white purity. Thou art the herald of Spring,—our first flower. Thy fair
white bell shall ring the glad tidings of Spring over towns and fields.
The snow shall melt, the bitter wind shall be driven away. Now earth
shall send forth all her lovely blossoms and thou shalt have beautiful
fellowship. Welcome!”
The words of the sunbeams gave deep delight to the flower. It bowed its
head in gladness and humility. The weather was cold enough to freeze it
to pieces—such a delicate little flower—but it was stronger than any one
knew. It was strong in its glad faith in the spring and the message of
the sunbeams. And so with patient hope it stood in its white dress in the
white snow, bowing its head when the snow flakes fell and courageously
lifting it again when the sunbeams scattered the clouds.
“A snowdrop,” shouted the children who came running into the garden.
“There it stands so pretty, so beautiful—the first, the only one. It is
spring’s messenger.
“Spring’s messenger,” echoed from the keen morning air.
WHAT THE DANDELION TOLD
CLARA MAETZEL
Mother Earth and the little flower fairies had been very busy indeed
getting ready for their great Spring opening. For weeks and weeks they
had been preparing all the little flower children so that they would be
ready to respond to the call of the robin and to the caresses of the sun
and the soft west wind.
First of all, Snowdrop had been made ready because she was one of the
very first to venture out into the world. And she and her many little
sisters, very prim and neat in their white starched frocks, sat quite
near the door. Sometimes Snowdrop would not wait for the robin and
the sun to call her, but she would slip out quietly at the first warm
shower. Nearby sat a whole row of happy Crocuses, gay and pretty in their
bell-shaped dresses of white and purple and gold. Violets, nestling in
their soft green coats, were there, and “Daffy-down-dilly dressed in a
green petticoat and a new gown” was quite ready to “come to town.” Then
there was dainty Spring Beauty and the proud and flaming Tulip and all
the other dear, early flowers that make the world so beautiful after ice
and snow are gone.
Yes,—every one was very busy and very happy,—every one,—except one poor,
forlorn, little flower that sat, or rather lay, all alone in one corner.
He did not look spick and span like the others, but his green coat hung
about him quite wilted and soiled and his golden head drooped. He seemed
very unhappy indeed.
“Come, come, Dandelion,—do tell us what has happened; you look quite
crushed,” exclaimed one of the fairies, stopping long enough in her task
of mixing colours to notice the dejected little flower.
“Yes, Dandelion, do tell us,” cried Crocus who was all ready to push his
little flower face out into the open air and who was waiting for the
first opportunity to do so.
“Dandelion will tell us what has happened,” softly whispered Violet as
she came closer to what was left of poor Dandelion.
“Well,—since all of you seem so interested I will tell you what happened.
It certainly took all the conceit out of me,—I still feel weak and pale.
You know that we Dandelions are bold and venturesome folks and some of us
make our appearance in warm and sunny places long before any of the rest
of you have the courage to come out. Indeed it has long been a matter of
pride with us to have some person find us even before Snowdrop makes her
appearance.”
Snowdrop looked hurt at this, but said nothing and Dandelion continued:
“And so it happened that several of us slipped out and sprouted quietly
and happily in Farmer Brown’s front yard. It was such a nice place,—the
sun shone brightly and coaxed us to put our best blossoms—they were so
large and yellow that I am sure they must have looked almost as fine as
Chrysanthemum.”
Several of the flowers cast startled looks into the dark corner where the
Chrysanthemum brothers and sisters were sleeping. But their slumbers
were so sound, since they would not wake until autumn, that they did not
hear Dandelion’s boastful remark.
“We made a beautiful spot of yellow on the lawn,” continued Dandelion.
“Well, yesterday Farmer and Mrs. Brown were out in the garden and they
saw us.
“‘Oh, see the dandelions! How early they are this year. I shall have to
call the children.’”
“With that Mrs. Brown went into the house to call her little boy and girl
who came out and greeted us joyfully.
“‘Let me see, Jack, if you like butter,’ said Ruth, as she held one of
my blossoms under her brother’s chin. It surely looked quite yellow by
reflection and of course this was a sure sign that he liked butter.
“‘Come, Ruth, let’s see if we can get enough stems to make a chain for
you,’ cried Jack, and they found enough of my hollow stems to make a
chain to go around Ruth’s little white throat.
“By this time I felt we were doing much to make the children happy and I
lifted my head proudly and whispered to my companions that surely we were
useful as well as beautiful. Just then Mrs. Brown called the children
into the house and we were left alone in the garden.
“But not for long—Alas! Farmer Brown who had gone away while the children
were with us now returned with a strange, sharp and shining tool in his
hand. He came straight to where we were growing so happily and said:
“‘Now we’ll see whether this new weeding knife won’t kill these pesky
dandelions. Every year they spread more and more so that by and by
there’ll not be any grass. Perhaps by starting in early to weed them out
we can get rid of the pests!’ With that he dug the instrument deep into
the ground and pulled up all my lovely little brothers and sisters. I
alone remained, but even I was badly bruised as you can see, and I have
come back to tell you how cruelly I have been treated. Wasn’t it an
unkind thing? I had always thought that people loved us,—for we make the
fields and meadows glow with the sun’s own colour.” And poor Dandelion
drooped his golden head and was as sad as it is possible for a golden
headed flower to be.
All the other flower children had looked very solemn and sympathetic
during Dandelion’s story and when he had finished, they crowded about him.
“It’s just a shame,” murmured Crocus; “I hope no one will treat me so
rudely.”
“Yes indeed,” whispered Snowdrop, “it would certainly be a painful
misfortune to have one’s roots cut to pieces by a patent weeder,” and she
shuddered so violently that her stiff little petticoats fairly shook.
But Mother Earth and the fairies only smiled and said nothing, for they
knew quite well that it would take many, many farmers and more weeders
than they could ever hope to buy to get rid of Dandelion and his numerous
brothers and sisters.
And the little fairy who was Dandelion’s particular friend laid her tiny
hand on his tousled golden head as she whispered, “Never mind, Dandelion
dear, you are the children’s friend and companion and good old Mother
Earth will never let you perish. She sends forth more of your kind than
any other; she has made you so sturdy and strong that you can thrive
almost anywhere—and I truly think that she loves you best.”
We may shut our eyes
But we can’t help knowing
That skies are blue,
And the grass is growing.
_James Russell Lowell._
A GREAT FAMILY
AGNES MACLELLAN DAULTON
It was a lovely day in May, and the Dandelion family that lived near
the big gate were lifting their pretty golden heads to greet the sun.
Here and there a grandfather or grandmother Dandelion stood crowned with
silver, and, let us whisper it softly, one or two were quite bald, for a
playful little breeze had sent their hair a-sailing, and he chuckled at
his joke, the naughty breeze.
Now one grandmother stood upon a little knoll, and so was much taller
than the rest. Indeed, she was the chief grandmother of the family, and
much respected for her wisdom. And she was very handsome and stately,
holding her graceful silver head high above the others.
“A story, a story,” coaxed her grandchildren, turning their eager faces
toward her. Some of them were tiny buds, but they all begged for a story.
“No, children, no,” she replied, in a sweet, grandmotherly tone. “Really,
my dears, you have had far more stories than are good for you, and I must
not let you grow up uneducated. I think we will have a short lesson in
family history.”
The little Dandelions sighed.
“Now,” she went on, “how many of you know why we are called Dandelions?”
And—will you believe it?—not one stupid little Dandelion could answer!
“That is just what I expected,” said grandmother, sternly, eyeing them
over her glasses. “My, my! this is very sad!”
Then one little Dandelion, prompted by his mother, said he supposed it
had something to do with dandies, while another bright little thing
lisped out that she guessed it was because they were as fierce as lions.
“No, no!” and grandmother shook her head so briskly a silver hair went
flying.
“Look at your leaves,” she said kindly, “and observe the edges. Learn to
notice, florets; learn to notice.”
“The edges are pointed like sharp teeth, please, grandmother,” half
whispered one bashful little fellow.
“Exactly,” said grandmother, proceeding learnedly; “our name is from the
Latin, _dens leonis_, meaning lion’s tooth, but our botanical name is
Taraxacum.”
“Oh, my!” sighed the little buds, for they didn’t understand a word of it.
“Our roots have healing properties, and they are employed in making
medicine, while our leaves are used in the spring for food; so we are
useful as well as ornamental.” And the grandmother beamed with pride.
“But, children, you must also know that we belong to the great and noble
family of _Compositæ_.”
“Oh, dear!” gasped the little Dandelions.
“Now you know composite means made up of many parts; that is, each
blossom is made up of many little florets. Study each other’s heads and
you will understand my meaning. Now in this great family of _Compositæ_
there are many, many flowers besides the Dandelions. In fact, my
children, we have over nine thousand relatives. Sunflowers, marigolds,
asters, goldenrod, boneset, tansy, lettuce, and the daisy—all these
belong to our family. Not only are we many, but we have the famous and
the great among us—the thistle, royal flower of Scotland; the cornflower
of Germany; the chrysanthemum, the emblem of brave little Japan—all these
are composite flowers, our royal relatives.”
The Dandelion family wildly applauded, and grandmother graciously bowed
her acknowledgment.
“But, my children,” she went on, “I would not have you forget we have
also black sheep in the family—Spanish needles, ragweed, bitterweed, and
beggar ticks; these, too, we must own, even though we bow our heads in
shame. But so it is in all great families.”
Just at this moment the gardener came whirring along with the lawn mower,
and alas and alack, not a single Dandelion was left to tell the tale!
But the little winged seeds from grandmother’s silver crown sailed away,
carrying wisdom, I doubt not, to many another Dandelion family.
THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET
A LEGEND
The raindrops were kept busy one morning in the garden of the fairies.
There were many flowers to be washed clean of the dust that had dulled
their beautiful colours, and the green of the trees must be made bright
once more; and to leave without a gambol with the little waves of the
brook was not to be thought of. So the raindrops fell early in the
morning, but in the afternoon the sky became clear and there was promise
in the beautiful rainbow that the raindrops’ work was done, for that day
at least.
“Isn’t our garden beautiful after a shower?” said one fairy to another
sitting beside her.
“Yes, the dust covers the colours of the flowers almost as soon as we
have painted them. But see the gold of those daffodils! I like the reds
and blues of the other flowers, too. They seem brighter than ever to-day.
Sometimes I sit all day and look at them.”
“Oh! we have a rainbow this afternoon. It always looks to me like a great
garden of flowers stretched in bands across the sky. I like to think that
its yellow and red and blue are made up of flowers like these in our
garden here.”
“Do you see that colour next to the green? I love it; it is so dark and
deep. Many times I have wished we might have a flower on earth just like
it.”
“Surely you, Fairy Artist, would have no trouble to make a colour like
that; at least, it would do no harm for you to try.”
The fairy artist sat with her eyes turned toward the rainbow until it had
faded from sight, and long after the sun had sunk to rest, she sat alone
under the trees, thinking.
One morning she called all the fairies to her. “Dear fairies,” she said,
“I am going to try to make a colour like that dark one in the rainbow.
It may take me a long, long while, but one cannot give the children a
greater joy than to add a new colour to the flowers on earth.”
No one knew better than she that a great task lay before her. Many days
and weeks she tried. Sometimes the mixture was lighter than the colour in
the rainbow, and sometimes it seemed too dark—never quite what she wished
it to be.
Once, as she stood before the large bowl, mixing and stirring
patiently—she stopped, and the fairies in the garden heard a shout of
joy: “I have it! the beautiful colour! the beautiful colour!”
They hurried to the place where she always stood with her bowl and brush.
“See, it is the colour, indeed,” they said; but, as they looked into the
bowl, the beautiful colour began to fade, and soon it was not at all like
the colour she had longed for.
“Ah, I see,” said the artist fairy, sadly, “it is of no use to mix
together these paints that I have been using. We must gather my material
from all the colours of earth. My dear fairies, you must all help.” Many
were sent far and wide to bring from the earth clays of every colour they
could find. The artist fairy worked on faithfully and patiently.
One day when she had worked harder and longer than usual, she heard one
say, “Surely, Artist Fairy, you do not mean to work all the evening? See,
the sun is ready to sink.”
“Just a little longer; I feel sure that the colour will come before
sunset. Look, does it not begin even now to change?”
The fairies looked into the bowl and all exclaimed at once, “The colour
at last! It is indeed the deep colour of the rainbow!”
“Let us carry the bowl to the top of the bank and at moonlight we will
rejoice over the new joy that has come to us.”
It was a small bank that overlooked a little brook. Flowers had never
grown there and sometimes the fairies felt sad when they looked upon that
bare spot in their garden. Perhaps the great tree that spread out its
branches took more than its share of the sunshine, but the fairies loved
this bank. Moonbeams always seemed to lie so still there. “It’s just the
place for our moonlight revel!” said one.
All the creatures of the fairies’ garden came to the rejoicing. The night
was glorious. The moon sent down her silvery beams earlier than usual,
although the fireflies insisted that there was no need of her shining
so brightly, and that she might throw all her beams to the waves in
the brook, for they looked so beautiful with a silver covering. Not a
grasshopper went to bed, and the frog made the music for the dance, at
which the cricket felt sad, for she knew her voice could not be heard
above his. The flowers sang their sweetest songs about the new colour
that was to come among them. It was not late when the fairies joined
hands and danced around the bowl. Perhaps this moonlight revel would have
lasted many hours longer, but as the fairies were finishing the dance,
one of them touched the precious bowl and alas! the next moment they saw
the beautiful colour flow in tiny dark streams down the hillside. For a
little while it glistened beneath the rays of the moon, and then it sank
into the dark earth. The fairies stood and watched it, helpless.
“It is all lost. It is all gone in a moment,” said the Artist Fairy, as
she turned for comfort to the rest.
“No, no, my dear Fairy. What you have once done you can do again.”
“I do not remember how it was made. No, I cannot get it again. It is gone
forever.”
“Do not say that, I beg of you. Have you not heard it said that ‘nothing
is lost’?”
* * * * *
Once more the raindrops visited the garden, and the fairies worked all
day long and all night long before everything was done.
“It is so refreshing when the garden has been washed clean again of its
dust.”
“See,” cried one. “See our bank this morning.”
“It is covered with a carpet of purple! Come, let us look closer,” called
another.
“It is the colour! It is the colour!” said the Artist Fairy, as she
hastened toward the bank. “Nothing is lost,” she added, softly as she
looked closer. For purple violets had been born that morning while the
raindrops fell.
God does not send us strange flowers every year.
When the spring winds blow o’er the pleasant places,
The same dear things lift up the same fair faces.
The violet is here!
It all comes back; the odour, grace and hue;
Each sweet relation of its life repeated.
No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated:
It is the thing we knew.
A LYRIC OF JOY
BLISS CARMAN
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune,
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea;
A host in the sunshine, a snowdrift in June,
The people God sends us to set our hearts free.
The bob-o-links rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well,”
And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.”
AMONG THE TREE-TOPS
ROBIN’S CAROL[7]
This is the carol the Robin throws
Over the edge of the valley;
Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally:
Tirra-lirra,
Early morn,
New born!
Day is near,
Clear, clear.
Down the river
All a-quiver,
Fish are breaking;
Time for waking.
Tup, tup, tup!
Do you know?
All clear—
Wake up!
_Henry van Dyke._
HOW THE BIRDS CAME
AN INDIAN LEGEND
“Many years ago,” says the old Indian Grandmother, “the Great Spirit
visited the earth. As he walked over valley and hill he said, ‘It is all
beautiful and good. But the Great Spirit loves the trees best. See how
they make the hills and valleys radiant with their green. Earth would be
fairer still,’ said the Great Spirit, ‘if there were trees everywhere.
I would have great forests cover the mountain sides. I would see trees
as far as my eye can reach across the land. I would have a tree spring
up wherever my foot touches the earth!’ And it was as the Great Spirit
wished. As he wandered up and down the mountains and valleys and across
the plains, little trees sprang up in his footsteps, until the whole
earth, like the hills and valleys, was radiant in green. ‘The Great
Spirit loves the little trees best,’ he said, when he looked upon them.
‘Little trees, I will watch over you and guard you. I will send gentle
rains that you may have water to drink. I will send my warm sun to shine
upon you. And you must grow and grow and grow.’ All summer long the Great
Spirit cared for them, and when the first summer had passed and the
winter came, the little trees had grown until they spread their branches
far and wide.
“But one autumn day a great change came over the radiant green. All the
leaves on the trees turned to beautiful colours—red, yellow, brown, gold.
‘They are beautiful, beautiful,’ said the Great Spirit. ‘My trees have
never been so beautiful before.’
“As he spoke a gentle wind stirred the branches and the Great Spirit saw
the leaves drop from the trees, flutter through the air and fall to the
ground.
“‘See,’ he exclaimed, ‘the leaves of my trees fall to the earth where
they will wither and die. This shall not be. Behold, my leaves, I am the
Great Spirit. I will give you breath and strength. You shall not die—you
shall live forever.’
“He breathed softly upon the coloured leaves. In a moment hundreds of
leaves moved, then fluttered, then flew away—a flock, of beautiful birds.
The red-brown oak leaves became robins; all the yellow and gold leaves
became yellow birds. The red-maple leaves flew away beautiful red birds,
while the withered brown leaves scattered around, sprang up sparrows and
larks.”
The Indian Grandmother says that is how we got our first birds, and that
is why the birds love the trees and always live among them.
HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED TO BUILD NESTS[8]
JAMES BALDWIN
There is an old story which says that the magpie was the first bird to
build a nest.
One day all the birds came to her and said, “Mrs. Magpie, won’t you teach
us how to make pretty nests like your own?”
“Oh, yes,” said the magpie, kindly. “I will show you just how it is
done.” Then she told them to sit around her, and she would build a nest
while they were looking on. She said, “You have only to notice what I do.”
She brought some mud from the side of the brook and made it into a kind
of round cake. The birds sat very still, and watched her until the cake
was finished. Then the thrush cried out, “Oh, I see how the nest is
built! You first make a cake of mud and then pat it down in the middle.”
And she flew away to try for herself; and no thrush has learned anything
about nest-building since.
The magpie next took some twigs, and laid them round the cake of mud.
“Say no more!” cried the blackbird. “I understand it all.” Away he flew
to the green thickets by the river; and that is how blackbirds build
their nests to this very day.
Then the magpie put a thin layer of mud on the twigs, and smoothed it a
little with her beak. “Oh, that is all that I need to know,” said the
wise owl. “Who—who—who would have thought it so simple a thing?” He flew
to the top of a great oak tree, where he sat for a long time, looking at
the moon and saying, “Who—who—who!”
Then the magpie took some long, slender twigs, and twined them round the
outside. “That is just the thing!” cried the song sparrow, and off he
went. And song sparrows still make their nests by twining twigs.
After this, the magpie took some feathers and fine moss, and lined the
nest until it was a very comfortable place indeed.
“That suits me!” said the starling, and off he flew. And everybody knows
that starlings have built well-lined nests ever since.
The magpie kept on working and working. But every bird, when he had
learned a little about nest-building, flew away without waiting to the
end of the lesson. At last no one was left but the turtledove. It had
paid no attention to what the magpie was doing, and so had not learned
anything at all.
It sat on a branch above the magpie’s nest, and kept saying over and over
again, “Take two, two, two, two!” But it was looking far away toward the
blue mountains in the west, and its thoughts were all with its dear mate
whom a cruel hawk had lately snatched away.
“Take two, two, two, two,” mourned the dove. The magpie heard this just
as she was twining a slender twig around the top of her nest. So, without
looking up, she said, “One will be enough.”
But the dove kept on saying, “Take two, two, two, two.” This made the
magpie angry, and she said, “Don’t I tell you that one will be enough?”
“Take two, two, two, two!” still cried the turtledove. At last the magpie
looked up and saw that no bird was near her but the silly dove.
“I’ll never give another lesson in nest building!” she cried. And she
flew away and left the dove alone in the tree.
It was no use, after that, for any bird to ask the magpie how to make a
nest; and, from that day to this, no bird has learned anything new about
its trade.
All the blackbirds, the thrushes, the owls, and the doves, still build
just as they did a thousand years ago. None of them seem to want better
nests; and I doubt if any could learn how to make them now, even though
the magpie should try to teach them again.
OUT OF THE NEST.[9]
MAUD LINDSAY
Once upon a time a mother bird and father bird built a nest in a tree. It
was made of straw and leaves and all sorts of wonderful things, and even
had lace trimmings on it.
Soon after the nest was finished, the mother bird put two eggs in it,
and then she and the father bird thought of nothing but keeping those
eggs safe and warm. Mother bird sat on them day and night; and even when
father bird would say, “You really must fly about a little and let me
take care of the eggs,” she did not like to leave them.