."

"What do you think of the neighbor who obliges his neighbor?"

"I think that the first has the advantage of the second."

The little gentleman considered a moment, and began again--

"What is your father's trade, young man?"

This simple question made Durer blush. He did not say a word in answer.

The little man, who was very clear-sighted, said--"This young fellow is

ashamed to own that he belongs to a poor shepherd in the village hard by.

Bad heart--strong head--detestable nature! This boy will never make

anything but a diplomatist." Then, after a moment's reflection, he said

to himself--"But it's of no consequence."

The end was, that young Durer went back to the cottage wild with joy. He

took leave of his father and his mother, who shed torrents of tears at

his leaving them. John was turning his back on the shepherd's cabin for

ever: he was to go to Vienna, to finish his studies there. For the

little man had put into his hand three purses full of gold, and had said,

"I am Counsellor Werter, favorite of his Majesty the Emperor. Your

assiduity in study has become known to me. Work on--for aught you know,

you may be on the high road."

Three years afterward, Durer entered the office of the Emperor's

secretary. Later, he became, himself, private secretary. Later still,

he received a barony and a handsome estate.--So much for the prophecies,

so much for the secret influence of the Counsellor Werter!

Durer was on the highway paved with gold;--but he forgot his father, and

he forgot his mother, too.

One day, when Counsellor Werter was going to court, he met Durer on the

staircase of the palace. He said to him,--

"Baron Durer, I sent yesterday, in your name, twelve thousand crowns to a

certain old shepherd in a village not far from Haerlem."

The Counsellor said this in rather a scornful voice; and he saw that

Baron Durer turned as red as the boy had done in the Valley of the

Bushes, on the evening when he was asked what his father's trade was.

The two men looked steadily at each other: the Baron with that hatred

which is never to be appeased--the Counsellor with bitter indignation.

On the evening of that very day, the Emperor received his faithful old

friend, the incorruptible Counsellor, coldly. On the morrow, Werter was

not summoned to the palace--nor the day after. Disgrace had fallen on

him. He had nourished a serpent in his bosom. He left court, and

retired far away, to a small estate which he, too, chanced to possess in

the neighborhood of Haerlem.

III.

As to John Durer, he rose to higher and higher dignities. The Emperor,

after having made him minister, married him to a noble heiress. About

that self-same time, the old shepherd and his wife died. Their village

neighbors accompanied them in silence to the humble churchyard. A little

man, whose hair was now white as snow, followed the dead with his head

uncovered. When the priest had cast on their coffins that handful of

dust which sounds so drearily, the old man murmured--

"There are bad sons, who, when they become fortunate, forget the aged

parents who cherished them when they were children. May they be

requited! for of such is not the kingdom of heaven."--Then he knelt down

by the side of the grave and prayed.

This old man was Counsellor Werter. Wearied of the world, he had retired

into obscurity, after having divided the larger part of his splendid

fortune among the poor. He was gay, nimble--in the enjoyment of robust

health; and many a time would he thank heaven that no children had been

born to him, when he thought of the hard-heartedness of John Durer.

Not long after this, on the spot where the shepherd's cabin had stood was

seen a magnificent château. It had been built so quickly, that it seemed

like an enchanted palace. Toward the middle of summer, a fine young

lord, a fair noble lady of the castle, and two lovely children, entered

the village near to Haerlem in pride and triumph, escorted by the

peasants, who had assembled in their honor. That fine young lord was

John Durer, first Minister to his Majesty the Emperor of Germany.

It had chanced that heavy losses had befallen Counsellor Werter, which

brought him within an inch of ruin. Had it not been for a sister left

him who took care of him, the poor old gentleman would have been, indeed,

in a miserable plight. A single word spoken by John Durer would have

restored his ancient benefactor to court, and replaced him in the

Emperor's favor. But vanity is without a heart; and wounded pride never

forgives him who has wounded it.

IV.

One day the fine young lord took a fancy to go and visit all the spots in

which, once on a time, he had dreamed away so many anxious hours. But he

would go alone, not choosing that any should witness his meeting with

those old friends, the haunts which might reveal to a companion the

poverty of his early life. He set forth without attendants, mounted on a

magnificent courser. He rode here, he rode there, not feeling even

surprised to see everything so much as it was when he had quitted the

country. The day began to go down--it was evening--when at last he came

to the Valley of Bushes. There was a small bird singing there, just as

it sang on that evening long ago. The sight of the white-thorn trees

awakened painful recollections in his mind,--no doubt, perhaps, even a

pang of remorse; and he spurred his courser in order to get clear of the

place. But the animal trembled, snorted, and refused to move a step. He

spurred his courser: the animal began to neigh violently.

"Is it some serpent that he sees?" said the fine young lord.

It was a little old man, who stepped out from among the bushes. He was

dressed in a black mantle. Out he came, right into the middle of the

road, closed his arms on his breast, and said in a dull voice, "Baron

Durer, can you tell me what is the distance from a shepherd's hovel to a

king's palace?"

"That which there is betwixt the earth and the sun," was the reply of the

haughty upstart.

At this, the old man threw his cloak open, and showed himself to the

Minister, as he had shown himself twenty years before, on that very spot,

to the scholar John Durer. The Counsellor was little changed in

appearance, except in his hair, which had been black, and was now white

as the snow of winter.

John Durer's visage was mostly pale; but when he recognized that old man,

it became as red as blood. It was the third time that he had blushed

face to face with his former patron. Then the old man cried in a louder

voice,--

"Does the scholar of the village remember one Counsellor Werter?"

"The Minister remembers nothing of the scholar," was the cold and

arrogant answer.

"What, then, does he remember?" said the old man, pressing a little

nearer.

"NOTHING!" cried the fine young lord, and he buried his spurs in the

sides of his courser. They went off at a fierce gallop.

V.

But the fine young lord had only answered the truth. Whether it was from

that sudden struggle of pride, and his hard-hearted resolution not to

remember the Counsellor who had befriended him formerly or whether the

labor of many years had caused it, from that evening, from that moment,

the memory of the Emperor's great Minister began to decay. The ambitious

designs of the shepherd boy of twenty years ago came back to him; but of

all that had befallen him since, John Durer remembered nothing. The hour

of requital was begun!

VI.

Thanks to his good courser, Baron Durer, the Minister, got home in safety

to his château. The first person that he met was the baroness. He

turned abruptly away from her.

"Whither are you hurrying so fast, my dear baron?" said she, seeing her

husband running away from her, which was not his custom, for he was fond

of his wife.

"Baron!" was his reply; "to what baron were you calling? I am no baron,

madame--though one day, perhaps, I may be. Let us hope I may."

The tone in which he spoke these words terrified the baroness. Her

husband immediately afterward left the château, and began running as fast

as his legs could carry him, neither stopping nor slackening his pace.

His head was bent down, like the head of a miser who is seeking about

everywhere for the treasure which some one has stolen from him. From

that day forward his face assumed a gloomy expression, his color became

sallow, his eye haggard; and he began bitterly to complain that heaven

had thought fit to send him on earth in a shepherd's form and a

shepherd's dress.

Some days later, a messenger from the Emperor's court arrived at the

château: "May it please my lord Minister," he began--

"I am no Minister," replied Durer, impatiently; "but have patience, sir,

have patience; I may be Minister one day." Then he began to walk up and

down hastily in the gallery of the château, perpetually saying, "I might

have been a Minister by this time, sir, if your great ones did not leave

men of strong intellect, and ability, and purpose, in the jaws of a

misery which eats away the very brain as rust eats away the steel.

Why--why, I ask, debar these men from high offices--these men who have

nothing--merely out of a prejudice, which is as fatal to the individual

as it is deadly to the state?" Then turning sharply on the Emperor's

emissary, "Go, and tell your master, sir," said he, "that yesterday I

was--I was--I was"--pressing his hand, as he spoke, above his forehead,

as though he was trying to find a coronet which had belonged to it. Then

rushing away distractedly--"Minister!" cried he, "I am--I was--No, no--I

was not--but I soon will be!--Leave me, sir! leave me! leave me!"

Another day, his wretched family, who watched him with terror, overheard

him talking to his gardener: "What a magnificent piece of work you are

laying out, my good boy," said Durer; "a garden admirably designed, if

there ever was such a thing." Then casting a disturbed glance toward the

château, "'Tis a grand place, this," said he; "rich and elegant, and

capitally situated--to whom does it belong, Joseph?"

"My lord baron knows right well that park, gardens, and château, belong

to his noble self," said the gardener, leaning on his spade, and raising

his cap.

Durer began to laugh to himself--but it was a piteous laugh--"Belong to

me, my good boy!" said he; "not yet--not yet--and yet it seems to me as

if I had owned--as if I had owned"--and he passed his hand over his

forehead, as if he could call back some recollection which had drifted

away out of his reach--murmuring, after a pause, "Is it to be this

shepherd's hovel--for ever?--for ever?--for ever?" He fell on a turf

seat, sobbing bitterly; then raising his head, he saw his two fair little

children, who were at play in one of the alleys of the park.

"What lovely children!" sighed he; "ah!--he must, at least, be happy,

whoever he be, that is father to such a pair of angels!"

The children came and flung themselves, laughing, into the Minister's

arms, and hung about him with all manner of tender caresses. In return,

he could but press their tiny hands in his, or let his lean, feverish

fingers play with their golden curls. They kept calling him "Father."

"What are they saying!" murmured the Baron; "the blessing of being called

father I shall never know! What is life--without a home, without a

family round me! But these gifts only belong to fortune, and come with

it." Then looking from one lovely little creature to another, with his

dim and bloodshot eyes, he said, "And yet these children--these

children--" He could not finish his sentence, but again passed his hand

over his forehead; and the children became silent and awe-stricken, for

they saw that he was weeping to himself.

Not long after this, he ceased to know his wife, whom he called for

without ceasing; then he would bury himself deep in reading, without

recollecting a word of what he had read when he had ended. All that was

left to him was the memory of his young desires; the power of retaining

anything had passed away utterly. His ardor began to change into frenzy;

he was devoured with fever, and haunted with dream after dream that

tempted him to pursue them, and mocked him at the very moment when he

thought that he had reached them. The struggle wore him out, life and

limb. He was seen day by day to wither, and grow weaker. The end was

not far. On the last day of his illness, a strange fancy seized him: he

would get up--rushed out of the château, and began to run wildly across

the country, as if he were chasing something before him that no one, save

himself could see. "Sire!" cried he, hoarsely, "deliver me from the

obscurity of this shepherd's life! Sire! do listen to me! I am John

Durer! I have studied everything! I have learned everything! I have

fathomed everything! Raise me from my lowly condition, sire! Who knows?

one day you may have no one among your servants more devoted, more

enlightened, than your poor John Durer!"

The thing that he pursued, fled--fled. Durer ran after it more wildly as

he grew weaker, trying to raise his voice higher and higher, and

stretching out his arms more and more eagerly. They were now at the

Valley of Bushes. "Sire!" cried he once again.

"John Durer, scholar, of the village near Haerlem," replied a voice from

the shadows of the wood, "his Majesty the Emperor does not love people

who have lost their memory."

The whole past--the long, long, years of his ambitious and glorious and

ungrateful life--seemed in one instant to come back, as in a flash of

lightning, before the weary, distracted man; and with this, too, the

consciousness of his present state. He uttered one terrible cry, and

fell down dead.

VII.

Three months later, when his orphans were led by their mother a second

time to visit the humble cemetery of the village near Haerlem, they found

a little old man writing rapidly, with a piece of charcoal, a few strange

words on the stone under which the body of their father, the Minister,

had been laid. When they came close to the spot, the old man ceased, and

pointed out to them, with an awful look, that which he had written.

After the inscription, "John Durer, formerly Minister to his Majesty the

Emperor of Germany," the old man had written--

"Heaven requites ingratitude."

THE STORY OF A WEDGE.

BY REV. C. H. MEAD.

For more than a hundred miles, I had traveled, having the entire seat to

myself.

Aside from the selfishness of the average traveler, who, while unwilling

to pay for more sitting, is more than willing to monopolize the whole

seat, I was glad of plenty of elbow room to enable me to answer some

pressing letters.

But as the car began to fill up, I knew the bag at my side must soon give

way to another kind of neighbor, and presently down the aisle he came.

From a perpendicular standpoint he was small, but horizontally, he was

immense, and I viewed his approach with some alarm.

There was a merry twinkle in his eye, and his face beamed with good

nature as he said, "Ah, I see you have room for a wedge at your side;

allow me to put it in place." With considerable effort and a good deal

of tight squeezing, he at last settled down in the seat, remarking, with

a merry laugh, "Here I am at last;" and there I was too, and there I was

likely to remain, if that wedge did not fly out, or the side of the car

give way.

"Have you room enough?" I slyly inquired.

"Plenty of room, thank you," he replied; "I trust you are nice and snug."

"Never more snug in my life."

"That's right; the loose way in which most people travel is a continual

menace to life and limb. I believe in keeping things snug, spiritually,

physically, socially, financially and politically snug. And if things

are spiritually snug, all the others must be so, as a matter of course.

I learned that fact years ago in England."

"Are you an Englishman," I inquired.

"No, sir; I'm a Presbyterian" he laughingly replied; "my father was born

in England, my mother was born in Ohio, and I was born the first time in

New Jersey. Then on a visit to England I was 'born again.' My father

was a Methodist; my mother was a Quaker, so of course I had to be a

Presbyterian."

His unctuous laughter made the seat tremble. "Not a blue one, mind you.

Blue? Not a bit of it. Why, bless you, when I became a Christian, all

the blue went out of my heart and went into my sky.

"My father was physically large--I take after him. My mother--" he

stopped abruptly and lifted his hat reverently; the tears filled his eyes

and coursed down his cheeks, and presently, with choking voice he

continued:

"My mother, God bless her memory, was the best woman and the grandest

Christian I ever knew. She lives in heaven, and she lives in my heart.

I would that I were as much like mother spiritually as I resemble father

physically."

The tender pathos of his voice, as he said this, made me feel that his

sainted mother, were she present, would have no reason to feel ashamed of

her son.

As he was about to replace his hat on his head, I noticed in large

letters pasted on the lining, these words, "Hinder nobody--help

everybody."

"Excuse me, sir;" I said, as I pointed to the words, "what is the meaning

of that?"

Quickly the tears on his cheeks, were illuminated by a smile as he

said--"That's my watchword; I carry it in my hat, have it hung up on my

wall at home, and since I went into my present business, I've tried to

make it the daily practice of my life."

"May I inquire what your business is?"

"Certainly, sir, my business is serving the Lord, and there is no

business like it in the universe. It pays good dividends, brings me no

worry, insures me a good standing in the best society; feeds me on the

fat of the land, fills my heart with peace and makes me an heir to a

kingdom, a robe and a crown. Bankruptcy and bad debts never stare me in

the face, and every draft I draw is honored at the bank. Thus, I 'hinder

nobody,' and am able to 'help every body.'"

"Where do you reside?" I asked.

"On Pisgah's top"--and his face fairly shone as he repeated it--"on

Pisgah's top. At first I lived down in the valley among Ezekiel's dry

bones, and used to help the multitudes sing--

"'Could we but climb where Moses stood,

And view the landscape o'er:

Not Jordan's stream nor death's cold flood,

Should fright us from the shore.'

"But I moved on and up to my present residence, and now I sing--

"'From Pisgah's top, the promised land,

I now exult to see:

My hope is full, oh, glorious hope,

Of immortality.'

"But I beg your pardon, sir; am I crowding you?"

"Crowding me? not a bit of it. I trust I shall always have room for

company like you."

"Thank you, sir, thank you. I'm only a wedge"--with a merry laugh--"but

I try to fill every opening the Lord shows me. Excuse me but how far are

you going?"

"I get off at Albany," I replied. He looked at me as if taking my

measure, and, after a moment he said:

"I hope you are not a member of the legislature."

"No, sir," I said, "I'm a Methodist."

"Give me your hand. I am so glad to know you are going in the opposite

direction. A man may go to heaven by way of the legislature, but I would

as soon think of going where I could get cholera in order to secure good

health, as expect to serve God by becoming a member of the legislature.

Ah, here is Albany! Good day, sir; don't forget the wedge. And if you

will, I wish you would remember the watchword--'Hinder nobody--Help

everybody.'"

PRINCE EDWIN AND HIS PAGE.

A TALE OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS.

CHAPTER I.

On a certain high festival, which was set apart by Saxon monarchs for

receiving the petitions of the poor, and the appeals of such of their

subjects as had any cause of complaint, the great King Athelstane sat

enthroned in royal state, to listen to the applications of all who came

to prefer their suits to him.

In one corner of the hall stood a noble-looking Saxon lady dressed in

deep mourning, and holding a little boy by the hand. The lady was

evidently a widow, and of high rank, for she wore a widow's hood and

barb--the barb, a piece of white lawn, that covered the lower part of

the face, being worn only by widows of high degree. The little boy,

too, was also arrayed in black attire; his youthful countenance bore an

expression of the utmost grief, and his large blue eyes were full of

tears. This sorrowful pair did not press forward like the other

petitioners, but kept at a modest distance from the throne, evidently

waiting for the king to give them some encouraging signal before they

ventured to approach him.

The royal Athelstane's attention was at length attracted by the anxious

glances which both mother and son bent upon him; and as he perceived

that they were in distress, he waved his hand for them to draw near.

"Who are ye?" said the king, when the mournful widow and her son, in

obedience to his encouraging sign, advanced, and bowed the knee before

him.

"Will my royal lord be graciously pleased to answer me one question

before I reply to that which he has asked of me?" said the Saxon lady.

"Speak on," replied King Athelstane.

"Is it just that the innocent should suffer for the guilty, O King?"

said she.

"Assuredly not," replied the king.

"Then, wherefore," said the Saxon lady, "hast thou deprived my son,

Wilfrid, of his inheritance, for the fault of his father? Cendric has

already paid the forfeit of his life for having unhappily leagued

himself with a traitor who plotted against thy royal life; but this

boy, his guiltless orphan, did never offend thee! Why, then, should he

be doomed to poverty and contempt?"

"It was the crime of the traitor Cendric, not my will, that deprived

his son of his inheritance," said the king.

"I acknowledge it with grief, my royal lord," said Ermengarde, for that

was the name of the Saxon widow; "but it rests with thy good pleasure

to restore to his innocent child the forfeit lands of the unhappy

Cendric."

"Is this boy the son of the traitor Cendric?" asked the king, placing

his hand on the head of the weeping Wilfrid.

"He is, my gracious lord," replied Ermengarde. "He has been carefully

brought up in the fear of God, and I, his widowed mother, will be

surety to thee, that the boy shall serve thee truly and faithfully all

the days of his life if thou wilt but restore him to his inheritance."

"Widow of Cendric, listen to me," said the king. "Thy husband plotted

with traitors to deprive me of my crown and my life; and the laws of

his country, which he had broken, doomed him to death, and confiscated

his lands and castles to my use. I might retain them in my own hands,

if it were my pleasure so to do; but I will only hold them in trust for

thy son, whom I will make my ward, and place in the college at Oxford.

If he there conducts himself to my satisfaction, I will, when he comes

of age, restore to him the forfeited lands of his father, Cendric."

Ermengarde and Wilfrid threw themselves at the feet of the gracious

Athelstane, and returned their tearful thanks for his goodness.

"Wilfrid," said the king, "your fortunes are now in your own hands; and

it depends on your own conduct whether you become a mighty thane or a

landless outcast. Remember, it is always in the power of a virtuous

son to blot out the reproach which the crimes of a wicked parent may

have cast upon his name."

The words of King Athelstane were as balm to the broken spirit of the

boy, and they were never forgotten by him in all the trials, many of

them grievous ones, which awaited him in after-life.

King Athelstane, and his brother, Prince Edwin, were sons of King

Edward, surnamed the Elder, the son and successor of Alfred the Great.

After a glorious reign, Edward died in the year of our Lord 925, and at

his death a great dispute arose among the nobles as to which of his

sons should succeed him in the royal dignity.

Athelstane had early distinguished himself by his valor in battle, his

wisdom in council, and by so many princely actions, that he was the

darling of the people. His grandfather, the great Alfred, had,

therefore, on his death-bed adjudged Athelstane to be the most suitable

of all Edward's sons to reign over England. There were, however, some

of the Saxon lords who objected to Athelstane being made king, because

he was born before King Edward's royal marriage with the reigning

queen; Athelstane's mother, Egwina, having been only a poor shepherd's

daughter. They wished, therefore, that Prince Edwin, the eldest son of

King Edward's queen, should be declared king; but as Edwin was very

young, the people decided on crowning Athelstane, he being of a proper

age to govern.

This election was very displeasing to some of the proud Saxon lords;

and Cendric, the father of Wilfrid, had been among those who conspired

with a wicked traitor of the name of Alfred, to take away the life of

Athelstane. The conspiracy was discovered, and all who were engaged in

it were punished with death.

The college in which Wilfrid was placed at Oxford, had been founded by

Alfred the Great, for the education of the youthful nobles and gentles

of the land. It had been deemed the most proper place for the

education of the king's younger brother, Prince Edwin, and some other

royal wards, for the most part sons of Anglo-Saxon and Danish nobles,

whose persons and estates had been committed to the guardianship of the

king during their minority. King Athelstane, who, like his

grandfather, Alfred the Great, was very desirous of promoting learning,

had provided suitable masters for their instruction in every branch of

knowledge, leaving, therefore, men of distinguished learning and of

great wisdom to conduct the education, and form the minds and morals of

this youthful community; and being himself engaged in the cares of

government, and in repelling the attacks of the Danes, the king limited

his further attention to occasional inquiries after the health and

improvement of his brother and the rest of the royal wards.

He had, indeed, taken the pains to draw up the rules which he deemed

proper to be observed in this juvenile society. One of the most

important of these, namely, that a system of perfect equality should be

observed toward all the individuals of whom it was composed, was,

however, soon violated in favor of Prince Edwin, who, because he was

the Atheling, as the heir apparent to the throne was called in those

days, was honored with peculiar marks of distinction. Every person in

the college, from the masters to the humblest servitor, appeared

desirous of winning the favor of the future sovereign, and of this

Edwin too soon became aware.

Prince Edwin was the leader of the sports, and no amusement was adopted

unless his approbation had previously been asked and obtained. All

disputed matters were referred to his decision, and no appeal from his

judgment was permitted.

It would have afforded subject of serious reflection, perhaps of

jealous alarm, to the king had he been aware of the injudicious courses

which were pursued by those around Prince Edwin; but Athelstane was

engaged in bloody wars with the Danes and the insurgent Welsh princes,

which kept him far remote from Oxford. His brother, meanwhile,

continued to receive the most pernicious flattery from every creature

around him, except Wilfrid, the son of Cendric, who, by order of King

Athelstane, had been appointed his page of honor.

When Wilfrid was first admitted into the college he was treated with

great scorn by the royal wards. Among them were many who, in the pride

of circumstance and the vanity of youth, were so unkind as to cherish

disdainful feelings against the unfortunate Wilfrid, and to murmur at

his introduction into their society.

Prince Edwin was, however, of a more generous disposition, and by

extending his favor and protection to the forlorn youth, rendered his

residence in the college less irksome than it otherwise would have

been. But the very affection with which Wilfrid was regarded by his

young lord had the effect of increasing the hostile feeling of the

others against him; and in the absence of the Atheling, he had to

endure a thousand bitter taunts and cruel insults respecting his

father's crime and the ignominious death he had suffered.

Wilfrid was too noble-minded to complain to his young lord of this

treatment, although he felt it deeply. It required all his firmness

and forbearance to endure it patiently; but he remembered the words of

King Athelstane--"that his future fortunes depended upon his own

conduct;" and he resolved, under all circumstances, to persevere in the

path of duty; and, if possible, by his own virtues to blot out the

remembrance of his father's fault. He was also duly impressed with a

grateful sense of the king's goodness in extending to him the

advantages of a liberal and courtly education; of which he wisely

determined to make the most he could. By unremitting exertions, he

soon made so rapid a progress in his studies that he outstripped all

his fellow-students; and, though the youngest boy in the college, he

obtained the highest place of all, except the seat of honor, which his

partial preceptors allowed Prince Edwin to retain.

Prince Edwin loved Wilfrid, and took real pleasure in witnessing his

repeated triumphs over those who regarded him with such unkindly

feelings. But Prince Edwin himself was proud and capricious--his

naturally frank and noble disposition having been spoiled by the

adulation of those about him; and Wilfrid was, perhaps, more than any

other person, exposed to suffer from his occasional fits of passion.

Yet Wilfrid was the only person who ventured to represent to him the

folly and impropriety of conduct so unbecoming in any one, but

peculiarly unwise in a prince, who, on account of his elevated rank,

and the respect with which he was treated, is required to practice

universal courtesy, and to avoid, if possible, giving offence to any

one.

Prince Edwin, though often piqued at the plain dealing of his page,

knew how to value his sincerity and attachment. However he might at

times give way to petulance toward him, he treated him, on the whole,

with greater consideration, and paid more attention to his opinions

than to those of any other person. The regard of Prince Edwin for his

page was, however, soon observed with jealous displeasure by one of the

royal wards, named Brithric, who was older by two or three years than

any of the other young companions of the prince.