the acorn turned to a brown cup, and it was well that it grew stiffer
and harder, for the cold winds began to blow.
The leaves turned from green to golden brown, and some of them were
whisked away by the rough wind. The little acorn began to grow uneasy.
“Isn’t life all summer?” it said.
“No,” whispered the mother oak, “the cold days come and the leaves must
go and the acorns too. I must soon lose my babies.”
“Oh! I could never leave this kind bough,” said the frightened acorn. “I
should be lost and forgotten if I were to fall.”
So it tried to cling all the closer to its bough; but at last it was
alone there. The leaves were blown away, and some of them had made a
blanket for the brown acorns lying on the ground.
One night the tree whispered this message to the lonely acorn: “This tree
is only your home for a time. This is not your true life. Your brown
shell is only the cover for a living plant, which can never be set free
until the hard shell drops away, and that can never happen until you are
buried in the ground and wait for the spring to call you into life. So
let go, little acorn, and fall to the ground, and some day you will wake
to a new and glorious life.”
The acorn listened and believed, for was not the tree its sheltering
mother? So it bade her farewell, and, loosing its hold, dropped to the
ground.
Then, indeed, it seemed as if the acorn were lost. That night a high wind
blew and covered it deep under a heap of oak leaves. The next day a cold
rain washed the leaves closer together, and trickling streams from the
hillside swept some earth over them. The acorn was buried. “But I shall
wake again,” it said, and so it fell asleep. It might have been cold; but
the frost fairies wove a soft, white snow blanket to cover it, and so it
was kept warm.
If you had walked through the woods that winter, you would have said the
acorn was gone, but then you could not have seen the life slumbering
within the brown cover. But spring came and called to all the sleeping
things underground to waken and come forth. The acorn heard and tried to
move, but the brown shell held it fast. Some raindrops trickled through
the ground to moisten the shell, and one day the pushing life within was
set free. The brown shell was of no more use and was lost in the ground,
but the young plant was to live. It heard voices calling it upward. It
must arise. “A new and glorious life,” the mother oak had said.
“I must arise,” the acorn said, and up the living plant came, up to the
world of sunshine and beauty. It looked around. There was the same green
moss in the woods, the same singing brook.
“And I shall live and grow,” it said.
“Yes,” called the mother oak, “you are now an oak tree. This is your real
life.”
And the tiny oak tree was glad and tried to stretch higher towards the
sun.
THE STORY OF TWO LITTLE SEEDS
GEORGE MACDONALD
Long, long ago, two seeds lay beside each other in the earth, waiting. It
was cold, and rather wearisome and, to beguile the time, the one found
means to speak to the other.
“What are you going to be?” said the one.
“I don’t know,” answered the other.
“For me,” rejoined the first, “I mean to be a rose. There is nothing like
a splendid rose. Everybody will love me then.”
“It’s all right,” whispered the second; and that was all he could say;
for somehow when he had said that, he felt as if all the words in the
world were used up. So they were silent again for a day or two.
“Oh, dear!” cried the first, “I have had some water. I never knew till it
was inside me. I’m growing! I’m growing! Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” repeated the other, and lay still; and waited more than ever.
The first grew and grew, pushing itself straight up, till at last it
felt that it was in the open air, for it could breathe. And what a
delicious breath that was! It was rather cold, but so refreshing. The
flower could see nothing, for it was not quite a flower yet, only a
plant; and they never see till their eyes come, that is, till they open
their blossoms,—then they are flowers quite. So it grew and grew, and
kept its head up very steadily, meaning to see the sky the first thing,
and leave the earth quite behind as well as beneath it. But somehow or
other, though why it could not tell, it felt very much inclined to cry.
At length it opened its eye. It was morning, and the sky _was_ over its
head but, alas! itself was no rose,—only a tiny white flower. It felt
more inclined to hang down its head and to cry but it still resisted, and
tried hard to open its eye wide, and to hold its head upright, and to
look full at the sky.
“I will be a star of Bethlehem, at least!” said the flower to itself.
But its head felt very heavy and a cold wind rushed over it, and bowed it
down towards the earth. And the flower saw that the time of the singing
of birds was not come, that the snow covered the whole land, and that
there was not a single flower in sight but itself. And it half-closed
its leaves. But that instant it remembered what the other flower used
to say; and it said to itself, “It’s all right; I will be what I can.”
And thereon it yielded to the wind, dropped its head to the earth, and
looked no more on the sky, but on the snow. And straightway the wind
stopped, and the cold died away, and the snow sparkled like pearls, and
diamonds; and the flower knew that it was the holding of its head up that
had hurt it so; for that its body came of the snow, and that its name
was Snow-drop. And so it said once more, “It’s all right!” and waited
in perfect peace. All the rest it needed was to hang its head after its
nature.
HOW THE FLOWERS CAME[5]
JAY T. STOCKING
Ever so many centuries ago the world was bare and grey as the street. The
Earth King grew very tired of it, and covered the earth with a beautiful
carpet of green. We call it grass. For years and years there was nothing
but green, until the Earth King grew as tired of the green as he had
grown of the grey. He decided that he must have more colours. So one
day he took his royal retinue and journeyed to a hillside where he knew
there grew the very finest grasses in all the kingdom. At a blast of
the King’s bugler the grasses assembled, and the King addressed them in
simple words: “My faithful grasses. It is many years since I placed you
here. You have been faithful. You have kept true green. It now pleases
me to announce to you that I am about to reward a certain number of you
and make you to be lords and ladies of the field. To-morrow I shall come
hither at this same hour. You are to assemble before me, and the fairest
of your number and the most pleasing I will honour with great and lasting
honour. Farewell.”
Then what a whispering and putting of heads together there was among the
grasses, as the breeze crept up the hillside. They arose next morning
before the sun, that they might wash their ribbons in the gleaming pearls
of dew. What prinking and preening! What rustling of ruffles and sashes!
What burnishing of armour and spears! At length the King’s bugle rang out
that called them to the grand assembly. Full of excitement, they stood
before the King, each hoping that he might be chosen for one of the great
honours.
The King greeted them as on the previous day, and told them again of the
high honour that he was about to bestow. “But,” said he, “in this Court
of Judgment I must have willing servants to assist me. First, I must have
a keeper of the gate so that no outsider may enter. Which one of this
host will be keeper of the gate?”
Not a man-grass stirred in his tracks, for each feared that if he became
a servant of the King, he would lose his chance to be made a lord.
“Which one?” asked the King again; “which one will volunteer to keep the
gate for me?”
At this moment a sturdy grass was seen coming down the hillside. He was
not handsome, but he was strong, his shoulders were broad, and his chest
was deep, and he was armed to the teeth. Spear points stuck from every
pocket, arrows filled his belt, and in each hand he carried a lance sharp
as lightning. “Let these wait for their honours,” thought he, as he said,
“_I_ will serve the King.”
“So be it,” said the King; “take your station at the gate. And now,”
continued the King, “I must have a herald to announce my awards and my
commands. Who will be my herald?”
Again there was silence among the man-grasses, till at last one of them
was seen to advance. He was short and round and smiling, as happy a
grass as grew on the hill. He came before the King as fast as his short
legs could carry him. “So it please the King, I’ll be his royal herald.”
“So be it,” replied the King. “Stand here at my feet.”
“Two torch-bearers I need,” said the King; “two torch-bearers, tall
and comely, to hold the lights on high. Who will serve the King as
torch-bearers?”
And now there was silence and stiffness among the lady-grasses, as each,
fearing to lose her chance to be made a lady, waited for the others. At
length two slender maidens advanced with glowing faces and hesitant step.
They were not as beautiful, it must be said, as some of their sisters.
Their ribbons were few and some of them frayed. They scarcely knew
whether the King would accept them, but they meekly offered themselves.
“We, O King, will be your torch-bearers.”
The King looked pleased enough as he replied, “So be it, indeed. Stand
here on either hand.”
“And now,” continued the King, “I must have an incense bearer, to swing
my censer over the meadows. Who will be my incense bearer?”
For a moment there was silence again among the lady-grasses, but only a
moment, for out stepped one of the daintiest of them all. She tripped
quickly and quietly down the hill to the King, saying modestly as she
approached, “I will be your incense bearer.”
“Let it be so,” said the King. “Await my commands.”
“Yet one more willing servant,” said the King; “one more. Who will ring
the chimes? Man or maid, who among all these loyal subjects will ring the
chimes?”
Scarcely had the King’s words left his lips, when one of the noblest
grasses of all, her broad green ribbons rustling as she moved, left the
crowded ranks of the ladies and eagerly advanced before the King. “If it
please Your Majesty, I will ring the chimes.”
Then the King looked around satisfied upon his eager and expectant
audience, and spoke a few brief words to them. He had come, he said,
fearing that the task was almost too great even for a king—to choose
among so many and so beautiful subjects. But they had chosen for
themselves, and he had now only to award the honours.
“Keeper of the gate,” he commanded, “stand before the King!”
The keeper of the gate came awkwardly forward, pricking all who brushed
against him as he passed.
“Because you have been willing to serve the King,” said the monarch, “I
reward you with distinguished honour.” Then, taking from the hand of a
page a great velvet cap of purplish red, he placed it upon the head of
the Gate-Keeper, saying as he did so, “I dub you: My Lord, the Thistle.”
“Let the King’s herald stand forth!”
The little round happy herald obeyed and knelt before the King. The King
took a great golden coronet from the hand of a page and placed it upon
his head, saying as he did so, “Because of your readiness to serve your
King, I create you a noble of the field, and dub you: My Lord, the
Dandelion. And I give you this trumpet on which to blow.”
“Let the torch-bearers stand forth!”
Then the two shy maidens from either side of the King bowed before him.
On the head of each the King placed a shining crown, one all gold, and
one gold rimmed with white, that they might not be confused, and he said
to them, “Because of your generous deed I dub you: Lady Buttercup and
Lady Daisy.”
“My incense bearer!”
The dainty maiden courtesied at his feet and, blushing, bowed her head.
The King beckoned to a page, who brought him a tiny hood of most becoming
blue. This the King placed upon her head, saying the while: “The King is
grateful for your service. I dub you: Lady Violet.”
“The ringer of the royal chimes, let her appear.”
The beautiful grass with the broad, shining ribbons stood proudly before
him, and bowed her head in salute. The King took a silver bell and gave
it to her, saying as he did so, “This shall be the sign of your royal
office. I dub you: Lady Lily-of-the-Field.”
The King then charged his new-made lords and ladies that they should be
faithful to their offices and never cease, year by year, to beautify the
earth. Then the assembly was dissolved, but not until the whole host of
grasses on the hillside had applauded what the King had done. They were
disappointed and grieved, it is true, but they were not too jealous to
know that the bravest and truest and most beautiful had been crowned with
honour due.
THE LEGEND OF TRAILING ARBUTUS
The bleak wind swept across the great lakes and piled snow-drifts all
around a wigwam which stood at the edge of a pine forest. An Indian
pulled aside a curtain of wolf-skin and stood listening in the doorway
of his rude house. His dark eyes were fixed on the richly-tinted western
sky. Long hair white as the frost fell about his bent shoulders and
framed a thin dark face deeply lined with wrinkles.
“I thought I heard footsteps,” he muttered in a weak voice. He drew a
deerskin mantle close about his shoulders, turned from the doorway and
sat down on a mat of beaver fur which lay before a few dying embers. A
shiver ran through his gaunt figure. He stirred the smouldering ashes and
threw some dried sticks into the small flame.
“How weak and weary I am to-night,” he thought. “What has become of the
hunter’s game? I could find none in the forest to-day.” His head drooped
forward and he fell asleep.
At sunrise he was aroused by a flood of light in the wigwam. He looked
up and saw standing in the doorway a beautiful maiden, clad in a robe
of sweet-grass and ferns. Her moccasins were made of velvet mosses, and
the fairest blossoms were entwined in her long dark hair. She carried an
armful of budding twigs.
“Who art thou?” cried the old man.
“I am the Spring Manito,” she answered, merrily.
“Then thou wilt perish here,” said the old man, “for alas! I have no
cheer to offer thee!”
“Art thou the great Winter Manito?” asked the maiden.
“I am the great Winter Manito! Thou hast no doubt heard of my power. At
my command the North Wind rushes madly through the forest and the giant
trees bow before him as he twists and tears their branches.”
“Cruel Manito,” sighed the maiden, but the old man did not hear her.
“I cover the pine-trees with sleet and drive the birds southward. With my
sceptre of ice I silence the brooks and rivers. My breath turns the dew
into frost. I shake my locks and a face-cloth of snow covers the withered
leaves and blossoms. Mighty is the Winter Manito!”
“Mighty is the Winter Manito,” repeated the Maiden, sadly. “But my power
is greater than his!”
“What meanest thou?” asked the old man quickly.
“At my call the soft breezes from the South caress the trees and heal the
wounds the Winter Manito has made. My warm breath turns the frost into
dew; my golden wand melts the frozen streams and their waters flow again
toward the sea. I shake my tresses and the gentle rain falls; then the
velvet buds burst forth and the birds hasten back to build their nests
and to sing in the leafy branches. Where I walk in the fields and meadows
the grass and blossoms spring forth to greet me. The children of the red
men rejoice in the beauty which I bring to gladden the earth. The Winter
Manito is mighty but his is the power of cruelty; the Spring Manito is
strong, and hers is the strength of kindness. The Winter Manito’s sceptre
is the biting frost; his rule brings pain and death; the Spring Manito
bears the golden wand of sunshine and her hand-maidens bring joy and
life.”
As she spoke the maiden noticed that the old man grew weaker and weaker
until he finally sank down on the floor of his lodge. A flood of sunshine
filled the wigwam. The Winter Manito grew smaller and smaller until he
disappeared. Then the old man’s tent faded away and left the maiden
standing under a tree. The sunshine had melted the snowdrifts, and a warm
breeze was blowing.
The maiden stooped down and brushed away the dried leaves which had lain
all winter under the snow. Then she enamelled the brown earth about her
feet with star-like blossoms, pink and white, and shining green leaves.
“My precious Arbutus,” she whispered, bending low, “thou art born to
bring joy to the children of the red men and thou shalt trail after me
through the pine-forest and over the distant hilltops.”
She moved quickly through the woods and across the meadows. “Spring has
come,” whispered the trees and flowers. “Spring has come,” sang the
birds. Wherever she stepped the lovely Arbutus trailed after her on its
delicate rosy vine and scented the air with sweetest fragrance.
THE FAIRY FLOWER[6]
HENRY WARD BEECHER
Once there was a little girl whose name was Clara. She had a very kind
heart; but she was an only child and had been petted so much that she was
becoming very selfish. Too late the mother lamented that she had indulged
her child, and strove to repair the mischief by trying to make Clara
think of other people’s happiness, not solely of her own.
On some days, no one could be more charming than Clara. She was gentle
and obliging. She sang all day long, and made every one who came near
her happy. Then everybody admired her, and her mother and aunt were sure
that she was cured of her pettish disposition. But the very next day all
her charming ways were changed. She wore a moody face. She was no longer
courteous, and every one who came near her felt the chill of her manner.
One summer’s night, Clara went to her room. The moon was at its full,
and was shining through the window so brightly that she needed no other
light. Clara sat at the window feeling very unhappy. She was thinking
over her conduct through the day, and was trying to imagine how it could
be that on some days she was happy and on others so wretched.
As she mused, she laid her head back on the easy chair. No sooner had she
shut her eyes than a strange thing happened. A feeble old man, carrying a
basket, came into the room. In his basket, which he seemed hardly able to
bear, were a handful of flowers and two great stones.
“My daughter,” said the old man, “will you help me for I am too old to
carry this load; please lighten it.” Clara looked at him, pouting, and
exclaimed, “Go away!”
“But I am weak and suffering,” he said; “will you not lighten my load?”
At last Clara took the flowers out of his basket. They were very
beautiful and she laid them in her lap.
“My daughter,” said the old man, “you have not lightened my basket; you
have taken only the pleasant things out of it, and have left the heavy
stones. Please lift one of them out of the basket.”
“Go away!” exclaimed Clara angrily. “I will not touch those dirty stones!”
No sooner had she said this than the old man began to change before
her and to become so bright and white that he looked like a column of
crystal. He took one of the stones and cast it out of the window, and
it flew and flew, and fell on the eastern side of a grove where the sun
shone first every morning.
Then the crystal old man took the flowers out of Clara’s lap. They were
wet with dew, and he shook them over her head and exclaimed, “Change into
a flower! Go and stand by the stone till your shadow shall be marked upon
it.”
In a second, Clara was growing by the side of the wide, flat stone, and
the moon cast upon it her shadow,—the shadow of a beautiful flower with
a long and slender stem. All night she was very wretched. In the morning,
she could not help looking at herself in a brook which came close up to
the stone; then she recognised the beautiful flower and knew that her
name was now Columbine.
All day her shadow fell upon the stone, but when the sun went away, the
shadow, too, went away. At night her faint shadow lay upon the stone but
when the moon went away, her shadow, also, went away. And the stone lay
still all day and all night, and did not care for the flower nor feel its
shadow.
Clara longed to be a little girl again. She asked the stone to tell her
how, but the hard stone would not answer. She asked the brook, but the
brook whispered, “Ask the Bobolink!” She asked the Bobolink, but he
merely alighted upon the flower and teetered up and down. She could not
learn from the Bobolink how to make her shadow stay upon the stone.
Then she asked a spider and he spun a web from her bright blossoms,
fastened it to the stone, bent her over, and tied her up, till she
feared she could never get loose. But all his nice films did her no good;
her shadow would not stay upon the stone.
She asked the wind to help her. The wind swept away the spider’s web, and
blew so hard that the flower lay its whole length upon the stone; but
when the wind left her and she rose up, there was no shadow marked upon
the stone.
“What is beauty worth,” thought Clara, “if it grows by the side of a
stone that does not feel it, nor care for it?”
She asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, “How can I help you! I
live contentedly in darkness, I put on my beauty only to please others. I
let the sun come through my drops, though I know it will consume me.”
“I wish I were dew,” said Clara, “for then, I, too, could do some good.
Now my beauty does no good, and I am wasting it every day upon a stone.”
When Clara breathed this kind wish, there were glad flutters and whispers
all around.
The next day a beautiful child came that way. She was gathering ferns,
and mosses, and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of moss, she would ask,
“Please, dear moss, may I take you?” And when she saw a beautiful branch
with scarlet leaves, she would ask, “Dear bush, may I take these leaves?”
When she saw the beautiful columbine growing by the side of a stone, she
asked, “Oh, sweet Columbine, may I pluck you?” And the fairy flower said,
gently, “I must not go till my shadow is fastened upon the stone.”
Then the girl took from her case a pencil and in a moment traced the
shadow of the columbine upon the stone. When she had done this, she
reached out her hand, took the stem low down, and broke it off.
At that moment Clara sprang up from her chair by the window, and there
stood her mother saying, “My dear daughter, you should not fall asleep
by an open window, not even in summer. How damp you are! Come, hasten to
bed.”
It was many days before Clara could persuade herself that she had only
dreamed. It was months before she told the dream to her mother. And when
she told it, her mother said:
“Ah, Clara, would that all little girls might dream, if only it made them
as good as your dream has made you.”
THE SNOWDROP
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
A deep snow covered the ground for it was winter time. The air was cold
and the sharp wind blew, but in one tiny house all was snug and warm.
There under earth and snow in its bulb lay a little flower.
One day when the rain fell, little drops trickled through the snow
coverlet down into the earth and told the flower bulb about the light
above. And presently a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced its way
through the ground and tapped on the little bulb.
“Come in,” said the flower.
“I cannot,” said the sunbeam. “I am not strong enough to lift the latch.
I shall be stronger when spring comes.”
“When will it be spring?” asked the flower.
Soon many other little sunbeams tapped on the door of the brown house and
the flower asked each of them,
“When will it be spring?”
But the ground was covered with snow and every night there was ice on the
water. Spring seemed so far away that the little flower sighed and said
impatiently:
“How long it is! How long it is! I feel quite cribbed and cramped. I
_must_ stretch out a little. I _must_ rise up; lift the latch and look
out. Then I shall say merrily to the spring, ‘Good morning!’”
Now the walls of the flower’s house had been softened by the rain, warmed
by the earth and snow and tapped upon by the sunbeams. So when the flower
within pushed and pushed against the walls they gently gave way. Then up
from under the earth shot the flower with a pale green bud on its tender
stalk and long slender leaves that curled around it for a screen. The
glittering snow was very cold but easier to push through than the solid
brown earth.
“Welcome, welcome!” sang the evening sunbeam. “Welcome, sweet little
blossom.”
The flower lifted its head above the snow into the world of light; the
sunbeams cheered it with kisses until it unfolded itself white as the
snow and decked with green stripes.
“Thou art a little too early,” said the wind and the weather. “We still
hold sway. It is entirely too cold for thee.”