There was the shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the garden. But he was
so rough!—he would most likely whisk all the eggs off the cabbage-leaf
with one brush of his tail, if she called him near to talk to her, and
then she should never forgive herself. There was the Tom Cat, to be
sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot of the apple-tree, basking
himself and warming his fur in the sunshine; but he was so selfish and
indifferent!—there was no hope of his giving himself the trouble to think
about butterflies’ eggs. “I wonder which is the wisest of all the animals
I know,” sighed the Caterpillar, in great distress; and then she thought,
and thought, till at last she thought of the Lark; and she fancied that
because he went up so high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be
very clever, and know a great deal; for to go up very high (which she
could never do) was the Caterpillar’s idea of perfect glory.
Now in the neighbouring corn-field there lived a Lark, and the
Caterpillar sent a message to him, to beg him to come and talk to her,
and when he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked him what
she was to do to feed and rear the little creatures so different from
herself.
“Perhaps you will be able to inquire and hear something about it the next
time you go up high,” observed the Caterpillar, timidly.
The Lark said, “Perhaps he should;” but he did not satisfy her curiosity
any further. Soon afterwards, however, he went singing upwards into the
bright blue sky. By degrees his voice died away in the distance till the
green Caterpillar could not hear a sound. It is nothing to say she could
not see him, for, poor thing, she never could see far at any time, and
had a difficulty in looking upwards at all, even when she reared herself
up most carefully, which she did now; but it was of no use, so she
dropped upon her legs again, and resumed her walk round the Butterfly’s
eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along.
“What a time the Lark has been gone!” she cried, at last. “I wonder where
he is just now! I would give all my legs to know! He must have flown up
higher than usual this time, I do think! How I should like to know where
it is that he goes to, and what he hears in that curious blue sky! He
always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets any secret out.
He is very close!”
And the green Caterpillar took another turn round the Butterfly’s eggs.
At last the Lark’s voice began to be heard again. The Caterpillar almost
jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend descend
with hushed note to the cabbage bed.
“News, news, glorious news, friend Caterpillar!” sang the Lark; “but the
worst of it is, you won’t believe me!”
“I believe everything I am told,” observed the Caterpillar, hastily.
“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what these little creatures
are to eat”—and the Lark nodded his beak towards the eggs. “What do you
think it is to be? Guess!”
“Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am afraid,” sighed the Caterpillar.
“No such thing! Something simpler than that. Something _you_ can get at
quite easily.”
“I can get at nothing quite easily but the cabbage-leaves,” murmured the
Caterpillar, in distress.
“Excellent! my good friend,” cried the Lark, exultingly; “you have found
it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves.”
“_Never!_” cried the Caterpillar, indignantly. “It was their mother’s
last request that I should do no such thing.”
“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” persisted the Lark; “but
why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have neither faith
nor trust.”
“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said the Caterpillar.
“Nay, but you do not,” replied the Lark; “you won’t believe me even about
the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have to tell you.
Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to
be?”
“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the Caterpillar.
“_Caterpillars!_” sang the Lark; “and you’ll find it out in time;” and
the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and contest the point
with his friend.
“I thought the Lark had been wise and kind,” observed the mild green
Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, “but I find
that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up _too_ high this
time. Ah, it’s a pity when people who soar so high are silly and rude
nevertheless! Dear! I still wonder whom he sees, and what he does up
yonder.”
“I would tell you if you would believe me,” sang the Lark, descending
once more.
“I believe everything I am told,” reiterated the Caterpillar, with as
grave a face as if it were a fact.
“Then I’ll tell you something else,” cried the Lark; “for the best of my
news remains behind. _You will one day be a Butterfly yourself._”
“Wretched bird!” exclaimed the Caterpillar, “you jest with my
inferiority—now you are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I will ask
your advice no more.”
“I told you you would not believe me,” cried the Lark.
“I believe everything that I am told,” persisted the Caterpillar; “that
is”—and she hesitated—“everything that is _reasonable_ to believe. But
to tell me that butterflies’ eggs are caterpillars, and that caterpillars
leave off crawling and get wings, and become butterflies!—Lark! you
are too wise to believe such nonsense yourself, for you know it is
impossible.”
“I know no such thing,” said the Lark, warmly. “Whether I hover over the
cornfields of earth, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many
wonderful things, I know no reason why there should not be more. Oh,
Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because you never get beyond your
cabbage-leaf, that you call _any_ thing _impossible_.”
“Nonsense!” shouted the Caterpillar, “I know what’s possible, and what’s
not possible, according to my experience and capacity, as well as you do.
Look at my long green body and these endless legs, and then talk to me
about having wings and a painted feathery coat.”
“You would-be-wise Caterpillar!” cried the indignant Lark. “Do you
not hear how my song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the
mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, Caterpillar; what comes to you from
thence, receive, as I do, upon trust.”
“That is what you call—”
“Faith,” interrupted the Lark.
“How am I to learn Faith?” asked the Caterpillar.
At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round—eight or
ten little green caterpillars were moving about, and had already made a
show of a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the Butterfly’s
eggs!
Shame and amazement filled our green friend’s heart, but joy soon
followed; for, as the first wonder was possible, the second might be so
too. “Teach me your lesson, Lark!” she would say; and the Lark sang to
her of the wonders of the earth below and of the heaven above. And the
Caterpillar talked all the rest of her life to her relations of the time
when she should be a Butterfly.
But none of them believed her. She nevertheless had learnt the Lark’s
lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis, she said—
“I shall be a Butterfly some day!”
But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said, “Poor
thing!”
And when she was a Butterfly, and was going to die again, she said—
“I have known many wonders—I have faith—I can trust even now for what
shall come next!”
THE WIND, A HELPER
MARY STEWART
A little girl was once standing in a dark, narrow street playing with
some bits of coloured paper she had found in an ash-can. Suddenly a gust
of wind came around the street-corner. It blew the coloured scraps right
out of the child’s hand and carried them up over her head, then higher
still, over the house-tops, until they were out of sight.
Janie, that was the little girl’s name, watched them fly away, with tears
in her eyes. Her busy mother had given her this day for a holiday, she
had no toys to play with, and she loved those gay bits of paper. As she
looked after the scraps up into the little patch of blue sky, which was
all she could see between the high houses, she saw a small, white cloud
scudding along, just the way the papers had flown.
“What makes the cloud fly so fast?” thought Janie, and as if in answer
another gust of wind came blowing down the street. “Oh, wind, blow me,
too,” cried Janie, “take me up in the sky with the cloud,” and she held
out her little petticoat.
The wind filled it and blew her—well, it didn’t quite blow her into the
sky, but it did a kinder thing. It blew her down the dark, narrow street,
through other streets, each getting wider and cleaner, until at last it
blew her right into the country. There she found herself racing over
green fields, with the sky overhead so big and so blue that the clouds
looked like a flock of little sheep. There for a moment the wind left
her—he had other things to do—and Janie stood looking around her happy
and surprised. It was a spring day and the grass, which was waving in
the wind, was soft and green and full of buttercups and daisies. “Far
prettier than my scraps of paper,” thought Janie. The trees were covered
with new, green leaves, some of them were dressed in pink and white
blossoms, and their branches swayed in the wind as if they were waving a
welcome to the little girl. But she didn’t have long to stand and look.
Back came the wind, bringing new scents of blossoms and other sweet
spring things with him, and off the child ran again.
Presently she saw in front of her a shining blue line, and when she
reached it she found it was the sea. If any one of us has ever seen the
sea on a clear windy day we can never forget it, and that is just the way
Janie felt. The waves were high and blue, but they wore great white caps
which broke against the wind, and he scattered them into splendid foamy
bits of spray, while the waves came dashing over the beach.
It was all so beautiful that Janie took a long, deep breath of wind, and
suddenly her cheeks grew pink and her eyes bright, and you never would
have known she was the pale, sad little Janie who stood in the dark
street watching her scraps of paper blow away.
She was standing on the beach gazing out to sea in astonishment. For
there, on the blue water, was something which looked like a great bird
with its wings outspread, only it was far bigger than any bird, and as
it skimmed over the water she saw men moving upon it. Can you guess
what it was? It was a splendid ship; but as Janie had never seen one
before, except in pictures, she was much puzzled. “What makes it fly so
fast?” she wondered, and for an answer the wind blew her along the beach,
through a garden, and almost into a little white cottage, where a woman
was standing with a baby in her arms.
She didn’t seem to mind a bit when she saw a strange little girl come
flying down the garden path to her house. She just laughed and cried,
“This is another trick of my friend the wind.” Then she laid the baby
down in a cradle and took both Janie’s hands, making her sit on the door
step where the wind had dropped her.
“Please, ma’am,” said Janie, when she could get her breath, “can you tell
me what makes the boat sail?” The woman laughed again and answered, “Why,
this beautiful wind blows her along, of course; that is only one of the
hundreds of things the wind does for us. He can blow so hard that the
great ships are just driven before him, and he can blow so softly that
my baby is rocked to sleep. Look at the cradle now.” Janie looked, and
there in the light wind which seemed to be full of the scent of blossoms,
the cradle was rocking so gently that the baby had fallen asleep. Then
the mother brought Janie a bowl of bread and milk, and while she ate it
they talked about the wind.
“He blows away the dead leaves with such fury,” said the mother, “that
they tear along in front of my window like a flock of frightened birds.
But when he finds a little flower beneath the leaves he blows on its
petals so softly that it feels as if its mother were kissing it.
“Sometimes, when it comes from the North, it brings snow and hail and the
beautiful frosts of winter. But when it comes from the South it brings
sweet scents and soft, warm air. The East Wind often brings rain and
mist, and some people don’t like it, but the ground needs the rain, the
flowers love it, and the East Wind is a gift from God, just as the others
are. The West Wind is blowing to-day, and that is why the world looks so
fresh and shining.”
So they talked most of the afternoon, the mother and Janie, until when
the sun began to sink and the ship came sailing homeward, Janie turned
again toward the city.
Very gently this time the wind blew her along, beside orchards where the
trees were rustling their leaves like lullabies, and through meadows
where, like sleepy children, the flowers were nodding their heads for
good-night to the dear West Wind.
And although she was leaving it all, Janie was very happy. The woman in
the cottage by the sea had told her to come back on her next holiday. And
she knew that although she could not always see the dancing trees and
flowers and waves and ships, she would remember that they were waiting
for her every time she heard the wind rattling the window or blowing
among the chimneys.
Just before she went to sleep she looked out of her tiny window through
which a patch of sky could be seen. It was a dark, cloudy patch, and
Janie was just turning away from it when the clouds began to move. The
wind was still at work, in an instant the clouds had been blown away, and
through that tiny window Janie saw a bright, clear star shining down
upon her. “Thank you, dear wind,” she whispered. And then, as she cuddled
down to sleep she seemed to hear the wind, or was it the star, singing
softly, “Thank God, thank God.”
THE SPRINGING TREE: WILLOWS
MRS. DYSON
The willow is one of the greatest of Mother Nature’s puzzles. It will
give you years of pleasure before you have fully found out all its
secrets. What is the puzzle? Perhaps you say, We all know a willow. Do
you? Let us see how much you know. It is a weeping tree; its branches and
leaves drop to the ground. That is true sometimes, not always. It grows
by the water side. Neither is that always true. In early spring it has
buds like soft pussy-cats, which you love to gather, and stroke against
your faces, and in summer it has long narrow leaves.
Yes, but if you look at all the pussy-cats you can find, you will see
that they are very different from one another. The willow has two kinds
of tails growing on different trees. One tree has flowers made of
stamens, another tree has flowers containing seed-bags, and even of
these two kinds you will find many different sorts. Then if you will look
at the same trees when the leaves come out, you will perhaps be surprised
to see that they have not all leaves of the same sort. Some are long,
narrow and pointed, but some are broad and rounded; some are white and
silky, some are crumpled and downy.
Now you see what is the great puzzle. When you see a tree with a long
narrow leaf like a sword, you are sure at once it is a willow. The
willow gives its name to this shape; for when we see other plants with
leaves of this pattern, we always call them willow-leaves. The flowers
of all the willows are very much alike. They all grow on tails, true
pussy-cats’ tails, so soft and silky are they. But they are the tails of
angry pussy-cats, for they stand up straight and stiff and thick; they
do not hang down wagging and waving in a good-tempered way. The flowers
are soft silky scales, fastened closely together on the stalk. On the
tails of one tree, under each scale, there are two, three or five slender
stamens, each with a double yellow head and between these and the stem
there is a little honey-bag. Under the scales of another tree’s tails
there are beautiful silken seed-bags, shaped like pears, the pointed
end just divided into two sticky horns. When the seeds are ripe, these
lovely silk bags split open at the point, and the two horns curl back in
a beautiful way, like two doors opening to make way for the crowd of tiny
seeds, each one with a great plume of whitest silk, which tries to spread
out to the sun and fresh air. The opening seed-bags of all the willows
are a charming sight. What is all this silk for? To keep the seeds warm?
Yes, and also to float them through the air to a place where they may
take root and grow. You must look out for them early in the year, in
late spring and early summer, long before other seeds are ripe. You will
find that the birds are also on the lookout,—for food you suppose? No,
they are building their nests, and they want something nice and soft
with which to line them and make a comfortable bed for the eggs and the
little birds; and what could they have better than this yellow silk? The
thistledown is all destroyed by the winter rains and there is nothing
else ready yet.
The willow is the earliest tree, except the hazel, to say that spring is
coming. It begins to get ready in the autumn. Then the buds swell and
often burst, so that you can see the tufts of white silk peeping out as
if the flowers were in such a hurry they could not wait till the spring.
All the winter they are growing, but you are so busy skating and snow
balling whenever you go out that you have no time to watch them, and
are quite surprised at the first glimpse of the soft pussy-cats in the
spring. At first only the silky scales show, but soon after the golden
heads or the funny two-horned bottles hang out and the fruit is ripe by
the time other trees have opened their flowers.
Some people say there are two hundred different kinds of willow trees but
others think this is making too much of slight differences. There are
about fifteen kinds which are so very different from one another that you
will easily be able to discover them.
You already know well, four kinds of willow. Two of them are large trees;
one of these is always found by the water-side bending over the still
slow streams. It is called the _white_ willow because its leaves are
covered on both sides with soft white silk.
The other is the willow tree which grows most frequently in our gardens
and by the road side. Its leaves are like those of the white willow
in shape, but on the upper side they are bright green; with no silky
covering. This is called the _crack_ willow, because its branches crack
and break at the joints so easily. Give them just a little blow and they
snap at once. These are the only kinds of willow that grow into large
trees. They are generally very crooked trees; their trunks split and bend
and sometimes when near a stream they stretch over it as if they wanted
to make a bridge across.
The other two willows that you know well are large shrubs or little trees
not much taller than a man. One of them bears very silky catkins, and its
leaves are always silky, quite white on the under side. This willow has
long, slender arms like fairies’ wands. Cinderella’s godmother may have
used one of them. This is the osier of which we make our baskets. If you
try to break off one of these long arms, you may tug and tug away, but
all in vain, they are so tough; and as your hand slips there comes off
into it a long roll of bark, leaving the branch smooth and white. You can
bend these slender shoots as much as you like and still they will not
snap, and so they are just what we want for weaving into light baskets.
The other shrub or little tree is perhaps the willow that you know best
in the spring. It grows in the hedge everywhere and is called the _goat
willow_ or _sallow_. It has purplish brown branches and from it you
probably gather your first pussy-cats. It flowers with the snowdrop,
even while it is yet winter, in cold February or March. The first warm
sunshine is better than any fairy’s wand for it turns these flowers into
gold. Then the bees rejoice; the food they have had in their hives during
the winter is nearly done, and other flowers have scarcely dared to think
of opening yet. But the bees know the secrets of the flowers and they
are quite aware of the wee honey bag hidden in every flower of that thick
tail.
So you see this tree seems so full of life and joy, it grows so fast, and
is so willing and obliging, that we call it by the name willow, which
means the “springing” tree.
PUSSY WILLOW
KATE LOUISE BROWN
All winter Miss Pussy had been shut up in her house by the brook; but one
bright morning in early spring, the door of her house opened. Then she
stepped out to see the world.
The swelling buds were rocking to and fro on the branches, the grass
blades were peeping above the ground, and a few brave flowers were
opening their sleepy eyes.
“Dear me!” cried Pussy, “the wind is sharp and cold, if it is a bright
day.”
“Why, whom have we here?” asked the brook in great surprise. “True as I
live, it is Miss Pussy Willow! Good morning, Pussy, you are out bright
and early; but why do you wear that fur hood? Summer is coming and the
days grow warmer.”
“Oh, Mother Nature told me to wear it, lest I get a toothache.”
Everybody was glad to see Pussy. The little brook, the grass, the buds,
and the little spring birds. But they were all very curious to know why
she wore her fur hood.
Poor Pussy! she was tempted more than once to take it off, so much was
said about it. But she didn’t; she thought best to mind Mother Nature.
Now, it grieves me to say Mr. Robin was very bold and saucy. He whispered
some unkind things to Pussy’s friends one day. The next morning, when
Pussy opened her eyes, the birds, the buds, the brook, the grass, and the
flowers began to whisper to themselves: “Do you suppose Pussy Willow has
to wear her hood because she has no hair? Poor Pussy Willow!”
Poor Pussy Willow! Brave Pussy felt very sad. All she said was: “Wait and
see.”
How surprised every one was a few days after this! There was Pussy Willow
with no fur hood on her head, but bright golden curls were dancing up and
down in the breeze.
“Pussy Willow is not a baldhead; she wears beautiful golden curls,” cried
all her friends. Mr. Robin hid his head and flew away, very much ashamed.
THE DRAGON FLY
MRS. ALFRED GATTY
“I wonder what becomes of the Frog when he climbs up out of this world,
and disappears so that we do not see even his shadow; till, plop! he is
among us again. Does anybody know where he goes to?”
Thus chattered the grub of a Dragon fly as he darted about with his
companions in and out among the plants at the bottom of a beautiful pond
in the centre of a wood.
“Who cares what the Frog does?” answered one who overheard the Grub’s
question, “what is it to us?”
“Look out for food for yourself and let other people’s business alone,”
cried another. “But I should like to know,” said the grub. “I can see all
of you when you pass by me among the plants in the water here, and when
I don’t see you any longer I wonder where you have gone. I followed the
Frog just now as he went upwards, and all at once he went to the side of
the water, then he began to disappear and presently he was gone. Did he
leave this world? And where did he go?”
“You idle fellow,” cried another. “See what a good bite you have missed
with your wonderings about nothing.” So saying he seized an insect which
was flitting right in front of the Grub.
Suddenly there was a heavy splash in the water and a large yellow Frog
swam down to the bottom among the grubs.
“Ask the Frog himself,” suggested a minnow as he darted by overhead.
Such a chance of satisfying himself was not to be lost, and after taking
two or three turns round the roots of a water-lily, the grub screwed up
his courage and, approaching the Frog, asked, “Is it permitted to a very
unhappy creature to speak?”
The Frog turned his gold edged eyes upon him in surprise and answered,
“Very unhappy creatures had better be silent. I never talk but when I’m
happy.”
“But I shall be happy if I may talk,” said the Grub.
“Talk away then,” said the Frog.
“But it is something I want to ask you.”
“Ask away,” exclaimed the Frog.
“What is there beyond the world?” inquired the Grub in a very quiet way.
“What world do you mean—this pond?” asked the Frog, rolling his goggle
eyes round and round.
“I mean the place we live in whatever you may choose to call it. I call
it the world,” said the Grub.
“Do you, sharp little fellow? Then what is the place you don’t live in?”
“That’s just what I want you to tell me,” replied the little Grub.
“Oh, indeed, little one. I shall tell you, then. It is dry land.”
“Can one swim about there?” inquired the Grub.
“I should think not,” chuckled the Frog.
“Dry land is not water. That is just what it is _not_. Dry land is
something like the sludge at the bottom of this pond, only it is not wet
because there’s no water.”
“Really! What is there then?”
“That’s the difficulty,” exclaimed Froggy.