SCENE 1. _A Garden; Children dressed as Fairies, playing about. They

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THE MAGICIAN'S SHOW BOX

AND

OTHER STORIES

By Lydia Maria Child

The Author of “Rainbows for Children.”

CONTENTS

THE MAGICIAN'S SHOW BOX

THE VIOLET FLAME

FLORIBEL

THE LADY INTELLETTA

VENUS'S DOVE

THE GALA-DAY

EARNING ONE'S OWN LIVING

THE MAGICIAN'S SHOW BOX.

There was once a boy, named Gaspar, whose uncle made voyages to China,

and brought him home chessmen, queer toys, porcelain vases,

embroidered skullcaps, and all kinds of fine things. He gave him such

grand descriptions of foreign countries and costumes, that Gaspar was

not at all satisfied to live in a small village, where the people

dressed in the most commonplace way. At school he was always covering

his slate with pictures of Turks wearing turbans as large as small

mosques, or Chinese with queues several yards long, and shoes that

turned up to their knees. Then he read every story he could find of

all possible and impossible adventures, and longed for nothing so much

as to go forth, like Napoleon or Alexander, and make mincemeat of the

whole world.

One day he could bear it no longer; so, taking with him an oaken

dagger which he had carved with great care, off he started on his

conquering expedition. He walked along the sunny road, kicking up a

great dust, and coming to a milestone, threw a stone at a huge

bullfrog croaking at him from a spring, and made it dive under with a

loud splash. Pleased with his prowess, he took a good drink at the

spring, and filled his flask with the sparkling water. At the second

milestone he threw a pebble at a bird, singing in a tree. Off flew the

bird, and down fell a great red apple. “Ah, how fine!” he exclaimed,

picking it up; “and how the bird flies! I wish I had such wings.” On

the third milestone sat a quiet-looking little man, cracking nuts; so

Gaspar stopped to crack nuts, and have a chat with him.

The man was very entertaining, and Gaspar listened and listened to his

wonderful stories until he saw the milestone shadow stretching far

along the bank. Then he jumped up and was going to walk on, but hop

went the little man quite across the road. Gaspar went the other side;

hop came the little man back again; and so they dodged about, hither

and thither, until Gaspar's patience was quite exhausted.

“He is only a small fellow, after all,” he thought; “I can take a good

run and jump over him.” He took the run and gave the jump, but the

little man shot up high into the air, and he might as well have tried

to jump over the moon.

“It is a most singular thing!” said Gaspar to himself; “a little gray

man, not much larger than I am, and yet he seems to be every where at

once, like sheet lightning. There is no getting by him, and all the

time he looks at me with those bright eyes and that quiet smile, as if

he were really very much amused. Well, he must go to sleep by and by,

and then I can step over him and walk off.”

So he lay down, pretending to sleep, and the little man lay down also,

with his face turned to the sky. When Gaspar thought him fast asleep,

he arose very softly, believing he could now surely escape; but at his

very first step up came a sly hand, catching him by the foot, so that

down he fell at the old man's side, and there saw the bright eyes

gazing up at the stars, without a wink of sleep in them. But Gaspar

soon forgot his travels, with all his bold intentions, and fell asleep

himself, to dream of skewers and cimeters.

In the morning the little man said, “Come now, it is foolish for you

to go trudging about over the world. You will never see any thing more

than polywogs and sandflies, and those you can find in your native

village. Give me a drink from your flask, and a bite of your apple,

and I can show you more wonders in a day in my show box here, than you

would find wandering about for a lifetime.”

Then he drew from the pocket of his gray coat a neat box, carved of

ivory, and having taken a bit of the apple and a sip of the water,

which Gaspar never thought of refusing, he touched a spring, up flew

the lid, and Gaspar peeped in. Ah, but it was a wondrous sight; for on

and on moved a procession of all imaginable things. Lions and

elephants seemed mere puppies, for here were mastodons and

ichthyosauri, and animals that lived before the flood was ever dreamed

of; and as for Turks and turbans, why, there were people with

headdresses that towered up into the skies, and ladies who made

rainbows pale. There were queens whose thrones were all one driven

pearl, and warriors whose swords were a flash of sunbeams.

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Gaspar; “this is better than travelling. But how

shall I remember all these enchanting sights? I must make a note of

them.” And seizing his wooden sword, he began to draw in the sandy

road each figure as it appeared.

Hour after hour the procession passed on in the little ivory box. Hour

after hour he drew it in the sand, and that little man stood by, with

his quiet smile and great politeness. At length a loud hallooing was

heard, and they saw all the boys from the village running towards

them.

“What is going on here?” they called out. “Never were such clouds seen

as have been sailing over the village to-day. Whales and astronomers,

kings and crocodiles, and nobody knows what. They all sail from this

direction, and we have come to see what is going off here. Can it be

you, Gaspar, who are raising such a wind? Did you draw all these

lively things in the sand, and blow them up into clouds?”

Gaspar said he knew nothing about the clouds, but he thought it was

getting rather dark, and was as much surprised as any of the boys, to

see what grand figures he had thrown up into the sky. He begged his

new friend to show the boys his box; but he said, “No, it was not for

them,” and put it into his pocket.

They all laughed at it, and said such great creatures never came out

of that little paint box.

Gaspar went back to the village with the boys, and for a while was

quite contented with the remembrance of what he had seen; but at last

his old love of travelling awoke in him. He did not feel satisfied to

have seen wonderful nations and animals merely passing through a show

box, but wanted to see them in living reality; but how was he to get

by the little magician? On foot he knew it was impossible, but thought

he might succeed on a fleet horse. So he went to his friend Conrad,

and offered him the apple which could never be eaten, for his good

cantering horse. Most boys are fond of red apples, but Conrad cared

for nothing else but apples and apple dumplings, not even for his

cantering horse, and readily exchanged him for Gaspar's apple, which

he could be constantly eating. Off rode Gaspar with whip and spur,

sure now that the little gray man could not stop him.

As he cantered along the road very grandly, there were those bright

eyes fixed upon him.

“Whither so fast to-day?” said the gray man, with his queer smile.

“That's nothing to you,” answered Gaspar; and on he tried to go; but

hop went the little man, to and fro, just as he did before, and Gaspar

did not like to run his horse directly over him; indeed he might as

well have tried to ride over the winds of heaven; so he jumped off,

exclaiming, “It's no use dodging about in this way; come, now, let's

fight it out;” and he drew his oaken dagger with a great flourish.

“Ah, ha! that is it, is it?” said the magician; and out flashed a

steel dagger. At it they went, striking their weapons against each

other with might and main. At every stroke Gaspar's wooden dagger

became sharper and sharper, and when he left off fighting he found it

was changed into good steel; but it was useless to hope for victory

from such a combatant, who might have pierced him through and through

at any moment, as Gaspar very soon saw; so he put up his dagger, and

they sat down on the stone, cracking their nuts and jokes together in

the old way.

“Now,” said Gaspar, “if I had a few bags of nuts like these, I could

make my fortune. They do not grow in our village, and I have told the

boys about them until they are all wild to have some. But I suppose

you cannot give me any, for although you never get out of them, you

seem only to have a handful at a time.”

“Gaspar,” answered the gray man, “there is no end to my nuts; we might

crack here until doomsday, and I should still have thousands and

thousands of uncracked ones left. I do not think much of them myself,

but you are young and easily amused, and if you would like a bag or

two, why, here they are;” and he held up his hands with a great sack

full of nuts in each. Gaspar jumped on his horse, dragged the bags up

after him, while the little man looked smiling on, and rode home to

the village.

What a shouting there was when the boys saw him riding through the

streets with his great bags of nuts! They offered him bat and ball,

hoop and kite; but Gaspar said he did not care for such childish

things; he wanted something to be of use on his travels round the

world. “You had better go to Lawyer Clang's,” called out a newsboy;

“he has a horse such as never was seen afore.”

Gaspar rode straight to Lawyer Clang's office, and walked in, horse,

sacks, and all.

“Sir,” said he, “what will you give me for this cantering horse and

these very hard nuts?”

“My horse Wayfare; and a more serviceable animal was never known. I am

getting a little tired of him myself, but he is just the thing for

you, if you wish to see the world.”

The horse was brought round, a great gaunt creature, but handsomely

bridled and saddled, and Gaspar thought he looked tough and sound, and

would be far more useful than his cantering horse, which was only

suitable for pleasure riding, so he changed horses, threw in the nuts,

and rode off, bidding the boys good by, for many long years, he told

them.

When he came to the first milestone he found the mossy spring was

frozen over. At the second he saw the leafless apple tree, with a

deserted bird's nest upon it; and at the third he discerned something

that looked like the little magician; but he believed it was only a

snow wreath: at any rate, it did not stop the way, and on he rode,

exulting, though a little cold.

It was all very pleasant until night came; and then he was glad to see

an inn, with a bright fire shining through the windows. He pulled in

the reins, but the horse would not stop. He pulled harder and harder,

and called “Whoa!” until he was breathless. It was all of no use. On

went the horse, and the inn, with its bright windows, was soon left

far behind. And over the wide plain he rode all night, through the

wind and the snow, which was not at all agreeable. In the morning he

was quite faint, and wanted to stop at a cottage for some breakfast,

and a good warming for himself, and some oats for his horse. But no;

Wayfare had nothing to do with such trifles. He went calmly on, always

at the same jog-trot pace, and that not a very easy one. Gaspar had to

catch at some berries as he rode through the woods, but found them

poor fare, and was glad to find himself, the next day, getting into a

warmer climate, where even oranges grew; but not many could he gather

as he rode by the trees, and it was very provoking to see the horse,

instead of stopping at a running brook, trot straight through it, and

across a green pasture, as if it were all a parched desert.

“What an old fogy of a horse he is! I am sure he must be made of

wood,” exclaimed Gaspar; and he gave a great pound on the horse's

neck. “Hollow, I declare! Nothing but a wooden horse, after all, and

goes by machinery. I wonder how long he is wound up to go, and whether

I shall ever get off the dreadful nightmare's back. What a fool I was

to change my good cantering horse for such a machine as this! But I

must endure it now I am in for it.”

Day after day they trotted on, through strange countries, among

unknown people and animals; but the horse never noticed them, nor they

the horse. Gaspar wished to jump off and let the great creature go;

but it was so high, and went on so steadily, that he could not get a

chance. At last they passed through a gate in a high wall, which he

thought must be the Chinese Wall, and a pagoda in the distance soon

convinced him that he was right.

“I shall at least see peaked shoes and mandarins, and that is some

satisfaction,” he thought, and rode on, looking about him with great

curiosity, until he came to a palace all gilding and porcelain. Here

the horse came to a stand, as if he had been wound up to go so far and

no farther.

“This I know must be the emperor's palace, and that must be the very

gentleman himself, looking out of the window,” said Gaspar. “How

fortunate that uncle Gammon taught me Chinese!” He bowed and

addressed the emperor, who was quite surprised to see such a very

small foreign boy on such a very large horse, speaking his language so

correctly. He came down to examine the horse, and when he found it

went by machinery instead of being alive, expressed the greatest

delight, saying it was just the kind of horse he had always desired,

and if Gaspar would give it to him, he should be made one of his chief

mandarins. Gaspar replied that his greatest desire was to be a

mandarin; so he alighted in the most dignified manner, and entering

the palace, was presented with layers of richly embroidered robes,

which reached to his feet, and just allowed the peaks of his shoes to

peep out. Then he was introduced to a large circle of mandarins who

stood round, incessantly bowing to one another. He began to bow too,

as if he had done nothing else all his life, and when dinner was

served, managed his chop-sticks most dexterously, and smoked as if

smoking had been his only vocation. In short, he ate and bobbed, and

slept and woke, in the most approved manner.

Now he had attained the summit of his wishes. Every thing was entirely

Chinese,--jars, mats, sweetmeats, dresses, bobbing, and stupidity.

Rank, luxury, grandeur he called it, and for a while flattered himself

that he was immersed in perfect happiness; but, somehow,--he could not

tell what it was; perhaps he was not quite old enough,--but somehow he

did become a little weary of being a mandarin. The palace was

deliciously perfumed, but he longed for a puff of fresh wind. Nothing

could be richer than their dresses, but the embroidery was rather

heavy. Nothing could be profounder than their politeness, but it would

have been a relief to have given some boy a good snowballing. Nothing

could be serener than their silence, but he would gladly have given

any body three cheers for nothing.

He began to make plans for escape from this palace of his desires,

when one morning, just as one venerable mandarin was saying to

another, in their usual edifying style of conversation, “Pelican of

the Morning, before the magic charm of thy lofty countenance I am

spell-bound, like an albatross bewildered amid the flapping sails of a

mighty--” down burst the door with a crash, and a lion rushed roaring

in among them. What a scrambling there was of the long-flowered

dresses! What a tumbling, a flying, a groaning, a screaming! Never

before were such confusion and fear in an assembly of bobbing

mandarins. But Gaspar felt his breast swell with courage. Throwing

off his long robes, he sprang upon the lion, and struggled fiercely

with him; but the powerful creature would soon have laid him low if he

had not suddenly remembered the dagger, sharpened in his conflict with

the little gray man. Drawing it from the belt in which he always wore

it, beneath his embroidered robe, he plunged it into the lion's

throat, and victory was won. He did not wait for the dispersed

mandarins to return; but throwing one of the richest dresses over his

shoulder, as Hercules wore the lion's skin, he walked off, taking his

way straight to the gate in the wall, for he had had quite enough of

China and the Chinese empire.

Now began glad days for him--roaming, like a wild hunter, from land to

land, coping single handed with crocodiles and cameleopards, riding

upon elephants, mastering tigers and young hyenas, visiting mosques

and mausoleums. In every land he made collections of its greatest

curiosities in art, literature, science, natural history, and

politics. A sphinx, an obelisk, a winged bull from Nineveh, stuffed

porcupines, live monkeys, fossil remains, a pinchbeck president of the

United States, and many rare specimens even more curious, did he

collect, and after years of wandering, by land and by sea, carry with

him to his native village. There he converted an old barn into a

museum, and gave out to the villagers that he was prepared to instruct

them in all that the world contains. They flocked to the museum, and

he was occupied every hour of the day going from one object to

another, making a little set speech about each to entertain his

bewildered visitors. Great admiration was expressed, and perhaps great

knowledge was acquired. Gaspar felt that he was the benefactor of his

race, and bought a pair of very tight boots to walk around in, and a

neat little silver-tipped stick with which to point out the

curiosities.

But, alas! even now, when the cup of happiness seemed full, was he not

to be satisfied. Had he not attained all that the most eager hopes of

his boyhood had promised? Had not the highest honors and the most

yellow of garments been lavished upon him in that long-desired Chinese

empire? Had he not conquered innumerable wild animals--African,

Asiatic, and above all, American? Was he not the focus of life and

intelligence in his native village? And yet, how weary had he become

of describing to his gaping audience, for the three hundred and

sixtieth time, the daily habits of the laughing hyena, and the exact

manner in which kangaroos jump! What sad indifference to the nature of

whigs and walruses, to the tendencies of sea otters and free

institutions, was creeping over him!

“Ah, if a lion would but walk in again, and if I could but have

another good fight!” he exclaimed one day. At that moment the door

suddenly opened. Hope whispered, “The lion!” and a fair young girl

entered. She glanced around the room, cast her eyes on the president,

the bones of a mastodon, a parrot in the corner, and a mummy or two.

“Old bones and stuffed animals!” she whispered to her companions, and

they all began to laugh.

“I suppose she will call me a stuffed animal too,” thought Gaspar;

“but I must show them the specimens.” So he stepped forward, and began

to point out the various objects, and go over his usual descriptions.

He did it in his neatest manner; but the girl kept smiling, as if it

were all a great joke, and yet she looked at him with some

interest. Gaspar went into another room to put on his mandarin's dress

and peaked shoes, which he thought would produce a great effect; but

if she had only smiled before, now she fairly laughed. Then he caught

down his dagger which hung on the wall as one of the curiosities, and

felt for a moment as if she were the lion, and he would plunge it into

her; but the next moment he saw her beautiful face bending over

it. “Ah, this dagger I like! How sharp the point is! It looks as if

you might have done something with it. Tell me all about it, will you

not?” said the girl.

“If you will come here a week from to-day, I will tell you its

history,” answered Gaspar; and she promised that she would surely

come.

At the appointed time she appeared--alone, now, Gaspar was glad to

see, for he did not like to have her whispering and laughing with the

other girls. However, he hoped she would not laugh now. He led her

through the museum into another room, where he had been painting a

picture of his fight with the lion.

“That is excellent!” said the girl; “that is just the thing. There

goes the dagger into the throat of the lion. How much better than a

petrified peacock, or a labelled dromedary! And you killed the lion

and painted the picture too?”

“Yes,” answered Gaspar, quite gently.

“And the dagger--where did you find that?”

Gaspar told her how he had carved it of heart of oak when he was a

boy, and had changed it to steel in fighting with the magician.

“I must see that magician; let us go and find him,” said the girl. So

away they went. As they walked along Gaspar told her about the ivory

show box, and regretted that he had lost his flask of water, and

exchanged his apple for the cantering horse, because they had now

nothing to give the little gray man for a peep into it.

“Wait a moment,” said the girl; and running into her house, which they

were passing, she brought out a golden cup full of red wine. “I think

he will like this better than the water--do not you?”

When they came to the milestone, there sat the gray man, cracking away

as inveterately as ever. “I should think he would be tired to death,”

said Gaspar. “Think how much I have seen of the world while he has

been cracking those old nuts.”

The little man overheard him, and smiled to himself, as much as to

say, “I know;” but when he saw the young girl, he rose up and made

quite a profound bow. “He never bowed to me,” thought Gaspar.

“Will you let me look into your ivory show box, and I will give you a

drink of red wine,” said the girl.

“It is a poor thing,” answered the magician, “not worthy of your

attention; but if you will vouchsafe me a sip of the wine, I have been

cracking these dry nuts so long. Ah, I do begin to be weary!” The

girl peeped into the show box. “All very pretty, but rather stiff and

monotonous,” she said. “Not so good as you can paint, Gaspar. Come,

let us go home.”

She made the gray man a pleasant little courtesy, took her vase of

wine, and she and Gaspar went back to the village to paint their own

pictures, leaving the little magician to crack his nuts and look into

his show box as long as he pleased.

THE VIOLET FLAME

Rosamond was the child of a village blacksmith, and of a lady said by

the villagers to be a princess from a far land. She herself claimed to

be descended from an Ocean Queen; but no one believed that, except her

little girl, who thought her mother must know best. Rosamond would sit

by her for hours, gazing into the river that flowed through their

garden, and listening to her mothers stories of golden palaces beneath

the water. But she also liked to pry about her father's forge, and

wonder at the quick sparks and great roaring fires. Her cousin Alfred

would stay there with her, but while she was watching the red glow of

the fire and the heavy fall of her father's hammer, he was gazing upon

the violet flame that flickered above her forehead.

One day, when she was playing with him in the picture gallery of the

old castle, in which his mother was housekeeper, she called him to

look at the portrait of a child daintily holding a bird on the tip of

her finger, and arrayed in the quaint richness of the old-fashioned

costume. “She looks like you,” her cousin said, “only she has not a

little trembling flame upon her forehead.”

“Have I a flame upon my forehead?” asked Rosamond, wondering.

“Come and look,” answered Alfred, and he led her to a great mirror,

where she for the first time saw the violet flame. “How beautiful it

is!” she exclaimed.

“O, but it is growing dim; you must not look at it,” said

Alfred. “Come and let us run up and down the garden, between the great

hedges.”

But Rosamond, having once seen the violet flame, could not be

satisfied until she had been to the castle to take another look, and

found so much pleasure in gazing at herself in the great mirror, that

she went every day to pay herself a stolen visit, while Alfred was at

school. But one day he found her there, and said, “I see how it is

that the pretty flame has gone; you have been admiring it too much by

yourself. I shall not love you now.”

Then Rosamond felt very sorry, and wondered how she could win back

Alfred's love. At length she took all her money, with which she had

intended to buy her old nurse a warm cloak for the winter, and bought

a golden _feronière_ with a purple stone in it, to wear around

her head in the place of the vanished flame. Then she walked into the

picture gallery with a proud step. “O Rosamond!” exclaimed her cousin,

“can you believe that bit of purple glass can replace the dancing

flame that shone with, such a lovely violet light over your golden

hair? Pray take it off, for it seems mere tinsel to me.”

But neither he nor Rosamond could unclasp the _feronère;_ and she

had to go back to the jeweller, of whom she bought it, to ask him to

file it off, which he tried in vain to do; and at last he said, “The

pedler who sold it to me must be right. He said that, once clasped, it

could only be loosened by dipping it into a hidden fountain. What

fountain it is I do not know; but some old priest, who lives in a town

on the mouth of a river, knows.”

This was discouraging for Rosamond, there are so many towns and

rivers, and so many old priests, in the world. She looked on the map,

and thought it must be Paris, for that is not so very far from the

sea, and there they know every thing. So, with her mother's leave, and

some jewels she gave her, she went off to Paris, taking a bit of the

mirror set in a gilt frame. When she arrived there, what was her

surprise to find the city entirely inhabited by birds and animals!

Parrots and peacocks prevailed, but ospreys and jackdaws, vultures and

cormorants, crows and cockerels, and many, many other kinds of birds

were also fluttering about, making a perpetual whizzing. Then there

were hundreds of monkeys, all jauntily dressed, with little canes in

their hands, and a great many camels and spaniels, and other animals,

wild and tame, in neat linen blouses. What bewildered her still more,

was to see that they were all skating about on the thinnest possible

ice. Why it did not crack, to let them all through, she could not

imagine. At first she was afraid even to set her foot upon it, but

soon found herself skating merrily about, enjoying it as much as any

of them. Another queer thing was, that, reflected in the ice, all

these birds and animals appeared to be men and women; and she saw that

in her own reflection she was a nice little girl. She wondered how she

looked in her mirror, and took it out to see. “What kind of an animal

am I?” she exclaimed. “O, I see--an ibex. What neat little horns, and

how bright my eyes are! What would Alfred say if he knew I was an

ibex?”

She called out to the skaters to ask them if they would look into her

glass. “Hand it here,” answered one, who in the ice appeared very

pale, thin, and respectable. “I am a philosopher; I am not afraid of

the truth.” He looked in, and lo, there was a stork, standing on one

leg, with his eyes half closed, and his head neatly tucked under his

wing. “What a caricature!” he exclaimed, giving the glass a toss. It

fell upon the ermine muff of a furbelowed old dowager, who was skating

bravely about, notwithstanding her seventy years. “I will see how I

look,” she said, with a simpering smile; and behold, there was a puffy

white owl in the mirror. Down fell the glass, but Rosamond caught and

saved it.

“What a little unfledged thing you are, to be carrying that bit of

broken glass about with you!” called out the philosopher.

“Better be unfledged than a one-eyed stork,” answered Rosamond, and

skated swiftly out of sight.

Now, the grandest skater of all was a griffin, who led all the others,

skating more skilfully than any of them, and flitting like mad across

the very thinnest places. It made one's head giddy to see him. His

swiftness and dexterity, and a knack he had of knocking the other

skaters into great black holes under the ice, whenever they crossed

his path, greatly imposed upon them, and they all took care to follow

straight behind, or to keep well out of his way. Now and then a bear

would growl as he glided by; but the next day, Rosamond would see that

bear hard at work building ice palaces, too busy to growl. One day,

skating off into a corner, she found the griffin sitting apart, behind

a great block of ice with his claws crossed, and looking very cold and

dreary, like a snow image. “Would you not like to take a peep into my

glass?” she said to him, quite amiably.

“No, child,” solemnly answered the griffin. “I know by your ironical

smile that you have discovered the truth--that I am nothing but a

griffin. But if the skaters believe in me, why undeceive them? Why

should magpies and zebras have any thing better to reign over them?”

“But do you not see how thin the ice is? You will surely break

through some day.”

“I know it,” he replied. “A good strong trampling, and we are all

scattered far and wide. But I keep the tigers and hyenas at work, and

the more sagacious elephants bear their burdens in quiet, and let me

alone. If there be a lion among them, he roars so gently it does no

harm. And you must be a good girl, and keep silence. I see that you

also wear a crown, and you know how heavy it is.”

“Yes, and it is of brass too, like yours. I am trying to free myself

from it,” answered Rosamond. “But I do not care for your peacocks and

parrots, and will not tell them yours is not of gold; so do not be

afraid;” and off she went, leaving his majesty in a very uneasy state

of mind. But he had nothing to fear from her, for although she did not

cry, “Vive l'Empereur!” when he skated gorgeously by, she never

revealed the fact that he was only a long-clawed griffin.

Rosamond might have staid a long time in Paris, so amused was she by

all the gay plumage and dazzling confusion around her; but she soon

found that she was dying of starvation. She had always heard French

dishes and bon-bons most highly extolled, and now she found they were

nothing but dry leaves and husks, served up very prettily, to be sure,

but with no nourishment in them. So she looked on the map again, and

decided to go to the shore of the Baltic, and follow it along until

she came to the town in which the priest lived; for it certainly was

useless to look for one among the gayly-plumed skaters in Paris.

Hard walking she found it, among sands and stones, and poor living in

the fishermen's huts scattered along the coast. She was quite glad,

one day, to meet a little girl of her own age, picking berries.

Rosamond helped Greta fill her basket, and then accepted her

invitation to go home with her. After walking through a long green

lane, among fields of waving grain, they entered a town built of white

marble; and Rosamond knew this was the place she sought. They stopped

at Greta's house; but when Rosamond saw how many children there were

in it, she thought she should not be very comfortable there, and asked

for a hotel. Greta told her there was none in the town, but that she

would find herself welcome in any house.

So she walked about until she found a large one with handsome columns

before it, and there she passed the night. In the morning the lady of

the house said, “To-day I am bread maker, for you must know we all

work in this town, and all share our food together. If you stay here,

you must make bread with me.”

Rosamond did not like this proposition at all, for her mother had

never taught her to work, and besides, she felt as if, with a crown

upon her head, she were a kind of queen. It seemed to her as if the

villagers also thought so when they looked at her as she walked

through the streets, and she bore herself very proudly for a while,

but at length became so tired and hungry, that she sank down on a

doorstep, her head leaning on her hand; and as she watched the

passers-by through her drooping lids, she noticed how very nice their

shoes and stockings were. Then she saw that her own were much torn and

soiled, and looking down the street, was mortified to trace her way

along by the muddy footprints she had left on the fair white

marble. She went to Greta's mother, and asked permission to wash her

stockings and clean her shoes. But she did not know how to do it

nicely, and they still looked very badly. “Clean bare feet would look

better than such shoes and stockings,” said the mother.

“But I could not have bare feet and a crown,” answered Rosamond.

“O, is it a crown? Excuse me, I thought it was a snake skin.”

Rosamond half smiled, but said sadly, “It seems like a snake, it

stings me so sharply.”

“You must go to Father Alter. A lady once came here with a jewelled

girdle which was clasping her to death. He sent her to a fountain high

among the mountains, and she returned in a white dress with a girdle

of wild flowers. She lived with me, and kept a school for

children. She was a lovely lady.”

This reminded Rosamond of the priest, and she asked Greta to show her

where Father Alter lived.

She found him sitting in his garden of herbs among poor people who

were waiting for comfort and advice, and Rosamond also had to wait. At

length he turned to her, and laying his hand gently upon her golden

head, said, “I see what you want, my child. You must bathe your

forehead in the fountain, that the weight of this stone may be taken

from it.”

“How shall I find the fountain, father?” she asked.

“Ah, my child,” he answered, looking tenderly upon her, “the way is

long and difficult, and many who wish to seek it do not find

it. Neither can I point out the path to you. Each must find it for

himself. The fountain wells forth in a green valley high among the

mountains, and this river on which our village is built flows from it.

Yet you cannot follow the stream up to its source, for it is often

lost under ground, or is hidden among dark caverns. Through these

hidden caves I found my way; but your young feet may try the mountain

summits. From these you will discern the valley, and can descend into

it. Yet linger not too long among shining glaciers, for the cold may

come upon you suddenly in that bright sunshine, and steal your life

away. And tread lightly along the mountain paths, for often the

slightest motion will bring down an avalanche. And, my child, take

with you this osier basket, in which lies a little loaf of bread. Fear

not to eat of it every day; but remember always to leave a crumb, lest

you should meet a hungry bird, and have nothing to give it. And thus

will the loaf be always renewed. Do not forget, and a blessing be upon

you.”

Rosamond went gravely forth with the osier basket in her hand. As she

passed through the village she could not but long to stay among those

pleasant gardens, and water flowers with the children who were so busy

there; but if she lingered to speak to them, she felt the tightened

clasp of the fillet upon her head, and on she hastened. At first she

thought the mountains quite near; but when she had walked until she

was very tired, they seemed as far off as ever, and so on for several

days. At many a weary milestone she stopped, wondering who had rested

there before her, and whether they had ever found the hidden valley

among those yet distant mountains. At night she staid in some little

cottage by the wayside, always kindly welcomed, and carrying kind

wishes with her when she went away. At noon she would break her little

loaf, and dip it in the stream, remembering to leave a crumb in the

basket; and when she opened the basket for her supper, there would

still be the loaf, whole as ever; and many and many a bird did she

feed on her way.

One day when she had been walking a long distance, and was very

hungry, she had forgotten about keeping the crumb, and was just

breaking the last crust, when she heard the quick, sharp cry of a bird

in distress. Looking round she found a wounded sparrow lying on a

rock. She washed the blood from his feathers, and gave him a crumb of

the bread, very thankful that he had prevented her from eating it all,

for then there would have been none left either for the bird or for

herself. She wrapped the sparrow gently in her dress, and carried it

with her, and wherever she went, along the edge of steep precipices,

or over the rough glaciers, through deep snow or amid cold winds,

still she warmed that bird in her bosom and kept it alive. At length

she reached the summit of the mountain, and saw the red sunset slowly

become gray, and the stars come out one by one in the wide, lonely

sky. So far did it stretch around her, on every side, before it

touched the horizon; so near did it seem, above her, that she felt as

if she were high in the heavens, and turning her face towards her

village, she thought Alfred might perhaps see her there, shining among

the stars. Ah, foolish little girl! Her weary feet soon sank beneath

her, and she fell asleep upon the snow. But the bird fluttered and

chirped in her bosom, as if it knew danger were near, and she suddenly

awoke. “O, good little sparrow,” she cried, “if it had not been for

you, I should have been frozen to death in my sleep; but now I will

not stay here longer; we will go down into the valleys.”

She began to slide down the mountain, and when the sun rose, saw

beneath her a green, hidden nook, in which stood a solitary tree. She

thought she should reach it immediately; but sometimes her way was

blocked up on all sides, and she had to creep over high rocks, or

through dark chasms, often losing sight of the valley, and fearing she

never should find it. At length, however, she stood safe beneath the

blossoming tree, and there was the sparrow's nest with the young birds

in it. Rosamond fed them with her crumbs, and looking about for water

to give them, found a clear spring bubbling out from under the root of

the tree. As she bent down to dip up some of the water in her hand, a

few drops were sprinkled upon her brass fillet, and it fell from her

head. “Why, this is the very fountain,” she exclaimed; “I did not know

it.” When she raised her head, the free mountain wind blew through her

hair, and she felt as light-hearted and happy as the bird which had

found its nest.

She slept that night beneath the sheltering tree; the new moon shone

upon her, and the bubbling of the water lulled her into a sweeter

sleep than she had known for many nights. In the morning she gave all

her bread except one crumb to the birds, then descended the mountain,

following the stream glancing over the rocks. But at last she lost

sight of it, and instead of finding herself by the river on which the

marble town was built, she came to the little old mill near her own

home. There was Alfred hard at work, for he had hired himself out as a

miller's boy. Her mother was weeping beneath the willow by the river,

and her father was hammering at his anvil. How pleasant his great,

glowing fire looked to Rosamond, after her wanderings among the icy

mountains!

Alfred came to tea, and then she had to tell them while she had

been. She described the beautiful white marble town, at the mouth of

the river, and said she wished they could all go and live there. Her

mother's face lighted up as it did when the golden sunset shone upon

it, and she said, “Ah, Rosamond, my home was once there, and there I

long to be again.”

The father listened very thoughtfully. “Yes, it would be good to work

there, where all work together; we will go,” he said at last. Alfred

decided to leave the mill and go with them.

They were all ready before the new moon was full, and leaving the

village, with its slow stream and low pastures behind, reached the

clear river, after a few days' travel. They walked along its high

banks, among stately groves, until they came to the marble town. The

people were glad to receive them, and they at once felt that they were

among friends.

Rosamond went down to the sea shore with her mother, to whom the ocean

breeze gave a new life; but it was really the old life revived; for

when she was a child, she had lived beside the sea, and in her inland

home had pined for the sight of the great waves.

As they were returning to the town, they met the old priest, who said

he had come to offer them part of his house to live in, but that they

must not live idly there; they must look about them, and decide what

they would like to do.

The next morning Rosamond asked her mother and Alfred to go near the

shore with her. There she showed them a bed of fine clay, of which she

proposed to make vases. She and her mother sat down on the grass

together, and moulded them, just within sight of the waves gently

breaking upon the beach. The vases were so beautiful it seemed as if

they were modelled from the curves of the waves, and contained within

them the rippling sound of the sea upon the shore.

Alfred built up an oven in the father's forge, and baked the

vases. When all were finished, they presented them to their new

friends, who were greatly delighted, saying they had never seen such

beautiful ones.

Rosamond and her mother continued to mould, not only vases, but little

images, which were very much sought after by all the villagers.

Rosamond never knew that the violet flame once more burned upon her

forehead; but she knew that Alfred loved her, and long and happy was

their life, there, by the wide, sunny sea.

FLORIBEL.

One long, summer afternoon, old Zachary and his wife Betsy, having

finished their tea at four o'clock, and having nothing very

interesting to do, thought they would visit Hoppletyhop; the dwarf,

who had promised to grant three wishes to any one who would bring him

the three things he most desired in the world. Old Zachary took the

president's message, a pair of spectacles, and a pipe full of tobacco,

which he smoked by the way. The old woman carried a bowl of hot tea, a

looking glass, and her very best plaited cap. As they went out of the

door, they found their little grandchild, Floribel, reading on the

step, and called to her to follow them. So she ran along with Jack the

Giant-killer in one hand, and dragging with the other her tin wagon,

in which sat her favorite doll, Rosa, drawn by four high-stepping tin

horses.

As they passed through the village, their neighbors, who were sitting

in their porches, enjoying the cool breeze, and feeling much too

indolent to do any thing, called out to know whither they were going;

and when told they were on their way to visit the dwarf Hoppletyhop,

advised them to stay quietly at home, for he would be sure to do them

some mischief. Zachary was a little inclined to turn back, when he

heard this; but Betsy said, “Let us go on--I should like to see what

mischief he will do;” and Floribel begged them to go, because she

wished to see if a fairy dwarf was as large as her doll.

As they walked along, she asked them what they should wish. “I shall

wish to be young, and deacon of the church,” said her grandfather.

“And I, to have a whole chest of souchong tea, and to be young also,”

said the grandmother. “But I shall wish for a castle as high as the

sky, and a golden dress that will never wear out, and a stick of

barley candy six thousand miles long,” said the little girl.

After a long walk they found Hoppletyhop playing jackstraws with a

grasshopper, on a bank of violets. He received them very politely, and

asked each of them to take a stone among the violets. The grandfather

then offered his presents. The dwarf read two sentences in the

president's message, and said he could not stand that; it was too

stupid. He peeped through the spectacles, and said they gave every

thing a twist; and as for tobacco, he could not endure it.

The grandmother set the bowl of tea before him; but it was so hot it

burned his mouth, and he kicked it down hill, smashing the old lady's

best china bowl into a hundred pieces. He was angry when she presented

the looking glass, thinking she wished to make fun of him, because he

was so small. The plaited cap, he said, was not made for a man like

him to wear, and he tore it all to shreds.

Then, turning to Floribel, he said, “Well, my little girl, what pretty

book is that you have in your hand? Ah, the History of Jack the

Giant-killer. A splendid fellow was Jack! my great-grandfather. Just

the book I have always wished to read. Family archives, you know. And

what is this I behold? What, a splendid red chariot! and what a sweet

little doll within! How dumb and amiable she appears! She shall

certainly be my wife, and these four horses shall draw us all over the

world.” He sprang into the wagon, seating himself beside the erect

little doll, who immediately began to move her quiet eyes; the horses

shook their manes, and pranced about; and away drove Hoppletyhop,

calling out to Floribel as he disappeared, “Wish your three wishes,

and they shall be granted, whatever they may be.”

Then her old grandmother and grandfather implored her, with tears in

their eyes, to wish they might be young again. Floribel thought that

would be delightful, for then they could all go blackberrying

together; so she said in a commanding voice, “I wish my grandmother

and grandfather to be young again;” but she did not think to say how

young, and the next moment was surprised to see two little babies,

lying among the violets, kicking and crying with all their might. “O,

dear me!” she exclaimed. “The poor little things! How they do cry!

What shall I do with them? I do wish grandmother were here, to help

me take care of them!” and one little baby was immediately changed

back into her grandmother.

“How could you wish me to be old again, Floribel?” she

exclaimed. “Pray wish me to be just seventeen.” Then the grandfather

began to cry most clamorously, and Floribel knew he also wished to be

seventeen, instead of a little, helpless baby. She did not know what

to do, for with only one wish left, she could not both wish her

grandfather to be older, and her grandmother to be younger. While she

was standing in this perplexity, half stunned by the cries of her

grandfather, and the entreaties of her grandmother, she chanced to spy

a little dog running along, wagging its tail, and without thinking,

cried, “O dear, I wish I were a little dog, and then I should not have

to choose!” and in the twinkling of an eye, to her great dismay, she

became a little brown dog, jumping about.

You may imagine how the poor grandmother felt, when she returned home,

carrying her old Zachary, a little baby, in her arms, with a brown dog

running beside her, instead of her dear little grandchild, who had

always been the best child in the world. The villagers ran out of

their gates to meet her, and could not keep from laughing, to see

their grave neighbor Zachary a little crying baby; but they felt very

sorry about Floribel, for one and all loved the merry little girl. “O,

we told you how it would be,” they said. “We told you the dwarf would

do you some mischief.” But this did not comfort poor Betsy, who went

sorrowfully into her house, shut the door, and would have had a good

cry herself, if the baby had not been crying so hard that she had more

than she could do to take care of him. “I never saw such a cross

child,” she exclaimed. “When he was my old Zachary, he was very good

natured; but now he is little Zach, I can hardly stay in the house

with him.” She laid him on the bed, hoping he would fall asleep; but

he screamed as if he had never dreamt of such a thing as sleeping. The

little dog barked as if it fain would do something, and at last hopped

on to the bed, and softly patted the baby to sleep with one of its

fore paws, and then, wearied with the adventures of the day, fell

asleep itself, leaving the old lady to her lonely meditations.

The next morning the baby and dog awoke very early, as little dogs and

babies always do; so that the poor grandmother had to rise, when she

would gladly have slept four hours longer, to give them some

breakfast. Then she looked about for something to dress the baby

in. She opened the closet, and there hung old Zachary's best Sunday

coat. Sad as she felt, she could not help smiling to think how funny

he would look in it now. She took down a white dress of Floribel's,

and began to cut the sleeves and waist smaller, that it might fit the

baby. O, how troubled the little dog was, to see her cutting up the

pretty new dress, which was to have been worn by Floribel, on her

birthday, at a party her cousins were to give for her, at Elderbrook,

their pleasant farm, two miles from the village! And when the little

dog thought how, on the morrow, all the gay cousins would come for

Floribel, and would find only a brown dog, it laid its head on the

grandmother's feet, and whined so piteously that she began to weep,

and said, “We are having hard times, Floribel! yes, very hard times!”

and then the baby began to cry too, as if it understood all about it.

The dog wondered whether it would still be called Floribel; a pretty

name for a little girl, it thought, but not at all the name for a

dog. Then it remembered the time when it was Floribel, and had a

little dog named Frolic, and wondered if any one would love it as much

as Floribel did Frolic. Looking round the room it spied out the doll

house, with the dolls and pretty furniture in it, and thought it could

play with them just as before. But little paws are not so handy as

little hands, and the dog broke off the arm of a chair, smashed in a

doll's head, and made such a disturbance in the doll house, that the

grandmother said, “Come away, puppy; let Floribel's things remain just

as she left them.”

“Am I not Floribel?” thought the dog, and barked as much as to say so,

and looked up so dolefully in the grandmother's face, that she said,

“Poor little creature; you had better go out and have a run,” and

opened the door. The dog could not resist its active little legs, and

off it sped, until it came to the school house. The children saw a

little brown face with sparkling eyes peeping in, and one whispered to

another, “How much that looks like Floribel's Frolic; do you think he

has come back again?”

“Why, no,” said another; “do you not know it is Floribel herself,

changed by the dwarf into a dog?”

“O, dear! what a pity!” exclaimed the children, and some of them began

to cry; but others said it must be fine fun to be a little dog, and

run about all day, with no lessons to learn.

When the teacher saw the children could think of nothing but the dog,

she said it might come in a little while; so it jumped into the room,

and ran all round, from one child to another, receiving many a gentle

pat and kind word, and at length laid itself down under Floribel's

empty seat, looking about with such mournful eyes, that the children

said, “Poor fellow! I am sure it would rather be Floribel, and have

the hardest arithmetic lesson to learn, than be only a little

scampering dog. Would it not, doggy?” and the dog bobbed its head up

and down, as much as to say, “Yes, I am sure I should.”

After school the dog and children ran races together; but no child

could run so fast as the dog, with its four legs. It went frisking

home, and the grandmother called out, “Why, Frolic!” thinking, for a

moment, it was the dog they had before, and that Floribel would come

bounding in after it. From that time she always called it Frolic.

The next day the cousins arrived in their wagon, and stopping at the

gate, they saw a little dog in the yard, and called out, “There is

Frolic, returned. I wonder why Floribel does not come out. Has she

forgotten it is her birthday, and that we were to come and carry her

home to the party? And where is grandfather? Why is he not sitting in

his arm chair, in the doorway?”

Running up the path, they saw their grandmother at the window, dancing

a baby up and down. “Where did grandmother pick up that baby?” they

exclaimed, and rushed into the house. There they heard the strange

story, and truly astonished they were. “Can this be grandfather?”

cried Sarah. “This little cooing baby, my own grandfather, who always

said such wise things?”

“And can this little foolish dog be my cousin Floribel, who had such

long curls, and such a sweet smile!” exclaimed Robert. “What will

mother say?”

“Let us dress it up in Floribel's clothes, and mother will think it is

she, when we drive up, in the wagon,” said Sarah.

So they put a pink dress and white sun bonnet on the dog; the

grandmother tied a straw hat, that had belonged to the doll Rosa, on

the baby, who gave rather a wistful glance at old Zachary's black

beaver, on the nail, and away they drove.

The mother came to the door to welcome them, and thought she should

see Floribel's smiling face under the white bonnet; but O, there was

only a dog's sharp nose. “What prank are you playing, children?” she

said. “Where have you hidden Floribel?”

“Allow me to introduce grandfather and Floribel,” said Sarah, as she

and Robert took the baby and the dog from the wagon.

“What foolish children you are! Whose baby is this?”

The children assured their mother that the baby was their grandfather;

but it was not until the old lady, with many sighs and tears, had told

the tale, that she could believe it. The two women had rather a

melancholy day together, although they did enjoy taking care of the

baby, and were not quite sure that it was not as entertaining, with

its sprightly little ways, as the old gentleman had been with his

grand, moral remarks; and certainly its little shrill pipe was not

half so bad as the old tobacco pipe. Sarah said that although she

loved her grandfather, she could not help being pleased to have him a

baby again; he was so cunning and droll, and she did so like to toss

him about, and feed him, and make him laugh.

She carried him out in the hay, where the party of children were at

play, and great fun they had burying him up in the haycocks, while

Frolic frisked about as merry as any of them. At dinner time, when

they went to the table, under a wide-spreading oak tree, they found

two high chairs, one for Frolic and one for the baby; and there they

both sat, with wreaths on their heads, and behaved with the utmost

propriety, although Frolic was seen, after dinner, to slip down under

the table, and gnaw a bone, as Floribel would not have done, and the

baby cried for a cherry, as grandfathers never do.

Frolic had as pleasant a life as a dog could have. Every one in the

village was kind to the playful creature, who had once been a favorite

little girl, and the children always came flocking about the house,

out of school hours, to play with the dog and the baby. Sometimes some

curious child would ask them if they did not wish to be changed back

again; but the baby would always shake his little bald head, as much

as to say no; for he found himself growing larger and stronger, and

thought it pleasanter to be a healthy baby than an old gentleman with

the rheumatism. But Frolic's head would always bob up and down, as

much as to say yes; for it is surely better to be a little girl than a

dog. The children suggested various ways in which the change might be

effected. “Why not go to the dwarf and ask him to change her back

again?” said one. “Because the dwarf has gone to Chinese Tartary with

Floribel's tin horses,” answered another.

“They might ask the fairies to change them with their wands,” said

little Amy.

“Nonsense, with your fairies,” replied Tom, the blacksmith's son. “I

should like to know where fairies are to be found nowadays!”

But Frolic thought a fairy might possibly be found, and got into wild

habits of running about in the moonlight, and barking a great deal at

bats and night moths, fancying they were fairies; so that all the

neighborhood complained, and begged the grandmother to shut the dog up

evenings in the wood house; for though a pleasant animal by day, it

was altogether too noisy by night.

One day when Frolic was lying at the school house door, where it

learned a great deal listening to the recitations, the teacher read

aloud the story of Orpheus, who could tame wild animals with his lyre,

and then went on to say that she had heard of music by which animals

might be changed into persons. Frolic's white ears were pricked up,

and every word was treasured, and thought over, day after day. The

children wondered why the little dog did not play with them as usual;

they did not know how eagerly it was wandering about, listening to

every strain of music it could catch. The young ladies who played on

the piano could not imagine why that little dog was always under the

windows, and why it gave such a hopeful bark every time they began a

new Polka or Sehnsucht, and why it whined so sadly every time it was

over. When some soldiers marched through the village, they said the

dog had better enlist, he seemed so fond of the trumpet and drum.

When the hand organ players came and excruciated the villagers with a

wiry “Last Rose of Summer,” they laughed to see the excited creature

jumping about, and one of them would have carried it off for a dancing

dog, if the grandmother had not run screaming after him. The old black

man who played on the fiddle, for the villagers to dance in the town

hall, said he could not guess why Frolic had taken such a fancy to

Minerva's Quickstep. The congregation could scarcely refrain from

laughing to hear the dismal howl the dog would set up in the church

porch when the whole choir started off in “Old Hundred,” as if it were

“Catch who can;” and young Edgar, who played on the flute in summer

twilights, was quite gratified to find Frolic always lying at his

feet, with wistful eyes, and imagined himself a second Orpheus.

But one day, when he had played a most unheard-of melody, Frolic

thought that might possibly be the magical one, and annoyed the young

man so much, by jumping upon him, that he gave the poor creature a

kick, forgetting who it had formerly been. That was a cruel kick;

for, though to appearance but a brown dog, Frolic had the tender

feelings of a little girl, and, shrinking home, passed a most unhappy

night in a dark corner of the garret, thinking every one might be

unkind, now that its good friend, the flute player, had been so. And

in the morning, when the grandmother called, “Frolic, Frolic,” it came

very slowly down stairs, and did not once go out all day, but lay on

the rug, looking very much grieved.

Frolic never quite forgot that kick, and sometimes was even afraid to

go among the children, lest one of them might be angry, as the flute

player had been, and felt sadder than ever about being a dog. The

villagers said, “Why, what has come over our Frolic? It used to seem

as merry as a dog could be, scratching at our doors, and stealing our

bones; but now it goes moping about in solitary places, just like

young Edgar, with his long hair. Poor thing! It is certainly a sad

fate, for one who has once been a bright child, the best scholar in

school, winning a medal every week, to be only a barking dog.”

A year passed on, and the little dog was still seen about the village;

sometimes merry and frolicking with the children, but more often

walking alone in the fields, or watching over little Zach, who was now

old enough to play in the front yard; when one day, as it was taking a

walk on the shore of the river, it saw a little girl who had paddled

out in an old boat, which was fast filling with water. In her fright

the girl had dropped her paddle overboard, and had no means of getting

ashore. Frolic scampered off to a man who was walking at some

distance, but seeing it was Edgar, who had given him that sad kick,

for a moment scarcely ventured to approach him; then, thinking the

little girl would be drowned if it did not make haste, it ran to

Edgar, and jumped on him, pulling and barking. “Poor Frolic,” said

Edgar, “I treated you unkindly once, and now you forgive me.” But

Frolic pulled harder and harder, and ran towards the river, and then

back again to Edgar, so that at last he thought something was the

matter, and hastened to the shore. In a few minutes he had rowed out

in another boat, and reached the sinking one just in time to save his

own sister Lucy from drowning. O, how they both thanked Frolic when

they reached the shore! and Edgar said he would never, in all his

life, hurt a living thing again; it was bad enough to be a dog,

without being kicked for it.

From that time Lucy and Frolic became the greatest friends. Wherever

one was seen, the other was sure to be near. Those who passed her

house would see Lucy singing at her work, under the great elm tree,

and little Frolic lying close at her feet, looking up in her face. She

always took the dog with her when she went with Edgar to a neighboring

town, where he taught a singing school. One evening the scholars were

to give a concert, and Edgar said they had better not take Frolic,

lest he should bark; but Lucy answered, “O, let us take the poor

little thing; it loves music better than any thing. I sometimes think

it will sing itself, some day, instead of barking, and be one of your

best scholars;” and the dog looked so entreatingly at Edgar, that he

consented to take it.

As they drove along, Frolic peeped from the bottom of the chaise,

where it was curled up at Lucy's feet, and saw the crimson sunset. A

sudden thought came, that it would be the last sunset it would see

with a dog's eyes. When it scrambled up the stairs to the concert

room, it thought, “I shall never go pattering up stairs again on dog's

paws;” and when it entered the room, and saw the hundred little girls

in white dresses and blue sashes, it looked about very gravely, saying

to itself, “Soon I shall be a little girl in a white dress and blue

sash;” and yet it knew not how all this was to happen.

The concert began; chorus and solo, the sweet, clear strains arose in

the air, and at every one the dog pricked up its ears; but every

strain found and left it a little brown dog, lying on the step of the

platform, and it began to think that a dog it should always

remain. Just as it was in despair came a new piece, a solo, tender and

entreating, as if a spirit were seeking its way through the lonely

night air; and then a full chorus joined in, joyous and triumphant,

with the tender tone running through it. Frolic lay with its head

pressed close on its fore paws, thrilled through and through by the

music. When it was over, Lucy turned to look for her dog, and saw a

child, with rich brown curls, sitting on the step. “Have you any where

seen a little brown dog, with a coral necklace on?” she asked.

“I am the little dog,” answered the child. “And here is the coral

necklace you gave me, round my neck.”

“You look too good to steal my dog's necklace,” said Lucy.

“Do I look too good to be your little dog?”

“Nobody could be better than Frolic, who forgave my brother, and saved

my life, and is so gentle to every one.”

“Have you forgotten me, Lucy, in the two years I have been Frolic? Do

you not know your friend Floribel?”

Lucy threw her arms around her. “O Floribel, is it you? You have come

back again! How glad I am! And yet I feel sorry to lose little Frolic,

too. I wish you could be both Frolic and Floribel.”

Edgar was gladly surprised when a little girl came out with Lucy, to

ride home with them, instead of Frolic. “I owe it all to you,” she

said, “that I have become a little girl. It was your beautiful music.”

They had a lovely drive home in the moonlight, and Floribel staid with

Lucy all night. Her grandmother did not much mind whether a little

dog was at home or not. In the morning, instead of an eager paw

scratching at the door, she heard a little girl's happy morning voice,

saying, “Let me in, grandmother, please.” When she opened it, in

bounded Floribel, kissed her grandmother, and caught up little Zach,

dancing all about the room, in great delight.

“Pray, be still,” cried her grandmother, “and let me see you. Are you

really my own little Floribel, come back?”

“Yes, grandmother, yes, Zach. Frolic has gone, and Floribel has come.”

“'Ittle dog done, 'ittle dirl tome; me 'ove 'ittle dog, me 'ove 'ittle

dirl,” was Zach's grave remark.

The old lady said, “Yes, my child, it is you; what would your

grandfather say?”

Floribel laughed, and looked at Zach, but thought she would not remind

her grandmother that he was her grandfather. In the two years the old

lady had taken care of the baby and dog, she had almost forgotten they

were ever any thing else; and although she could never have her wish,

to be young again herself, she almost seemed to become so, living with

these two children, who were as happy as kittens together.

A grand festival was held in the village to welcome Floribel's return,

and the neighbors said, “We shall all miss little Frolic, but we are

right glad to have our happy, singing Floribel among us again; and we

hope she will never have any more wishes granted.”

“O, dear,” exclaimed Floribel, “I do not know about that. But one

thing I am sure of; I shall never wish to be a little brown dog

again.”

THE LADY INTELLETTA.

Little children in the wide world, I have no one here to whom I can

speak; so I must write to you, for it will be some consolation to

think that you may read my letters, and feel sorry to think that a

little child, like yourselves, can be living as I am.

I am writing with an opal pen, at a mother-of-pearl table; and you may

see what pretty violet paper I have, with a silver edge. The room is

of ivory, delicately carved, and chased with silver, and all around

are arches, in which stand fair statues. But there is no window,

except one in the ceiling, formed of a single pearl, through which the

softened sunlight falls. This room opens, by a silver door, into

another, in which sits a fair and stately lady, with hair like heavy

folds of gold, and eyes like the blue sky. Her features are carved

like those of a statue, and she is almost as pale and still. Her blue

silken robe falls richly around her, and a white flower lies, like

marble, upon her hair. She sits and gazes into the fire.

Now, this fire is one of the things I wish to tell you about. It is

the very brightest fire I ever saw; but there is no motion in it--no

flame, no smoke, no glowing coals, that take every moment new

forms. It is always still, still, and seems to be made of shining

metal. I wonder how the lady can sit and gaze into it as she does. And

then there is no warmth in it. No, it is not in the least like our

dear wood fire at home. O, how I long for that! For you must know

this house is not my home, and that I am now a poor little prisoner

here. And yet, how I once wished to come hither! I will tell you about

it.

My own home is a brown cottage by the shore of a great lake, over

which the sun brightly shines. Our garden stretches down to the very

waves of the lake, so that my violets are often sprinkled by their

light foam. In this garden I played and worked with my sister Mary. We

planted our seeds in the spring, and in summer watered and weeded

among the sunny flowers, while mother sat at the door and held the

baby, who laughed, and stretched out her little hands for the blossoms

we threw her. How I wish I could see that darling baby rolling down

the steps into the grass! But I am afraid she will be grown up before

I shall see her again. Why could I not have been contented with all

that happy life? But I had heard there was a great castle beyond the

lake, in which dwelt a beautiful lady, and I dreamed of that lady day

and night. When I went in the morning to bathe in the lake, and the

waves, all golden in the sunrise, broke softly over my feet, I fancied

they had brought me a message from her; and at evening I would lie

down among the tall grasses, and gaze over the sunset waters, longing

to follow the light to her castle door, whence I thought it shone.

The lake was so wide I could not see the other shore; but I knew that

the road which passed our house ran all around it, and I often walked

a long way upon it, hoping to reach the castle.

One day, when I had strayed far from home, a coach, all glittering in

its swiftness, came sweeping by. “O, take me in, take me in!” I

exclaimed; and in a moment I was sitting beside a lady richly arrayed,

and we were speeding on. The lady did not speak to me, but gazed out

of the window, so that I could only see the veil, that fell around her

like shimmering mist. Thus we drove on and on, and every thing passed

us so swiftly that I could see nothing distinctly. Indeed, I did not

look out much, but turned towards the lady, hoping to catch a glimpse

of her beautiful face.

At length we stopped before a strange, dark building, that seemed to

rise up into the very sky. “Can this be the castle I have so longed

for?” I thought in surprise. High steps led to the entrance, and on

each side stood a lion with a woman's head, carved in stone. The door

opened silently, and we entered into a marble hall, and went up broad

marble stairs.

The lady guided me into a room lighted from the ceiling, where I found

a small white bed and a marble bath. Nothing else. “Is this to be my

room?” I wondered. “I should think there might at least be a looking

glass: how shall I know whether my hair is smooth?” But I did not dare

to say this to the still lady. She then walked before me into another

room, and we seated ourselves at a marble table. “Every thing is

marble,” I said to myself, “even the lady.” Then an old man entered

with a white beard, that looked like icicles frozen upon a

rock. “Marble too,” I thought; but his eyes were very gentle. Not a

word was spoken; but white porcelain dishes stood before us, filled

with the most delicate food, and we ate in silence. Then the lady

arose, and I followed her into a lofty room. She seated herself, and

gazed into the fire, while I stood beside her, waiting for her to

speak; but she did not notice me. At length I asked, “Shall I not go

home now?” She did not glance at me, she did not speak. I looked

around the room. Mirrors, mirrors, every where; and in every mirror I

saw the lady, but started when I observed, that I nowhere saw myself

beside her. I went nearer to them. There were the lady and the fire,

reflected and re-reflected a thousand times; but poor little I was

nowhere to be seen. “Am I not, then, any where?” I exclaimed. “The

lady does not hear me! The mirrors do not hold me!” I clasped my hands

together to feel if there was any real life in them, but almost

thought there was not, they were so cold. I went into the marble hall.

Silent all; ah, how silent! I opened door after door. Silver and blue

were all the rooms; no crimson, no gold. Statues and columns were all

around; no paintings, no flowers. Was I not in a great cave full of

stalactites? Longing to tread once more the green earth, I ran down

the broad flight of stairs; but the entrance door was closed, and I

could not remember the word by which the lady had opened it. I went up

the stairs and sought the old man, but every room was empty. At length

I found a little wooden staircase, that led higher and higher, to a

narrow door. I knocked; no answer. I lifted the wooden latch; it did

not open. I sat on the threshold, for I liked that wooden

staircase. It was like the one that leads to my own little chamber at

home, where Mary and I slept so sweetly together. I fancied what Mary

was doing at that moment. It must be night, and they must be wondering

where I was. I would try to find a window, and perhaps I could climb

out. I looked into every room. They were all lighted by windows, high,

high in the ceiling, and I could not hope to reach them. I returned to

the lady's mirrored room. There she sat in her hundred mirrors, but

she saw me not. I went into my little room, and weeping, fell asleep,

to dream that my mother wept for me at home.

In the morning, on first awakening, I wondered where Mary was, for I

forgot where I was myself; but the faint light, that fell like early

dawn through the high window, brought all to my remembrance. A fresh,

white dress lay upon my bed; I put it on, and glided down stairs. The

lady still sat by the fire. “Had she not slept?” I wondered. “Had she

not dreamed of flowers and falling dews, of rosy faces, and of

mother's love, as I had?” She arose silently, and I followed her to

the room where we had taken our supper the evening before. The old man

entered. The lady bowed her head low. I bowed mine. The dishes

appeared upon the table, I knew not from whence, and we again ate in

silence. The fruits were fair to see, but seemed to have no flavor,

no juice. The only drink was water, in crystal vases. How I did want a

cup of good old Brindle's milk, foaming and warm, as we have it at

home.

All that long day I wandered up and down. Once I saw the old man, at

the end of a long corridor. I thought of his gentle eyes, and sprang

towards him; but he vanished, I could not tell how. I began to think

he was a phantom; that it was all a strange dream. If there had only

been a bird to sing, or a frog to hop about, or any thing living! But

the lady was so still she scarcely seemed to breathe, and the old man

came and went like a shadow. There was not even a breath of

wind. Finest lace curtains hung in the rooms, but they never

stirred. How much pleasanter was my little muslin curtain at home,

that fluttered so lightly in the summer breeze! And then my morning

glories, that peeped into my window; they were all in full bloom,

pink, purple, and white, and I was not there to see them.

At length I found my way into this ivory room. The statues here are

not as stern as in the rest of the house. Some are very lovely, and

there is even one of a mother holding a child, which makes me think of

my mother and our little baby. O, how many hours I have passed at the

feet of this statue, weeping as I never wept before!

I know not how many days I have been here, but it seems a very long

while. Did you ever wake in the night, when it was all still, and you

could see the faint starlight through the window? and did it not seem

as if you were awake a very, very long time, and as if a great many

thoughts came, which you never had before? and yet, perhaps, it is

only a little while. So it is with me. It may be only a few days since

I left home; but it seems to me as if the summer must have passed, as

if all the flowers were faded, and the leaves fallen from the trees;

and yet father may still be mowing his grass, and Mary playing in the

hay. Happy, happy Mary!

I would write to her and my mother, and tell them where I am, and

entreat them to come for me, but I know not how to send a

letter. There is certainly no post office here. I have no way to send

my letter to you; but I cannot speak to any one in this silent castle,

and it is a pleasure to write. If I direct it to all the children in

the world, perhaps one of them may some day come here and find it. I

shall not seal my letter, because there is no sealing wax here, and no

seal. I think the lady never writes letters to any one; but sometimes

she writes and throws her paper into the fire. There it shrivels up in

a moment, and the fire burns, or rather glitters, just as before. O,

that fire! It seems more like a keen frost than a fire, and I never

dare to approach it. I never look at it except in the mirrors.

In an old, dark cabinet, curiously carved, standing near the fire, are

a few books, some large and some very small. They are bound in black

leather, and clasped with jewels. I take them down, but cannot unclasp

them. Sometimes the old man comes in and reads aloud to the lady. Then

she turns her face from the fire, a little towards him. Ah, that is

pleasant. His voice is like the summer wind, and I sit beside him to

drink it in, but cannot understand his words. Yet they have a strange

power over me, and I often weep as I do by the mother's statue. He

sometimes looks mildly down upon me, and has even spoken to me; but I

did not understand what he wished to say.

One day, when he left the room, I followed him, very timidly, with

softest steps. He passed slowly through the great halls, and down a

dark staircase, which I had never before seen. Yet it was not

altogether dark; but the light was different from the clear, silvery

light that shines through the upper halls. I heard a heavy door open

and close, and all was hushed. I could not find the door, and after

groping a long while for it, I went back to the ivory room, and cried

myself to sleep, at the foot of my dear ivory statue.

But you must not think I am always unhappy here. How can I be, where

every thing is so beautiful? And another wondrous thing is, that the

rooms are always changing; not much, but a little, from day to day. I

have never seen any thing move except the silken lady and the

silver-haired old man; and these, with a motion that is not like life;

yet I can perceive that there is a change--just as, while you are

looking at the clouds, you can see that they have taken new forms and

tints, and yet cannot tell how it is. I sometimes think there must be

invisible spirits in the castle, there are such strange lights in the

rooms. Perhaps the statues are enchanted queens and princes, for

there seems to be a presence in each one. I wander from one to

another, and gaze, and gaze. O, how lovely they are! If they were only

alive, it would be almost too great a pleasure to live with such

beautiful people. I sometimes lay my hand upon them, to see if they

are not warm, but quickly draw it back again, they are so very

cold. No lips smile for me, no eye looks into mine, no hand is

stretched out towards me.

How I wish some of you, little children, were here! Any child! The

poorest beggar, in her rags, if she could but speak and move. If the

color would come into her cheeks, and the tears into her eyes, I would

throw my arms around her, and kiss her a hundred times. O, she would

not be made of marble. But good night now. It is very late, and only a

little light comes in through the pearl window. I have written a very

long letter for to-day. To-morrow I will write again, only I shall

have nothing to tell, for the days are all alike here. Good night.

* * * * *

Dear Children: I have something new to tell you. One morning, when the

lady arose from the breakfast table, she went down the broad

staircase, and I joyfully followed her. She spoke the magic word at

the door. It opened! We passed down the steps, between the two winged

lions, and stepped into the glittering carriage. Away it sped. I

could not see the driver, but only that there were four white horses.

On we flew, faster and faster. I gazed out of the window at the green

meadows, the woods, the streams; but we passed them so rapidly that

they were all mingled. I could just see that there was something

moving about near the houses, and at work in the fields--men and

women, I suppose; but they were as transparent as air, and I could see

every thing through them. Mere ghosts they seemed to be. Now I could

understand why the lady took so little notice of me. I, and all these

people, were like wreaths of mist to her. I turned towards her. She

was looking out with the same calm eyes. It was all unreal to her, but

she was very real to me, very beautiful. I wished she were not. I

wished she were not in the carriage; that it would stop; that I could

get out, and run, dancing and shouting, through the fields. I broke

the silence. I implored the lady to stop the carriage; to let me go

and find my home; to let me gather one buttercup, one blade of

grass. She drew her glimmering veil more closely around her; I believe

she thought the wind blew a little. On, on, we went! At length we

stopped, and I thought it was my mother's house. I looked out for the

little brown walls, the grass plot, the baby. I saw only the great

castle, frowning down upon me, and the lions with women's faces

looking at me with large, tranquil eyes. When we alighted from the

carriage I tried to escape, but the lady's power was upon me, and I

had to follow her up those stone steps. The door opened and closed. I

threw myself down by it; I pressed myself against it. I wept as if my

heart would break. I know not how long I lay there. All night,

perhaps. It may have been yesterday when I flew so fast through the

green fields. I know nothing about time here. I have come to write to

you again. It is night again. My paper is all wet with my tears. O, if

my mother were only here to kiss me to sleep!

* * * * *

Dear Children: To-day something pleasant has happened. I have found a

little room I never saw before, away off in the corner of a long

entry; and will you believe it? there are the remains of a wood fire

in it--real ashes, which I could blow about with my breath, only I do

not like to disturb them, and a piece of burnt brand. Some one must

have lived in this room, and perhaps not so very long ago. It is hung

with flowered chintz curtains, like those around my bed at home. It

made me so happy to see them, I kissed the flowers and the buds on

them; and yet it made me sad, too, I longed so for my own little

room. I lifted the curtains all around the walls, hoping to find a

window, and found a little one in a corner, but the shutters were

closed. I thought that it might overlook the lake and the hills, and

that perhaps some little girl had once sat there with the soft breeze

blowing upon her, and she had seen the dancing waves of the lake, and

far across it our little brown house, which I would rather see now

than the glancing waters I once loved so well. I pushed and pulled; I

looked for a spring, and ran over all kinds of strange words in hopes

to find one that would open it; but all in vain. There was no bar

across the shutter, and yet it was firmly closed. Then I looked around

the room. There was a small statue carved in wood of a boy, with an

extinguished torch in one hand, stretching out the other as if he were

groping in the darkness. There was another carving in wood of a child

lying asleep, and an angel bending over it binding a wreath of roses

on its head. I looked at this angel, with her softly-folded wings and

loving face, for a long while, and at the little sleeping child, and

thought, perhaps an angel is binding my head with roses while I sleep

in this marble house, for my life here all seems like a sleep and a

dream.

There was nothing else in the room except a wooden footstool and a

spinning wheel, the broken thread hanging upon it. On the walls was a

picture of a child with a halo around its head. It might not be a very

good painting, but the face was lovely, and seemed to say, “Come with

me.” There was a little straw mat beneath this picture, as if some one

had knelt before it; at least I did. Then I drew the footstool up, and

sat near the ashes, on the hearth. I tried to imagine I was sitting by

the fire at home, close to my mother's side, on my little footstool,

while Mary, and the baby, and father were frolicking together, as they

always do at night; but O, there was only the dead brand. And yet I

would rather sit and look into those ashes, and think what a pleasant

fire was once there, or might be, if rekindled, than gaze, as the lady

does, into that hard, glittering fire, which is always the same.

While I sat there, feeling very homesick and sad, I spied a little

cupboard by the side of the fireplace. I opened it rather

hesitatingly, for I did not know what might be there, and found--what

do you think?--a book! You cannot tell what a joy that was to me, you

who have whole shelves of books. But if you had been shut up for a

long while in a great castle where there was no person who would speak

to you, no book which you could read, not so much as a kitten or a fly

to play with, and nothing to do, day after day, but wander about and

admire curtains and statues, and a lady like a statue,--would you not

be glad to find a book you could read, even Mother Goose? At first I

hardly dared to open it, for I was afraid it might be in some unknown

language, and that would have been too great a disappointment; but at

length I peeped in, and there was a little hymn I used to sing with my

mother, and another and another. It was the very same hymn book I had

at home--one just like it I mean, only very worn and old, as if it had

been read a great many times. And I shall read it many, many times;

for although I once knew all the hymns in it by heart, I have

forgotten them now. But they will soon return to my memory. I sat on

the little stool singing them over to myself in a low voice, until it

seemed as if my mother were really singing them with me; and now I

shall go to bed and sing myself to sleep with one of them.

* * * * *

Dear Children: I have not written to you for several days, because I

have not needed to write, I have been so happy with my hymn book. And

besides, I have found in the cupboard some small, sharp tools, with

which the images in the little room must have been carved, and I am

carving a figure on the wooden stool. It is very pretty, I think. It

is our little baby feeding a robin. Perhaps you would not think it a

good likeness of baby, but I do, it is such a chubby little

thing. Only I cannot carve very well, I have had so little practice.

But I draw a great deal from the statues in the ivory room, and am

learning very fast. I sing to myself while I am at work; and when I

wander, singing, in the great halls, to rest myself, there comes a

strange echo through the lofty rooms. One day, when I was dancing

along, humming a little song I used to sing with Mary, I met the old

man, and he laid his hand upon my head. It seemed for a moment as if

it must be my own father, and I almost threw my arms around him, but

was afraid of the long, silvery beard; and yet it does not look like

icicles now, but is soft and flowing. It made me think of a picture

father has of a wise old man named Eli, and I shall always call him

Eli now, for I like that people should have names. I think the lady's

name must be Intelletta, because I saw it written in a book that was

unclasped, one day. It is a pretty name--do you not think so? But I do

not like it half so well as Mary.

One day I saw a strange sight. I was sitting on the lower step of the

wooden staircase that leads to the narrow turret door, when the lady

passed me by, without noticing me, however. She carried a dazzling

sword erect in her hand, so that the point gleamed above her head. It

was very splendid, to see her thus mounting the stairs. She stood

before the door, but it would not open, although the sword flashed as

if it would flash its way through. She waited very long, and then came

slowly down, with her lips pressed together. I thought she gave one

little glance at me. I arose and followed her, for whenever I see her

move I always follow her. She seated herself by the fire, but did not

look into it. The sword fell from her hand, and she leaned her head

against one of the jewel-clasped books. The old man soon entered,

unclasped the book, and read to her. She rose from her chair, and sat

on a cushion at his feet--a little cushion near mine; and yet she did

not see me.

I will draw you a picture of the lady ascending the stairs with the

shining sword, and yet I can hardly venture to do so. It will not look

like her, for I cannot draw the glittering light in her face, and that

marble flower in her hair; that is too handsome for me to draw. But

there is no fragrance in it, and I would rather have the smallest

violet that blooms in my own dear garden. Good night.

* * * * *

Dear Children: I have not written to you for a long time, and you will

be glad to know the reason why I have not. I was drawing one day with

my pretty opal pen, when I heard a fluttering sound above my head, and

there was a rosy bird flying about and singing. O, I knew that song so

well! I often heard it at home when I was lying half asleep and half

awake in the morning, and when I was quite awake I had often looked

through all the garden, in every vine and tree, but had never found

the bird; and now it had come to sing to me again. It alighted on the

table. I did not touch it, but sat with my hands folded, looking and

listening; and I listened even after it had flown away, and all was

silent again. It flew away through the pearl window in the ceiling,

which was open, and has remained so ever since; and now I can look up

into the blue sky and see clouds drifting by, and the sun shining

in. It shines directly upon me and makes me so happy.

After the rosy bird had gone, I missed my drawing of the lady with the

sword, and I think he must have carried it away. Perhaps he will fly

with it to mother, and she will wonder what it is. She will not know

that I drew it, for I never drew before. If she should know it was my

drawing, she would send me a little note by the rosy bird.

* * * * *

Evening. Yes, the bird came again to-day, and brought me a blue

forget-me-not. I know it very well; it came from Mary's garden. You

would have thought some great misfortune had befallen me, if you had

seen how I wept over that little flower; but it was only because it

made me too happy. I did so long to fly away with the bird. All I

could do was to write a little note, and tie it under his wing, hoping

mother would find it. So I wrote,--

“Dearest Mother: I am your own little Anna. I am in the castle of the

Lady Intelletta. I wish you could see how beautiful it is here. I

will come home as soon as I can possibly get out. Cannot you come for

me, mother?”

* * * * *

Dear Children: The next day the bird brought me a note. It was written

on a bit of paper torn out of a book; but I did not care for that. It

said,--

“Anna dear: Why have you gone away from us? Mother is so ill weeping

for you, that she cannot come for you. You must come to us. Your own

sister, Mary.”

Then there was one word added, in a trembling hand--“Mother.” I knew

who had written that.

I took the note and went to the lady. I threw myself sobbing at her

feet. I entreated her, if she had any pity, to let me go home. I

clasped my arms around her silken robe. She did not draw it away; she

did not know I was there. The rosy bird flew into the room and

sang. She heard him. She rose and followed him. He flew out of my open

window. The lady gazed up as if she had never seen the drifting clouds

before. I fell once more at her feet. She looked at me a moment,

passed her hand over my forehead, as if striving to recollect

something, but resumed her seat in silence. It was a long while before

I could control myself; but at last I sat down and wrote a note to

mother, begging her to be well, and to come for me, and promising

never to leave her again. I sent it by the bird, and he brought me an

answer, to tell me that mother was better, and they were all coming

for me the next day.

I searched all over the castle for the gentle Eli, for I thought he

would let me out. I went up the wooden stairs, and down the dark

stairs, and through every corridor, but he was nowhere to be found. I

thought they were all standing outside the great door, but tried in

vain to open it. O, how wearied and bruised I was, with throwing

myself against it! At night the bird came with a note which told me

they had all come for me, and had gone away; that they could not

believe I was in the dark castle, for I had said I was in a beautiful

place, and they should wait now until I came for them. And I also must

wait, and be as patient as I can. I am happier than I was before,

because the rosy bird comes every day, and brings me either a note

from home, or a flower, or a leaf. The soft air comes in through my

window, and the sunshine, and I know they all love me at home, and

have not forgotten me. So I go on drawing, that I may have copies of

all these statues to hang on our walls, and I have almost finished

carving the footstool. How pleased baby will be when she sees it!

Ah, when will that be! darling little baby!

* * * * *

Dear Children: Happiest of the happy am I! Now let me tell you. I was

just finishing off my footstool, and thinking whether the baby's hair

was quite curly enough, when the door gently opened and the old man

entered. How he had found my little room I could not imagine. He

looked at the footstool, then taking it in one hand and leading me by

the other, went through the long corridors to the lady's room. He

opened one of the great books, and there was a picture of a baby

playing with a robin-red-breast, just like my carving. The lady

looked from the carving to the picture, from the picture to the

carving, and at last seated herself upon my little wooden footstool,

with her rich dress sweeping the floor on either side, and held out

her hand to me. I put mine into it,--it was not so very cold,--and she

sat looking into my face for some long minutes. I looked into her

eyes, and they made me think of the evenings when I used to lie on the

frozen snow, and gaze up at the bright winter stars, shining through

the bare branches of the elm tree. At length she said to me, “How did

you come to this castle?” I could not but smile at the question, and

answered, “I came in a carriage with you, but you did not see me,

perhaps; I was hidden by your glimmering veil.”

“Ah, that veil! I will never wear it again,” she said; and then I had

to tell her about my mother and the baby, the flowers and the bees,

and all we did at home. And now that she would hear me, I told her how

I longed to be there once again, and entreated her to let me go. “Yes,

we will go,” she said, and led me to the door, which flew open.

For a moment I so feared to see that splendid, never-stopping

carriage, ready to receive us, that I did not venture to look out; but

when I took a peep, and saw it was not there, I sprang upon the

sphinx, ran along its back, and gave a great jump from its head, quite

across the gravel walk, into the grass beyond, and rolled down to the

bottom of the bank. I scrambled up again, my white dress stained with

the grass, and saw the stately lady smiling at me. I ran off to gather

handfuls of dandelions and buttercups, and then away I went to the

lake, to let the little waves break over my feet. O, how delightful

that was! I heard the lady singing a low cadence like that of the

waves, and saw how beautiful she was in the sunlight, so much more

lovely than when she sat by that spell-bound fire. How glad mother

will be to have me bring this queenly lady home! I thought, and walked

along with my hand in hers. But when we came to our garden wall, over

I sprang, and fell down into my violet bed. O, how sweet my violets

were! I felt as if I could lie there forever among them, but

remembered the lady, and gathering two violets, gave her one, and put

the other into my bosom. “But you will crush it, child,” she said.

“O, yes, I love it so!” I answered, and was bounding through the

garden, when I suddenly thought it would not be very polite to let the

lady find her way alone; so I gave her my hand, and led her to the

house. There sat my mother, with the baby asleep in the cradle beside

her. What happened then I do not know; but I found myself sitting in

my mother's lap, with my head on her shoulder, and could hear, as if

in a dream, a murmuring sound of the wind in the locust tree, the

bees, the brook, the lady's clear tones, and sweetest of all, my

mother's low voice answering her. Father and Mary also were sitting on

the step, and baby lay sleeping in the cradle, with her dear little

face looking just as it did when I went away. Soon we all went in to

tea. How the urn smoked, and how good the baked apples tasted! I

could not help smiling to see the lady eat bunns, for I thought of her

handsome frosted cakes that never had any raisins in them. After tea I

undressed the baby; she really seemed to remember me, and we had a

grand frolic together. Then I was so happy at night, when Mary and I

fell asleep with the moon shining in through the vine leaves twining

around our little window! I believe the rosy bird sang in the

jessamine all the night long; at least I dreamed that he did.

This morning I have been all over the farm, calling upon the cows, the

sheep, and the chickens. Old Nabby, my brown hen, has ten little

chickens, and I have come home just in time to take care of them. I

left her sitting on her nest. Will you believe it? father has not

quite got through his haying yet. They say I have not been gone such a

very long time, but it seems a year and a day to me, and mother says

it seems even longer to her; for until the bird brought the note, she

did not know what had become of me, and was afraid I was drowned in

the lake.

The lady has invited us all to go to the castle to-morrow, and father

says he will row us across the lake. Will not that be delightful? I

have always so longed to sail on the lake! I cannot say that I care

much to see the castle again, but I shall like to show mother and Mary

all the beautiful statues, and to bring home my drawings and baby's

footstool. Good by now; there is mother calling me to dinner. While

she went out to call father I just stole a little time to write to

you, here in my room, at my little rosewood desk. It is not so pretty

as the mother-of-pearl table, but I like it better. It was my last

birthday present.

Dear Children: I believe there was never before such a sunny day as

yesterday. Early in the morning we sailed off in the boat, with the

water splashing and dancing around us, baby and all so happy. We were

three hours sailing across the lake. I did not know that it was so

wide. We landed on the slope before the castle; the great doors were

thrown open, and in the dark archway stood the old man, looking like a

picture, with his long, white beard, and flowing hair. He welcomed

mother to the castle; then the lady bowed her stately head, and we all

entered.

The old man took my mother by the hand, and led her down the

mysterious stairs. I think they must have entered the heavily-closing

door, which I could not find when I had once groped about there; for

when she returned she wore upon her breast a jewel that glowed like

living fire. Then he led her up the wooden stairs, bearing her baby in

her arms. She lifted the little latch, and entered the turret door,

while the lady and I waited below. When she came out of the door it

seemed as if the sun were descending upon us, such a radiant light was

in her face. She gave her hand to the lady Intelletta, then stooped

and kissed me upon the forehead with a kiss that was like a burning

star.

As my mother and the lady left the stairs, a statue of a young girl

started into life. Her marble flowers became fragrant and blooming,

as she knelt to offer her upraised basket. My mother took a rose, and

presented it to the lady, who placed a fair white lily in her

hand. Then side by side they moved along. And now a lovely statue of a

winged boy flew forth from its niche, and struck upon its lyre. The

whole castle awoke into life. The statues of grave men, with a scroll

in one hand and their heavy robes draped in the other, descended from

their pedestals. Young princes clustered around us, with graceful

garments and waving hair, their swords bound to their sides, and their

eyes full of light. A golden-haired princess looked upon me with the

loveliest smile, and told me I must always be her sister. In one room,

a queen, who had long been pale marble, arose from her throne in

gorgeous robes, and joined in our procession. A lady with a wide brow

and jewelled hair, rode towards us in a car drawn by lions. I

remembered what a funny picture I had one day made of those lions,

when they had not the power of motion, and was almost afraid they

would eat me up, by way of revenge. But they were very forgiving. A

young warrior, whom I had always greatly admired, because he appeared

to have so much life in him, even when he was but a statue, now rode

gently towards us, bowing low before my mother. But I knew by the

fire in his eyes, and the restrained prance of his spirited horse,

that he would some time perform brave deeds. When we entered my

silver room, the beautiful ivory mother bent and kissed her child, who

leaped with joy into life. A little girl, on a gazelle, bounded from a

corner. A boy, on an eagle, soared high into the sunshine through the

open window, then came circling down, and led the eagle near us.

Lovely girls scattered flowers, their light dresses fluttering around

them as they tripped along. They smiled upon me as if they knew me;

and well they might, for when they were nothing but carved ivory I had

sat before them day after day, with my opal pen and lilac paper,

trying to draw them. Then, too, they had seen my tears when I so

longed for home. How different it was from that silent time, to have

my own dear mother beside me, and all the beautiful, cold statues

awakened into life!

We all dined at the same marble table, served by the same invisible

hands; but the fruits were juicy as well as fair to see, and the water

had become fragrant wine, and there was no silence now, but

conversation like the most enchanting fairy tales. After dinner we

went to the lady's mirrored room. The fire was not still, and

coldly brilliant, but burned with a motion like that of a

fountain--self-contained. And yet I like better our wood fire at home.

It is so pleasant to put on fresh sticks, and rake open the coals! But it

was splendid to see it burning in a hundred mirrors, where all the gay

and stately figures were reflected like sparkling light, as they

danced around the room in swift circles. Yes, and the lady also

danced. My rosy bird sat on the old cabinet and sang his sweetest

song, and above all, in the height of the lofty room floated the angel

who was crowning the child with roses, and by her side was the happy

child.

It was early dawn when we sailed home across the lake. I lay in the

bottom of the boat, with my head upon my mother's lap--not asleep, I

believe--but listening to the water rippling against the boat, and

faintly recalling the beautiful figures I had been seeing all day, I

knew them all so well. But how different from the marble statues were

the eyes beaming with life, the lips that spoke, and the glowing

motions of living forms. O, yes, we shall often accept the lady

Intelletta's invitation to visit her lordly castle.

I brought away my drawings, and have been pinning them on the walls

this morning. Mother says they are very ornamental to the rooms, but

I shall soon draw better ones. The baby creeps along the floor to her

little footstool, and points to the robin-red-breast, then looks at me

and laughs.

Mary and I are so tired to-night that we are going to have some bowls

of bread and milk on the door step, and go to bed when baby does--at

seven o'clock. Will not that be pleasant?

To-morrow I shall go to the village post office to put in this

letter. I shall not write you any more now that I have mother and Mary

to talk with; and I should not have written to you at all after I left

the silent castle,--now no longer silent,--only I thought you might be

interested to hear about my return home. I shall enclose all I have

written in one large envelope, sealed with a winged head; and I think

it will reach some of you, for I shall direct it “To all the Children

in the wide World,”--care of the South Wind.

VENUS'S DOVE.

In old heathen times, on the shore of the Adriatic lived a little girl

whose greatest pleasure was to wander by the side of the lonely

sea. She liked better to sit on a high rock with the spray just

tossing against her feet, than to play with her village companions,

who laughed at her for her wild ways, and asked her if she were the

child of Neptune, and if she dwelt in a shell palace under the water;

although they knew very well that old Menos, the fisherman, was her

father, and that she lived in a little hut, just above the line of

seaweed which the highest tides leave upon the beach.

One day Ida roamed far along the beach, amusing herself making deep

footprints in the sand, which the rising tide quickly filled, when at

last she came upon a high wall of rock, too steep to climb, yet

looking as if a pleasant bay might be beyond. She scrambled along the

rock, slippery with seaweed, until she could peep round into a great

cave, before which was a little beach of smooth, white sand, with

dark, frowning rocks all around, except where the sea broke gently in

upon it. In the darkness of the cave an old woman leaned over a

book. Its brilliant cover attracted Ida, who, half in fear, stole

nearer and nearer, treading so softly in the sand that her foot-steps

could not be heard, and at last seated herself in the shadow by the

old woman, and listened to the wonderful stories which she read, in a

low, murmuring voice.

“High upon Olympus, on his golden throne, the blue sky shines above

him, and around stand the immortals;” and then, mingled with the sound

of the waves, came songs from Apollo's lyre, and descriptions of

Bacchus, drawn by his soft-footed leopards, of Venus and her snowy

doves, of fauns and nymphs, and wondrous people, of whom Ida had never

before heard. She listened until the sun set and night darkened upon

the waters, then slowly retraced her way home, thinking every cloud

that floated above her might be a messenger from Olympus, and that

every fleck of foam was perhaps the little white hand of a nereid,

sporting amid the waves.

In vain came her cousin Larra, the next morning, to ask her to go in

quest of crabs and sea-urchins with the other children. Ida went off

alone on another quest. The old woman sat in the cave with the morning

sun glancing upon her silver hair, and upon a most beautiful picture,

to which she had just turned. Now, Ida was an affectionate child. She

loved her father, although she but seldom saw him, as he was out upon

the sea for weeks at a time; and she loved her aunt Lydian, and her

cousins, and all who were kind to her; yet she could not but see that

Apollo, with his golden lyre and flashing eyes, had something more

glorious in him than she had ever seen in her father, even on that day

when he came smiling home, bringing the largest fish he had ever

caught; and Minerva's helmet was certainly more splendid than the

piece of cloth aunt Lydian wore on her head; and cupids, with

fluttering wings, were much prettier than her little brown-armed

cousins without any. So she forgot all her old friends, and day and

night her dreams were full of lofty forms with golden hair and faces

like the noonday sun.

And being an affectionate child, she liked to do something for those

she loved; and she began to fancy what she could do for these unknown

immortals of whom she dreamed. The old woman had retreated into the

depth of the cave, whither Ida did not venture to follow her; and she

would sit just within it, gazing through its dark arch upon the wide

waters, and wondering if the bright sunbeams which pierced through the

clouds, and slanted far down upon the distant sea, were not stairs by

which she might ascend to Olympus. Then she would think of the boat

her father made for her of the ivory tusks he once brought from a

far-off land; of the pile of shells she had herself collected, all

very valuable to her, but she doubted a little whether they would be

much valued upon Olympus, and she could not go thither without some

offering worthy of the immortals.

One day she found upon the shore a shell curved like a beautiful

vase. “Ah, this is just the thing!” she exclaimed. “I will fill it

with honey; there is nothing so delicious as honey; even the immortals

must like that!” And away she went, deep into a wooded dell, where the

stores of the wild bee were hidden.

How she found her way to Olympus is known only to herself. I believe

she first climbed some rocks, then a cloud, then sprang over a rainbow

bridge, and at last scaled a long sunbeam, which led her straight to

the marble steps of Jupiter's high throne.

How joyfully she mounted! sometimes looking up to marvel at the height

of the steps, which seemed to ascend into the very sky, sometimes

looking down at her little shell of honey, thinking how brightly it

shone, like pure gold, and how pleased Jupiter would be with it. At

last she stood upon the summit of Olympus, and with timid step walked

through the circle of gazing immortals, until she came before the

throne of Jupiter. There she knelt to lift the shell vase and honey

nectar to his sceptered hand, but trembled so much that she spilt the

honey on his jewelled footstool. It seemed as if she beheld at once

every face in that grand assembly. Jupiter apparently did not notice

her; but Juno fixed her haughty gaze upon her, Apollo shot a glance of

scorn, Minerva frowned, Venus turned away her head, Bacchus looked

annoyed, Mercury smiled, and poor little Ida, covering her face with

her apron, fled through the Golden Hall, and down the marble steps.

On the very lowest one she sat down with her feet in a cloud, and wept

most bitterly. Soon she heard a fluttering in the air, and Iris

glanced by and vanished in the cloud. Presently she returned, bringing

with her a little girl whom Ida had often seen frolicking among the

other children, a sunny-haired, rosy-cheeked child, named Hebe, the

veriest romp in the village. Ida had always thought her a foolish

little thing, because she was always playing about like a kitten, and

never came to the sea shore to listen to the winds, and see the great

waves roll in; and now here she was, ascending the marble stairs, with

her white feet, and rosy smile, and rainbow colors, from the wings of

Iris, glittering all around her. Ida knew by the crystal vase she

bore, that Hebe was to serve the immortals, and she longed to peep in

and see how they would receive her; but she feared the haughty gaze of

Juno, and the scornful glance of Apollo; so, burying her face in her

hands, she remained weeping on the step. After a long while she heard

a light motion beside her, and looking up, saw the beautiful eyes of

Psyche, looking gently down upon her.

“Ah, little girl,” she said, “you were sadly awkward. I pitied you

very much, for I know what it is for a mortal to stand among the

immortals; I never could have been here if I had not been brought by

Love.”

“But I also loved them,” sobbed Ida. Psyche smiled a little. “Yes, my

child, you were dazzled by their beauty, and thought you could fly up

hither on the first morning breeze. But know--the gods are not easily

approached; weary were the works I had to perform before I could be

admitted, although led by Cupid. And know also, that all who enter

must come with fair foreheads and serene eyes. You are a wee thing,

with sad, shy eyes; and then those dusty feet of yours--Jupiter would

never like to have those treading upon his golden floors. It is

useless to sit weeping here. Minerva will order you off if she finds

you. She has the care of the steps. You had better go back to your

village and learn to spin with your mother.”

“But I have no mother,” cried Ida, “and my father is always out

fishing. If I go among the children they will only laugh at me,

because I told them such grand stories about the immortals, and left

their plays to wander alone on the shore; and how can I go back to

seaweed and rocks again, after having had a glimpse of this golden

Olympus? O, I wish I were only a little brown leaf!” and she wept

more and more, as if her very heart would break.

Psyche looked thoughtfully at her a while, and then said, “Would you

like to be one of the Doves of Venus?”

“O, yes!” exclaimed Ida, her eyes brightening.

“But remember you will have to obey her every fancy, and fly far and

wide; and her jewelled car is not light, nor does she drive with

gentle rein.”

But Ida, with clasped hands, entreated that she might become one of

Venus's Doves; so Psyche kissed her tearful face, and she was changed

into a dove with soft, bright eyes, dainty red feet, and a breast

white as the sea foam. She flew into the circle of immortals, and none

recognized in her the little stumbling girl, except Mercury, who

merely smiled to himself, and was too good natured to reveal the

secret.

Venus was much pleased to see a new, shining dove fluttering at her

feet, and immediately harnessed it to her car, with delicate hands,

and flew far over land and sea. Whether the little dove Ida found

Venus and her winged car a weary burden to draw, I cannot tell you;

but some time you may yourself become one of Venus's doves, and then

you will know all about it.

THE GALA DAY.

PERSONS.

MRS. LANDOR.

EDITH, her daughter, }

FANNY, Edith's cousin. } Dressed as Fairies.

EDWARD, Mrs. Landor's son.

ELINOR, a gypsy woman.

JULIA. Fantastically dressed.

LISA. In an old brown dress.

CATHARINE HALL.

SARAH MUNN.

Constable and men.

Many children, dressed as fairies.

SCENE 1. _A Garden; Children dressed as Fairies, playing about. They

join hands in a dance._

SONG.

Sing the round;

Chide no bound;

Frisk it free with merry feet;

Harebells blue,

Violets true,

Lend your odors; breathe them sweet.

Bring the breeze,

Tallest trees;

Seize our songs and bear them round.

Circle on;

Anon, anon,

Dance we well on fairy ground.

Waters bright,

Gleaming light,

Where's the elf of Eldon Low?

Sit with me

Upon the tree;

Sing our songs on the topmost bough.

Wait a pace;

With a grace

Comes our queen--a gentle sprite;

Fireflies glow;

Whisper low;

She's the star that flits with night.

_Enter EDITH as Queen, and other fairies; also JULIA._

EDITH.

Our wings are very weary. We've been flying

From tree to tree, with stillest motions spying

Into frail nests; and every dreaming bird

Popped up his head, when he our whispers heard.

They told us all their secrets--many a one

That is not warbled to the full-rayed sun.

But dance away; we will go rest a while,

While you with sports and songs the time beguile.

JULIA.

O, whip-poor-will, dost thou hear that tone?

Come, lightsome queen, thou'rt mine own, mine own.

EDITH.

Art thou the elf that in the hollow tree

Hoots with the owl, and mocks the night with glee?

JULIA.

In the halo of a star

Bathe thy brow, and gaze afar;

Stately walk, with dainty mien;

Fold thy robes, my fairy queen;

Thou art mine, and I am thine;

Ope thine eyes and bid them shine.

EDITH.

Go hence, dull raven; when I bid thee croak,

'Twill be when frogs sing ditties on an oak;

When hopping toads like winged skylarks fly;

When limping elves are lovely to mine eye.

JULIA.

'Twill be when the morning's freshness breathes,

And the clustering ivy thy hair inwreathes;

When thy voice shall be soft as the day's last sigh.

And hope like a shadow shall over thee lie;

Thou wilt call on my name; and from far o'er the sea,

Fierce thunders and lightnings shall mutter of me.

EDITH.

Thou art a gypsy girl--I know thee well;

Forget the queen, and Edith's fortunes tell.

JULIA.

Sorrow is o'er thee, though 'tis not thine own;

Lonely thou art, though never alone;

The sunshine is bright; but the sunshine is dark,

The sea shall betray thee; yet hide not thy bark.

EDITH.

Sorrow is o'er me! Not on these summer days,

When nature gives consent to all our plays.

The happy birds attune their songs to ours,

And rainbow hues encircle frolic showers;

Our saddest tears are wept without dismay;

Soft shining sunsets cheer the cloudiest day.

JULIA.

Hold thy joys lightly. Beware, O, beware!

Vapors rise from the earth, and mists darken the air.

EDITH.

Tell me thy name, and wherefore art thou here?

JULIA.

I am the Queen of Sorrow; to my court,

'Mid clouds and storms, both old and young resort.

The golden stream of life, on which you glide,

Through my grim caves must roll its head-long tide.

EDITH.

How wildly gleams the light within thine eye!

And thy dark hair hangs o'er thee mournfully.

O, come with me and join our gladsome dance!

If thou hast griefs, we'll lull them in a trance.

We weave our melodies from spring's soft air;

Sure such sweet sounds will banish all thy care.

Do not go forth to wander on the waste,

For there, they say, pale sorrows dimly haste.

JULIA _sings_.

Sweet grief, I have loved thee so long,

I cannot leave thee now;

They woo me with music and song;

Here at thy feet I bow.

They move in their festal robes,

And thine are worn and gray;

Let me hide 'mid their heavy folds,

Let me turn from their joy away.

Thine eyes threw their shadow o'er me;

I caught their glance so wild;

I stood on thy earthen floor;

Thou welcomed the young, timid child.

FIRST FAIRY.

See, pretty queen, I have brought thee a flower,

A little white snowdrop; 'twill droop in an hour:

I drove out the bee that hummed in its cell;

O, take it, for Caronec loveth thee well.

SECOND FAIRY.

Pray look at my marvels, wrought of pure gold;

Bright are the sunbeams they gayly enfold;

The elves call them king-cups, but, queen, they are thine;

I've filled them with dewdrops instead of red wine.

EDITH.

I thank you both, my merry little fays;

Now spread your wings, and speed along your ways;

And I will go where cooler shades press down,

For I am weary, though I wear a crown.