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THE EMERALD STORY BOOK
[Illustration: THE SPRING
Drawn by Maxfield Parrish]
THE EMERALD
STORY BOOK
_Stories and Legends of
Spring, Nature and Easter_
COMPILED BY
ADA M. SKINNER
AND
ELEANOR L. SKINNER
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
1915
Copyright, 1915
BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY
INTRODUCTION
There is no richer theme for children’s stories than the miracle of
Spring. The selections in “The Emerald Story Book” aim to serve the
young reader’s interest in three ways. Some of the myths and legends are
interesting or amusing because flowers, insects, or birds are presented
as personalities and emphasise human qualities or feelings. Some of
the stories and poems contribute to the child’s store of knowledge by
attracting his attention to some fact, beauty, or blessing in nature
which may have escaped his notice. Still others make an appeal by
suggesting or affirming the abiding hope symbolised in the thought, “See
the land her Easter keeping.”
The child’s heart is filled with the joy of spring,—with the rapture
expressed in the thrush’s song which Mrs. Ewing describes. “Fresh water
and green woods, ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering
brooks and rustling leaves, glade and sward and dell. Lichens and cool
mosses, feathered ferns and flowers. Green leaves! Green leaves! Joy!
Joy!”
* * * * *
The editors’ thanks are due to Mrs. Katherine Tynan-Hinckson for
permission to use her poem, “Sheep and Lambs”; Miss Lucy Wheelock for her
story, “A Little Acorn”; to Mr. Bliss Carman for “A Lyric of Joy”; Mr.
Clinton Scollard for “The Little Brown Wren”; Mr. James Whitcomb Riley
for the quotation from “Mister Hop-Toad”; Mrs. Agnes McClelland Daulton
and Rand, McNally & Co., for two stories, “A Great Family” and “Jolly
Little Tars”; Mr. Warren J. Brier for “Mr. Pine and Mr. Maple”; Mrs.
Margaret Deland for her poem, “Jonquils”; Miss Helen Keller for “Edith
and the Bees”; Mrs. Annie Trumbull Slosson for “A Child’s Easter”; and
Mr. Alfred Noyes for his poem “Little Boy Blue”; and to the following
publishers who have granted permission to reprint selections in this
collection from works bearing their copyright: to G. P. Putnam’s Sons
for “The Selfish Giant,” by Oscar Wilde; to Houghton Mifflin Co.,
for the poem, “Talking in Their Sleep,” by Edith M. Thomas; to the
_Atlantic Monthly_ and Silver Burdette Company for “The Maple Seed”;
to A. Flanagan and Co., of Chicago, for “The Promised Plant,” from
“Child’s Christ-Tales,” by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot, and “Pussy Willow,”
from “Little People’s Doings and Misdoings” by Kate Louise Brown; to
Doubleday, Page & Co., for “The House Wren,” from “Birds Every Child
Should Know,” by Neltje Blanchan, and “Briar Rose” from “The Fairy Ring,”
edited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith; to Grace Duffield
Godwin for “An Eastern Legend,” from Houjon Songs, published by Sherman,
French & Co.; to Henry Holt & Co., for the selection, “Buz and Hum,” by
Maurice Noël; _The Churchman_ for “In the Garden: An Easter Prelude”;
Fleming H. Revell Co., for “When Thou Comest Unto Thy Kingdom”; to
_The Sunday School Times_ for the “Story of Blue-Wings” and “The Wind,
a Helper”; to _The Youth’s Companion_ and Miss Helen Keller for the
selection, “The Spirit of Easter”; to Messrs. Dodd, Mead and Co., and Mr.
Paul R. Reynolds, for the selection from “The Children’s Bluebird,” by
Maurice Maeterlinck.
CONTENTS
PAGE
SPRING STORIES AND LEGENDS
APRIL 2
_Robert Browning_
THE SPRING-MAIDEN AND THE FROST GIANTS (Norse Legend) 3
_Eleanor L. Skinner_
HOW THE BLUEBIRD WAS CHOSEN HERALD 14
_Jay T. Stocking_
THE SPRINGTIME 32
_Eugene Field_
THE SELFISH GIANT 41
_Oscar Wilde_
THE PROMISED PLANT 50
_Andrea Hofer Proudfoot_
BRIER ROSE 54
_Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith_
PICCIOLA (Adapted) 61
_St. Saintine_
ST. FRANCIS, THE LITTLE BEDESMAN OF CHRIST 67
_William Canton_
PROSERPINA AND KING PLUTO (Greek Myth) 71
_Eleanor L. Skinner_
THE WONDER—A PARABLE (From “Parables”) 82
_Friedrich Adolph Krummacher_
NATURE STORIES AND LEGENDS
GREEN THINGS GROWING (Poem) 86
_Dinah Mulock Craik_
THE STORY OF A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 87
_May Byron_
THE LITTLE ACORN 100
_Lucy Wheelock_
THE STORY OF TWO LITTLE SEEDS 104
_George MacDonald_
HOW THE FLOWERS CAME (Selected) 107
_Jay T. Stocking_
THE LEGEND OF TRAILING ARBUTUS (Indian Legend) 115
_Eleanor L. Skinner_
THE FAIRY FLOWER (Adapted from “Norwood”) 120
_Henry Ward Beecher_
THE SNOWDROP 127
_Hans Christian Andersen_
WHAT THE DANDELION TOLD 131
_Clara Maetzel_
VERSE 137
_James Russell Lowell_
A GREAT FAMILY 138
_Agnes McClelland Daulton_
THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET (Legend) 142
_Ada M. Skinner_
A LYRIC OF JOY (Poem) 148
_Bliss Carman_
AMONG THE TREE-TOPS
ROBIN’S CAROL (From “Angler’s Reveille”) 150
_Henry van Dyke_
HOW THE BIRDS CAME (Indian Legend) 151
_Ada M. Skinner_
HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED TO BUILD NESTS 154
_James Baldwin_
OUT OF THE NEST 158
_Maud Lindsay_
THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS 164
_Mary Stewart_
AN EASTERN LEGEND (Poem) 170
_Grace Duffield Goodwin_
THE HOUSE WREN 171
_Neltje Blanchan_
THE LITTLE BROWN WREN 173
_Clinton Scollard_
THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND THE CLAN OF PEACE (A
Christ-Legend) (Adapted) 176
_Fiona MacLeod_
IN MEADOW AND POND
A SPRING LILT (Poem) 182
_Unknown_
HOW BUTTERFLIES CAME 183
_Hans Christian Andersen_
WHITE BUTTERFLIES (Poem) 184
_Algernon Charles Swinburne_
THE BUTTERFLY 185
_Mrs. Alfred Gatty_
THE WIND, A HELPER 196
_Mary Stewart_
THE SPRINGING TREE: WILLOWS 203
_Mrs. Dyson_
PUSSY WILLOW 210
_Kate Louise Brown_
THE DRAGON FLY 212
_Mrs. Alfred Gatty_
THE CICADA’S STORY (Selected) 220
_Agnes McClelland Daulton_
EDITH AND THE BEES 226
_Helen Keller_
THE LITTLE TADPOLES (From Stories in “Prose and Verse”) 230
_Katharine Pyle_
MISTER HOP-TOAD (Poem) 237
_James Whitcomb Riley_
BUZ AND HUM 238
_Maurice Noël_
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END. 1. In the Green Meadow.
2. The Story of a Drop of Water 246
Translated by _Sarah Austin_ from the German of
_A. Carove_
LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 253
_Ada M. Skinner_
FOUR-LEAF CLOVER (Poem) 256
_Ella Higginson_
JOLLY LITTLE TARS 257
_Agnes McClelland Daulton_
MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE 275
_Warren Judson Brier_
A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES
OLD ENGLISH VERSE 286
THE EASTER RABBIT (German Legend) 287
_Eleanor L. Skinner_
THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE SPRING 295
_Raymond MacDonald Alden_
SHEEP AND LAMBS (Poem) 308
_Katharine Tynan_
ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST-LEGEND (Adapted) (From
Christ-Legends) 309
_Selma Lagerlöf_
THE MAPLE SEED 318
From _The Atlantic Monthly_
WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN 322
_Madge Bingham_
JONQUILS (Poem) 329
_Margaret Deland_
WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM 330
_Mary Stewart_
THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY 345
_Ada M. Skinner_
SONG 346
_Henry Neville Maughan_
IN THE GARDEN: AN EASTER PRELUDE 347
_W. M. L. Jay_
“SPIRIT” AND “LIFE” 352
_Margaret Emma Ditto_
A CHILD’S EASTER (Poem) 359
_Annie Trumbull Slosson_
THE SPIRIT OF EASTER 363
_Helen Keller_
THERE ARE NO DEAD 365
_Maurice Maeterlinck_, adapted from “The Bluebird”
by Madame Maeterlinck.
LITTLE BOY BLUE (Poem) 370
_Alfred Noyes_
THE EMERALD STORY BOOK
SPRING STORIES AND LEGENDS
APRIL
The year’s at the spring
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!
And after April, when May follows
And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows!
Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower—
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
_Robert Browning._
THE SPRING-MAIDEN AND THE FROST GIANTS
In their glittering palace of icebergs the Frost Giants were planning to
capture Iduna, the fair Spring-Maiden, and the rare treasure which she
guarded. Hoar-Frost, North-Wind, Sleet, Hail, and Blizzard were growing
restless, locked in their frozen waste-land of the North. They longed to
enter the valley of Spring and bring desolation to the fruitful fields.
“We are helpless unless we seize the Spring-Maiden and take from her the
casket of golden apples,” said Giant Hoar-Frost. “So long as she guards
this life-giving fruit all nature will rejoice; the birds will sing their
foolish jubilees; gay blossoms will flaunt in the meadows; robes of green
will bedeck the trees, and the people will enjoy everlasting youth and
vigour.”
“What you say is true,” said Giant North-Wind. “If once I could enter
the groves of the Spring-Maiden’s valley I’d howl so long and loud that
those tiresome birds would stop their endless singing.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Giant Blizzard. “You would need my help, I believe.
One of my early morning calls would turn the trembling dew-drops into
icicles, and change the smiling faces of the brooks and rills into frozen
images!”
“Especially if I went with you,” added Giant Sleet slyly.
“Oh, I should expect to be accompanied by you and your twin brother
Hail,” nodded Blizzard. “I know how easily you can lock the grass and
flowers in a casement of ice which they couldn’t break, and Hail has a
very clever, quick way of cutting off all the leaves. But the question
now is how shall we capture the Spring-Maiden whose apples keep the
valley fresh and fair and the people forever young!”
For a few moments the Frost Giants were silent. Many times they had tried
to entrap the fair Iduna and her treasure, but they had always failed.
“I have it,” said Hoar-Frost. “We must secure the help of Loki, the
Prince of Mischief. He lives in Asgard near the Spring-Maiden’s groves,
and people say he often visits Iduna in order to refresh himself with one
of her life-giving apples. Let us capture him first and then compel him
to help us. We giants are fast growing old! The magic apples would renew
our strength for years to come!”
“Agreed!” said North-Wind, Blizzard, Sleet, and Hail in one voice. “Loki
first and then Iduna!”
After much discussion it was decided that Blizzard should undertake to
capture Loki.
A short time after the council of the Frost-Giants, Loki, the Prince of
Mischief, was amusing himself with a great fire which he had built on one
of the hills just beyond the city of Asgard. Several times he stopped and
peered into the sky to see what caused the huge shadow which seemed to
hover near him. He could see nothing but a gigantic eagle whirling around
the summit of the hill. Loki left his fire to gather another bundle of
faggots. Suddenly the great bird swooped down very near him. He quickly
seized a long stake and struck the intruder across the back. To Loki’s
amazement one end of the stake stuck fast to the eagle’s plumage and the
Prince of Mischief could not loosen his hands from the end which he held.
The eagle spread its huge dark wings and flew away over rocks and hills
far to the North.
“Help! help!” screamed the terrified Loki, but although he struggled with
all his might he could not escape from his captor.
When they reached a very lonely spot the eagle alighted on a mountain
peak and from the black plumage stepped the Storm Giant, Blizzard, who
said:
“Loki, you are in my power and you shall not escape until you promise to
help the Frost Giants in a very difficult undertaking!”
“What is that?” gasped the bruised and terrified Loki.
“You must help us to capture Iduna, the Spring-Maiden, and the treasure
which she guards. We cannot enter the valley of Spring until Iduna is
made our captive.”
“Help you to capture the treasure which gives life and youth to all who
partake of it!” said Loki. “Impossible!”
“Then away to the North we will go,” declared the Storm Giant, putting on
his eagle plumage again.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Loki in terror. “Let me think a moment!”
After a short consideration Loki took an oath that he would betray Iduna
and her treasure into the hands of the Frost Giants. Then the Prince of
Mischief was freed, and back to the North sped Blizzard.
The next day late in the afternoon, Iduna, robed in a trailing garment of
green and crowned with a coronet of blossoms, was walking through one of
her loveliest groves. The leaves were dancing to the music of a gentle
breeze. A delicious fragrance of hyacinths and roses scented the valley.
She sat down near a cool fountain and placed her treasure-casket of
apples on the marble basin.
Presently a long shadow darkened the path near her, and looking up
quickly the Spring-Maiden saw Loki standing near.
“I have come for the refreshing gift of one of your apples, Iduna,” said
he. “A long journey has wearied my limbs and broken my spirit.”
“You are very welcome to one of them,” said Iduna, opening her box. “It
has been some time since you tasted a golden apple.”
Loki began to eat the precious gift, and Iduna watched him closely. She
was very proud of her refreshing fruit.
In a little while he put the half-eaten apple on the basin of the
fountain and said, “I am going to tell you a secret, Iduna. Not far away
from here I discovered a grove where a marvellous tree grows. It bears
fruit shaped like yours but larger and of a deep golden colour.”
“Oh!” laughed the Spring-Maiden, “the fruit may be larger and more
beautiful than mine, but I’m sure it has not the power to put youth and
life into those who partake of it.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken,” said the wily Loki. “People who have
eaten the fruit of this tree say that its refreshing power is wonderful.
If you wish, I will gladly guide you to the grove—it is not far away—and
then you can compare this fruit, which is attracting much attention, with
yours. Will you go?”
“Yes, I will indeed,” said Iduna, who could not believe that any other
apples were comparable with hers.
Loki led the way and Iduna, carrying her treasure, followed him eagerly.
She was a little surprised to find the grove Loki described so far away
from Asgard, but her desire to find fruit more wonderful than the magic
apples urged her on. Finally they reached a meadow bordered by a dense
forest.
“Look,” said Loki, pointing forward, “we shall soon reach the place.”
Suddenly a dark shadow fell across Iduna’s path. The Storm Giant,
disguised in eagle’s plumage, swooped down, caught the Spring-Maiden and
her golden apples in his talons, and sped away to the frozen North. There
the Frost Giants imprisoned the captive in one of their ice-palaces.
It was not long before the joyous valley of Spring felt the absence of
Iduna. The flowers drooped and faded; the grass became parched and
brown, and the tender green foliage turned to burnt orange, crimson, and
russet.
“What has become of Iduna?” cried the people. “See how the valley is
changing!”
Slowly but surely the Frost Giants were working their way toward the
valley of Spring. One night Hoar-Frost stalked along the outskirts of the
groves and withered the leaves and flowers with his icy breath. The next
morning the people heard the dismal howl of North-Wind. “We must find the
Spring-Maiden or we shall die,” they cried in alarm.
In their distress they begged Odin, the wise hero who governed Asgard, to
call a special council in order to determine how the secret of Iduna’s
disappearance could be discovered.
Odin called together his hero council and after earnest thought they
decided to question Loki, the Prince of Mischief. He had seldom been seen
in Asgard since the Spring-Maiden had left the valley. One of the heroes
declared that the last time he saw Iduna she was walking with Loki.
The Prince of Mischief was accordingly summoned to appear in the council
of heroes. His answers to the questions they asked him aroused suspicion.
“Tell us the truth about this matter,” said the hero Thor, in a voice
which shook like the roar of distant thunder.
Then the cowardly Loki confessed the plot which robbed the valley of the
Spring-Maiden and her magic apples.
“Loki,” said Odin sternly, “I command you to bring back Iduna. Let there
be no delay, for even the heroes of Asgard are suffering in her absence!”
Loki knew he dared not disobey this final command. He disguised himself
in falcon’s plumage and sped away to the desolate North where a dull
leaden sky overhung all the land. In circling about the icebergs he spied
the Storm-Giant, fishing from the top of a large rock. Loki descended
quickly, flew into one of the openings of the Giant’s ice-palace, and
made his way to the place where Iduna lay sleeping on a rough couch.
The Prince of Mischief stepped out of his disguise and awakened the
Spring-Maiden.
“False Loki,” she cried. “Have you come to do more mischief?”
“I have been sent by Odin to rescue you,” said he. “You can escape only
by the help of my magic.”
Then he transformed Iduna and the precious casket of apples, placed them
in a magic nutshell, put on his falcon plumage, and flew away toward
Asgard.
As he sped across the dull sky the Storm-Giant looked up and saw him.
“It is Loki disguised as a falcon,” he said. “He is taking the
Spring-Maiden back to Asgard. But he shall not escape me!” Instantly the
Storm-Giant put on his eagle plumage and flew after Loki.
How anxiously the people of Asgard watched for the return of Loki with
Iduna. They heaped great piles of chips around the walls of Asgard and
held torches ready to light the fires in case the Frost Giants came near.
On the third day after Loki’s departure from Asgard, the people saw two
great birds flying with lightning speed toward the city.
“It is the Storm Giant following Loki,” they cried. “What a furious
pursuit! See! See! The eagle is gaining on the falcon! Light the fires as
soon as Loki passes over! Ready! The fires!” Another moment of breathless
suspense! The falcon swept over the walls of Asgard. Instantly a blaze
burst forth all around the city. The falcon had won the mighty race. The
eagle whirled far above the flames and looked down into the city. He
dared not descend. With a cry of despair he sped back to the ice-bound
Northland.
“The joyous Spring-Maiden is ours again,” cried the happy people as they
gathered around Iduna. “Her presence fills us with life and hope. See,
the casket of golden apples is safe in her hands! Soon all nature will be
fair and beautiful. The Spring-Maiden is our joy.”
HOW THE BLUEBIRD WAS CHOSEN HERALD[1]
JAY T. STOCKING
Query Queer was the boy who loved the woods and asked so many questions.
The Wise-and-Wonder-Man was the spirit of the woods whom Query met one
day and who answered Query’s questions. Of course, as Query often went
to the woods it was quite certain that he should sometime meet the
spirit again. And so he did. It happened one day just as the snow was
disappearing and the sun was growing warm. Query had been taking his
first spring walk, and, as he was a bit tired, he sat down on the sunny
slope of a knoll. He was scarcely seated when down out of the green
boughs of a hemlock tree in front of him slid the Wise-and-Wonder-Man,
dressed in his light blue suit with every button a silver bell, and his
pointed cap to match, with its fringe of silver bells. At every move
he made, the bells went _tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle_. Query was so
surprised that he almost forgot to breathe.
“Good morning, Query,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man, “what are you
wondering about now?”
“I was just wondering,” said Query, nodding his head toward a bluebird
near by, “why the bluebird is the first bird of spring.”
“Why, he is the herald, you know.”
“But how did he come to be the herald? Do you know?”
“I have heard,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man.
“Who told you?”
“My grandmother. She said her grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother
told the story; and what her grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother
said, my grandmother says is so.”
“Of course,” said Query. “Would you tell me the story?”
“Certainly; make yourself comfortable.”
Query lay down on one elbow and the Wise-and-Wonder-Man sat on a fresh,
clean chip, that the choppers had made, and talked.
“You know there are four spirits of the year, Springtime, Summer, Autumn,
and Winter. Some folks call them seasons, but they are _really_ spirits.
Of all four spirits, Springtime is the favourite. He had been coming to
the earth every year for a great many years, year after year, when he
got it into his head that it would be a fine thing and quite becoming
to his dignity to have a herald,—some one to carry his colours and play
the fife. At first he thought of the fragrant flowers, they could bear
his colours. But he reflected that they could not play the fife. Then he
thought of the buzzing bee; he might be taught to play the fife. But he
remembered that he would not do, because he could not carry the colours.
So he decided that he must have a bird.
“Springtime, being a very lively and practical spirit, called the birds
together that very morning. He asked them all to meet him by the Great
Rock under the Great Tree by the Great Bend of the Big River. They all
came—birds of every size and colour and description. He sat on the Great
Rock while the birds sat on the grass and listened with wide, round,
blinking eyes and with heads cocked to one side.
“He made a speech to them of some length. He told them that he desired a
herald to carry his colours and to play the fife. Of course, the bird to
be chosen should be handsome and musical. But he must be more than all
that. He wanted a bird of exceptionally good character, in fact, the very
best bird that could be found. He did not expect to find a perfect bird,
he said, but he desired a bird as nearly perfect as he could obtain. He
concluded his speech by saying that his herald should be:
“‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good,
And as modest as modest can be.
The very best bird that flies in the wood,
I would that my herald be he.’
The choice, he said, he would leave to the birds as they knew each other
thoroughly.
“The birds put their heads together and talked in at least forty
different languages. Finally, their spokesman told Springtime that they
were content to leave the selection to a committee of six whom he might
name. As Springtime wanted to be on good terms with all the birds, he
thought it not best that he should appoint the committee. He pulled a
handful of grass and held it tightly between his hands just so that the
ends would stick out, and then he asked the birds to come up, one by one,
and pull out a blade. The six who should draw out the shortest blades of
grass were to be the committee.
“They walked up one by one, and drew. Mr. Crow drew the shortest blade
and so was the chairman. Mr. Parrot came next, then Mr. Blue Jay, Mr.
Robin, Mr. English Sparrow, and Mr. Bluebird. It was a strange committee,
to be sure, of all sizes and kinds of birds.
“That very evening the six birds met in a corner of Mr. Farmer’s orchard
upon a dead branch of an old apple tree. They talked and talked and
talked. They discussed all the birds that they knew, spoke of their good
qualities and their bad ones.
“At last, as it grew late, very late, almost eight o’clock, and they had
come to no conclusion, Mr. Bluebird proposed that they should vote, and
all agreed. But how should they vote? That was the next question. Mr.
Bluebird suggested that each one, as his name was called, should stand up
and say which bird he thought was best fitted to be the herald. Mr. Crow
cleared his throat and said that he did not think this was the wisest
way. He thought it better, he continued, that each one should write the
name of his choice on the under side of a leaf. The other members of the
committee agreed with Mr. Crow. Each bird, therefore, took a leaf, and
wrote a name upon it, and Mr. Bluebird counted the votes. There was one
vote for Mr. Crow, one vote for Mr. Parrot, one for Mr. Blue Jay, one
for Mr. Robin, one for Mr. English Sparrow, and one for—I don’t remember
whether it was for Mr. Song Sparrow or Mr. Bobolink. Would you believe
it?—every bird except the bluebird had voted for himself. The bluebird
knew, because he knew the foot-writing of all the birds. He had seen it
in the soft sand by the water.
“It was certain that they were not going to be able to decide among
themselves who should be chosen, so Mr. Bluebird made another suggestion.
“‘I recommend,’ he said, ‘that we go and consult the old Wizard, Mr.
Owl, who holds court every night by the light of the moon in the hollow
of a great grey tree over the ridge. He is the wisest of birds and knows
everything. I have heard, too, that whenever there is a star with a
tail in the sky he can read your fortunes and your character. Now it so
happens that at this very time there is in the sky a star with a tail,
for I saw it this morning. Little Bluey, my eldest child, woke up very
early and I had to fly out to get him a worm to keep him quiet. Just as
I was starting, long before sunrise, I saw the comet. I propose that we
go at once and consult the Wizard and let him decide for us who should be
the herald.’
“‘It seems to me,’ said the crow, ‘that this is a most excellent
suggestion. The Wizard is certainly a very wise bird. I have heard of him
and doubtless he has heard of me. By all means, let us go.’
“It was decided then and there that they should go that very night, just
as soon as the comet rose. Mr. Bluebird was to give the signal because he
knew where to look for the comet.
“At the proper moment Mr. Bluebird shook them all by the wing and woke
them up, and they started, Mr. Crow going first, then Mr. Parrot, Mr.
Blue Jay, Mr. Robin, Mr. English Sparrow, and Mr. Bluebird.
“They flew and they flew and they flew, for it was a long way and a hard
way to find, and not one of the six had ever been out so late in his
life. When they reached the wood they were obliged to fly very carefully,
so that they should not bump their heads against the trees, and so that
they might be able to read the signs along the way. At length they spied
a great grey tree, with a dimly lighted window in it, far up the trunk.
Mr. Crow read the name on the door-plate and announced that they had
reached the right house. There was no door-bell so Mr. Crow scratched
three times,—scratch, scratch, scratch.
“‘Who-who?’ came from within.
“‘Friends,’ said the crow, ‘six friends come to consult the Wizard.’
“The latch was promptly lifted and the six birds walked solemnly in and
up the stairs.
“They found themselves in a little dark round room with seats against
the sides. Mr. Owl sat over on one side, his great fluffy coat turned
up at the neck and his fluffy hood pulled down to meet it. He had his
spectacles on and was reading by the light of his lamp,—that is, it
looked like a lamp, but Mr. Owl explained later that it was not a lamp
but the comet’s light which he caught through a knot-hole.
“The Wizard received them pleasantly and motioned to them to be seated.
Mr. Crow sat down in front of the Wizard at his right, then the others in
order, Mr. Bluebird sitting at the left.
“‘It is very late,’ observed the owl. ‘It must be most important business
that brings you to me at this hour of the night.’
“‘It is,’ replied the crow, ‘exceedingly important business, indeed.’
“Then in plain and emphatic words he told the Wizard what their errand
was. He repeated as nearly as he could the speech of Springtime,
especially the last words:
“‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good,
And as modest as modest can be.
The very best bird that flies in the wood,
I would that my herald be he.’
“He told the Wizard of their inability to decide who should be chosen and
of their conclusion to leave the choice to him. This was the reason of
their visit.
“Then the owl looked grave as a judge and remarked, ‘It seems to me in
this situation that the first thing to be done is to secure the opinion
of each of you as to who is the fittest bird to be chosen. Mr. Crow, will
you be so good as to give us your opinion?’
“Mr. Crow stood up, cleared his throat, and said, ‘To speak quite
frankly, it seems to me that I, myself, should be chosen. It is scarcely
possible to find a better bird.’
“‘What makes you think so?’ asked the owl dryly.
“‘My wife,’ said the crow. ‘Only to-day Mrs. Crow said to me, “Mr. Crow,
my dear husband, you are a perfect man, unless—”’
“‘Unless what?’ inquired the Wizard, raising his eyebrows.
“‘I don’t recollect,’ replied the crow, ‘in fact, I didn’t hear
distinctly, but I am sure it was something unimportant,’ and he sat down.
“‘Mr. Parrot,’ said the Wizard, ‘your opinion, if you please.’
“‘It is my opinion,’ said Mr. Parrot, ‘that I am the bird who should be
chosen. I have heard myself talk on many an occasion, and I am sure that
I speak both wisdom and wit. In modesty, I forbear to say more.’
“‘Mr. Blue Jay!’ called the Wizard.
“‘Since you ask me, Mr. Wizard, for my honest opinion I am bound to
say that I feel that I am the only bird for this position. I have been
looking in the glass to-day; in fact, I see myself in the glass very
often, and I have never yet observed a single fault in myself. There is
no bird who can say more.’
“‘Mr. Robin, if you please.’
“Mr. Robin arose with his fingers in his armholes: ‘I am quite
convinced, Mr. Wizard, from much observation, that I should be made the
herald. I am handsome and gifted, if I do say it myself. Besides, I live
in the best of society; I dwell in the Bishop’s orchard. This very day I
heard the Bishop say, “That robin is a fine, handsome bird,—as fine and
handsome as a Bishop.” I am sure that recommendation is enough.’
“‘Mr. English Sparrow.’
“‘I am sure, Mr. Wizard,’ said the sparrow, speaking very rapidly and
excitedly, ‘that while I am not so big as some of these who have spoken,
I have a better claim than any of them to this high office. For I have
long made it a practice to study carefully the faults and weaknesses of
all the other birds, and I know that I have none of these failings.’
“‘Mr. Bluebird,’ said the Wizard, ‘what have you to say?’
“‘Nothing, Mr. Wizard. I have not made up my mind. I leave the matter
entirely to your eminent wisdom and judgment.’ And he sat down.
“‘Well,’ said the owl, after a moment’s deliberation, ‘the next thing to
do under these circumstances seems to be to read your fortunes, that is,
your characters, in the light of the comet. I shall ask you, one by one,
to step up on this judgment-seat at my left, where the light of the comet
can fall on you and where I can see you plainly. Mr. Crow, will you be
the first?’
“Mr. Crow stepped up to the judgment-seat very confidently, while the
Wizard put on his spectacles and turned the lamp so that the light fell
full upon the glossy feathers of the large black bird. It was a revolving
seat, which the Wizard turned round and round slowly so that he could
see all sides of the bird. ‘A fine bird,’ he said, very deliberately, as
if thinking aloud, ‘a perfect bird, unless—unless what?—let me see—ah, a
slant in the left eye—in _both_ eyes—a _very decided_ slant—very sly—very
cunning—inclined to steal—very _much_ inclined to steal—a thief, in fact;
steals Mr. Farmer’s corn and peas—especially in the early morning when
nobody is around—a _very bad_ fault—one of the worst. I am quite sure,
Mr. Crow, that Springtime would not choose you for his herald—he could
not trust you. That will do. Mr. Parrot!’
“Mr. Parrot walked up very sedately and took his place on the
judgment-seat. The Wizard gazed at him gravely and stroked his back.
‘Fine feathers—green, red—yellow—fine feathers—rather small head—large
tongue—large tongue, small head—talks more than he thinks—talks _very
much_ more than he thinks—talks often _without_ thinking—says what he
hears others say. Tongue rather harsh, too—and blisters at the end—bad
words! bad words! I am sorry to say, Mr. Parrot, that I cannot recommend
you as herald. People would not be glad to see you year after year. That
will do. Mr. Blue Jay!’
“The blue jay stepped up very jauntily and took the seat.
“The Wizard looked at him admiringly, for he was clad in a beautiful
tailor-made suit that fitted him to perfection. ‘A handsome bird,’ he
said, ‘a handsome bird,—that is, handsome clothes. Eye very good, too—a
little slant, a little slant—but on the whole a good eye. Let me see,
what is this on the back of the head? these long feathers?—oh, a crest!
I see. Just for decoration. A vain bird, vain as a peacock—and like all
vain people, hard to get along with—and very unfriendly—likes to flock
alone—other folks not quite good enough. I regret to inform you, Mr. Blue
Jay, that Springtime would not desire you as his herald. That will do.
Mr. Robin!’
“The robin hopped up on the seat in his fine dress suit and red
shirt-front, his chest inflated and his eyes shining. The Wizard
looked at him intently for some time, then he began, ‘You are the
Bishop’s friend, you say. Let me see—a bright red spot on your bill—the
Bishop’s cherries, I should say—but we’ll let that pass. Eye very
suspicious—_very_ suspicious—always looking even among your best friends,
to see if somebody isn’t going to harm you—cannot pull a worm out of the
Bishop’s garden without looking around suspiciously all the time. A very
unhappy frame of mind to be in—unhappy for you—unhappy for others. You
would hardly do for the herald. That will do. Mr. English Sparrow!’
“The English sparrow fluttered up noisily and took his place. ‘You say,’
began the Wizard, ‘that you have not the faults of the other birds.’
“‘Yes,’ said the sparrow, talking very fast, ‘I am not as mean as the
crow, and I don’t talk such nonsense as old Polly, and I’m not so stuck
up as the jay, and I am not suspicious as the Bishop’s friend is. I
haven’t any of the faults of the other birds.’
“The Wizard pushed his spectacles up on his brow, turned the light away,
and looked at him, ‘I see,’ he said, ‘I do not need the comet light at
all. I could see you in the dark. Sharp bill—sharp tongue—sharp claws,
in a continual state of bad temper—very quarrelsome—very unpleasant
neighbour; in fact, a common nuisance. That will do, Mr. Bluebird!’
“‘I am sure, Mr. Owl,’ said the bluebird, rising, ‘that I need not take
your time. I am not the bird to be chosen, for I know that I am far from
being a perfect bird. I have many faults. There are many nobler birds
than I from whom Springtime may choose his herald.’
“But the Wizard was quite insistent that the bluebird should come forward
where he could read his fortune.
“‘You say that you have many faults,’ remarked the Owl. ‘That may be, but
I see by the light of the comet that they are small, very faint indeed.
Besides, the ability to see one’s faults and the desire to correct them
is the greatest of virtues. There may be better birds, but I am frank
to say that I am not acquainted with them. I have no hesitation, Mr.
Bluebird, in saying that it is my judgment that you should be the herald
of the Spring, for, if you will permit me to say it, it seems that you are
“‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good,
And as modest as modest can be,’
whereat Mr. Bluebird blushed painfully, while in his heart he was very
happy.
“Springtime agreed with Mr. Owl, and posted notices on every tree by the
water’s edge that Mr. Bluebird should henceforth be his herald, the
first bird of the spring.
“There is one now on the branch of that old tree,” said the
Wise-and-Wonder-Man. “He is carrying the colours and playing the fife.”
“What is he saying?” asked Query.
“Well,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man, “it always sounds to me as if he
were saying, ‘Pur-i-ty, pur-i-ty,’ but I asked him one day and he said it
was only, ‘Spring-is-here, spring-is-here.’”
THE SPRINGTIME[2]
EUGENE FIELD
A child once said to his grandsire: “Gran’pa, what do the flowers mean
when they talk to the old oak-tree about death? I hear them talking every
day, but I cannot understand; it is all very strange.”
The grandsire bade the child think no more of these things; the flowers
were foolish prattlers,—what right had they to put such notions into a
child’s head? But the child did not do his grandsire’s bidding; he loved
the flowers and the trees, and he went each day to hear them talk.
It seems that the little vine down by the stone wall had overheard the
South Wind say to the rosebush: “You are a proud, imperious beauty now,
and will not listen to my suit; but wait till my boisterous brother comes
from the North,—then you will droop and wither and die, all because you
would not listen to me and fly with me to my home by the Southern sea.”
These words set the little vine to thinking; and when she had thought for
a long time she spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called in the
violet, and the three little ones had a very serious conference; but,
having talked it all over, they came to the conclusion that it was as
much of a mystery as ever. The old oak-tree saw them.
“You little folks seem very much puzzled about something,” said the
oak-tree.
“I heard the South Wind tell the rosebush that she would die,” exclaimed
the vine, “and we do not understand what it is. Can you tell us what it
is to die?”
The old oak-tree smiled sadly.
“I do not call it death,” said the old oak-tree; “I call it sleep,—a
long, restful, refreshing sleep.”
“How does it feel,” inquired the daisy, looking very full of astonishment
and anxiety.
“You must know,” said the oak-tree, “that after many, many days we all
have had such merry times and have bloomed so long and drunk so heartily
of the dew and sunshine and eaten so much of the goodness of the earth
that we feel very weary and we long for repose. Then a great wind comes
out of the North, and we shiver in its icy blast. The sunshine goes away,
and there is no dew for us nor any nourishment in the earth, and we are
glad to go to sleep.”
“Mercy on me!” cried the vine, “I shall not like that at all! What, leave
this smiling meadow and all the pleasant grass and singing bees and
frolicsome butterflies? No, old oak-tree, I would never go to sleep; I
much prefer sporting with the winds and playing with my little friends,
the daisy and the violet.”
“And I,” said the violet, “I think it would be dreadful to go to sleep.
What if we never should wake up again!”
The suggestion struck the others dumb with terror,—all but the oak-tree.
“Have no fear of that,” said the old oak-tree, “for you are sure to
awaken again, and when you have awakened the new life will be sweeter
and happier than the old.”
“What nonsense!” cried the thistle. “You children shouldn’t believe a
word of it. When you go to sleep you die, and when you die there’s the
last of you!”
The old oak-tree reproved the thistle; but the thistle maintained his
abominable heresy so stoutly that the little vine and the daisy and the
violet were quite at a loss to know which of the two to believe,—the old
oak-tree or the thistle.
The child heard it all and was sorely puzzled. What was this death, this
mysterious sleep? Would it come upon him, the child? And after he had
slept awhile would he awaken? His grandsire would not tell him of these
things; perhaps his grandsire did not know.
It was a long, long summer, full of sunshine and bird-music, and the
meadow was like a garden, and the old oak-tree looked down upon the grass
and flowers and saw that no evil befell them. A long, long play-day it
was to the little vine, the daisy, and the violet. The crickets and the
grasshoppers and the bumblebees joined in the sport, and romped and made
music till it seemed like an endless carnival. Only every now and then
the vine and her little flower friends talked with the old oak-tree about
that strange sleep and the promised awakening, and the thistle scoffed at
the old oak-tree’s cheering words. The child was there and heard it all.
One day the great wind came out of the North. Hurry-scurry! back to
their warm homes in the earth and under the old stone-wall scampered
the crickets and bumblebees to go to sleep. Whirr, whirr! Oh, but how
piercing the great wind was; how different from his amiable brother who
had travelled all the way from the Southern sea to kiss the flowers and
woo the rose!
“Well, this is the last of us!” exclaimed the thistle; “we’re going to
die, and that’s the end of it all!”
“No, no,” cried the old oak-tree; “we shall not die; we are going to
sleep. Here, take my leaves, little flowers, and you shall sleep warm
under them. Then, when you awaken, you shall see how much sweeter and
happier the new life is.”
The little ones were very weary indeed. The promised sleep came very
gratefully.
“We would not be so willing to go to sleep if we thought we should not
awaken,” said the violet.
So the little ones went to sleep. The little vine was the last of all to
sink to her slumbers; she nodded in the wind and tried to keep awake till
she saw the old oak-tree close his eyes, but her efforts were vain; she
nodded and nodded, and bowed her slender form against the old stone wall,
till finally she, too, had sunk into repose. And then the old oak-tree
stretched his weary limbs and gave a last look at the sullen sky and at
the slumbering little ones at his feet; and with that, the old oak-tree
fell asleep too.
The child saw all these things, and he wanted to ask his grandsire about
them, but his grandsire would not tell him of them; perhaps his grandsire
did not know.
The child saw the Storm King come down from the hills and ride furiously
over the meadows and over the forest and over the town. The snow fell
everywhere, and the North Wind played solemn music in the chimneys. The
Storm King put the brook to bed, and threw a great mantle of snow over
him; and the brook that had romped and prattled all the summer and told
pretty tales to the grass and flowers,—the brook went to sleep too. With
all his fierceness and bluster, the Storm King was very kind; he did not
awaken the old oak-tree and the slumbering flowers. The little vine lay
under the fleecy snow against the old stone-wall and slept peacefully,
and so did the violet and the daisy. Only the wicked old thistle thrashed
about in his sleep as if he dreamt bad dreams, which, all will allow, was
no more than he deserved.
All through that winter—and it seemed very long—the child thought of the
flowers and the vine and the old oak-tree, and wondered whether in the
springtime they would awaken from their sleep; and he wished for the
springtime to come. And at last the springtime came. One day the sunbeams
fluttered down from the sky and danced all over the meadow.
“Wake up, little friends!” cried the sunbeams,—“wake up, for it is
springtime!”
The brook was the first to respond. So eager, so fresh, so exuberant was
he after his long winter sleep, that he leaped from his bed and frolicked
all over the meadow and played all sorts of curious antics. Then a little
bluebird was seen in the hedge one morning. He was calling to the violet.
“Wake up, little violet,” called the bluebird. “Have I come all this
distance to find you sleeping? Wake up, it is the springtime!”
That pretty little voice awakened the violet.
“Oh, how sweetly I have slept!” cried the violet; “how happy this new
life is! Welcome, dear friends!”
And presently the daisy awakened, fresh and beautiful, and then the
little vine, and, last of all, the old oak-tree. The meadow was green,
and all around were the music, the fragrance, the new, sweet life of the
springtime.
“I slept horribly,” growled the thistle. “I had bad dreams. It was sleep,
after all, but it ought to have been death.”
The thistle never complained again; for just then a four-footed monster
stalked through the meadow and plucked and ate the thistle and then
stalked gloomily away; which was the last of the sceptical thistle,—truly
a most miserable end!
“You said the truth, dear old oak-tree!” cried the little vine. “It was
not death,—it was only a sleep, a sweet, refreshing sleep, and this
awakening is very beautiful.”
They all said so,—the daisy, the violet, the oak-tree, the crickets, the
bees, and all the things and creatures of the field and forest that had
awakened from their long sleep to swell the beauty and the glory of the
springtime. And they talked with the child, and the child heard them. And
although the grandsire never spoke to the child about these things, the
child learned from the flowers and trees a lesson of the springtime which
perhaps the grandsire never knew.
THE SELFISH GIANT
OSCAR WILDE
Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go
and play in the Giant’s garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over
the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach
trees that in the spring time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink
and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees
and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order
to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish
ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years
were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was
limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived
he saw the children playing in the garden.
“What are you doing there?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the
children ran away.
“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand
that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a
high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board—
+-----------------+
| TRESPASSERS |
| WILL BE |
| PROSECUTED |
+-----------------+
He was a very selfish giant.
The poor children had nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road,
but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not
like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were
over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.
“How happy we were there,” they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms
and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still
winter. The birds did not care to sing in it, as there were no children,
and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head
out from the grass, and when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for
the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off
to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost.
“Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here
all the year around.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white
cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the
North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he
roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is
a delightful spot,” he said; “we must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the
Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle
till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the
garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath
was like ice.
“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the
Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white
garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit
to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too
selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind,
and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely
music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the
King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing
outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in
his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the
world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind
ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open
casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant, and he
jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?