could carry. But by the time she had done this she found herself close
to the farther end of the clover field, and while resting for a moment,
before starting to carry her load to the hive, she noticed a little pond
in the corner. Feeling thirsty after her hard work, she flew off to
take a few sips; but just as she reached the pond and was in the act of
descending, a light gust of wind caught her and turned her half over, and
before she could recover herself she was plunged far out into the water!
Poor Buz! She was a brave little bee, but this was a terrible accident;
and after a few wild struggles she almost gave herself up. The water was
so cold, and she felt herself so helpless in it; and then the accident
had happened so suddenly, and taken her so utterly by surprise, that it
is no wonder she lost courage. Only for a moment though; just as she was
giving up in despair the hard and seemingly useless work of paddling and
struggling with all her poor little legs at once, she saw that a bit of
stick was floating near her, and with renewed energy she attempted to get
to it. Alas! It was all she could do to keep her head above water; as
for moving along through it, that seemed impossible, and she was tempted
to give up once more. It was very hard though; there was the stick, not
more than a foot away from her. If she could only reach it! At any rate,
she was determined it should not be her fault if she was unsuccessful;
so she battled away harder than ever, though her strength began to fail
and she was becoming numbed with the cold. Just as she made this last
effort another gust of wind swept over the pond, and Buz saw that the
stick began to move through the water, and to come nearer and nearer to
her. The fact was that a small twig sticking up from it acted as a sail,
though Buz did not know this. And now the stick was quite close, almost
within reach; in another moment she would be on it. Ah! but a moment
seems a long time when one is at the last gasp, as poor Buz was.
Would she be drowned after all? No! Just as she was sinking she touched
the stick with one little claw, and held on as only drowning people can;
and then she got another claw safely lodged, and was able to rest for a
moment. Oh! the relief of _that_, after such a long ceaseless struggle!
But even then it was very hard to get up on the stick, very hard indeed.
However, Buz managed it at last, and dragged herself quite out of the
cold water.
By this time the breeze was blowing steadily over the pond, and the stick
would soon reach the bank; but Buz felt very miserable and cold, and her
wings clung tightly to her, and she looked dreadfully forlorn.
The pond, too, was overshadowed by trees so there were no sunbeams to
warm her. “Ah,” thought she, “if I can manage to drag myself up into the
sunshine and rest and be well warmed, I shall soon be better.”
Well, the bank was safely reached at last! but Buz, all through her
life, never forgot what a business it was climbing up the side. The long
grasses yielded to her weight, and bent almost straight down, as if on
purpose to make it as up-hill work for her as possible. And even when she
reached the top it took her a weary while to get across the patch of dark
shadow and out into the glad sunlight beyond; but she managed to arrive
there at last, and crawling on the top of a stone which had been well
warmed by the sun’s rays, she rested for a long time.
At last she recovered sufficiently to make her way, by a succession of
short flights, back to the hive. After the first of these flights she
felt so dreadfully weak that she almost doubted being able to accomplish
the journey, and began to despond.
“If I ever do get home,” she said to herself, “I will tell Hum all about
it, and how right she was to take advice.”
Now, whether it was the exercise that did her good, or that the sun’s
rays became hotter that afternoon, cannot be known, but this is certain,
that Buz felt better after every flight. When she reached the end of
the clover field, she sipped a little honey, cleaned herself with her
feet, stretched her wings, and, with the sun glistening brightly on her,
looked quite fine again. Her last flight brought her to the top of the
kitchen-garden wall. After resting here, she opened her wings and flew
gaily to the hive, which she entered just as if nothing had happened.
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END
TRANSLATED BY SARAH AUSTIN FROM THE GERMAN OF A. CAROVE
IN THE GREEN MEADOW
There was once a child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there
was nothing but a little bed, and a looking-glass which hung in a dark
corner. Now the child cared nothing at all about the looking-glass, but
as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through the casement and
kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him merrily
with their morning songs, he arose and went out into the green meadow.
And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet, and butter
of the buttercup; he shook dew-drops from the cowslip into the cup of a
harebell; spread out a large lime-leaf, set his little breakfast upon
it, and feasted daintily. Sometimes he invited a humming bee, oftener a
gay butterfly, to partake of his feast; but his favourite guest was the
blue dragon-fly. The bee murmured a good deal, in a solemn tone, about
his riches; but the child thought that if _he_ were a bee, heaps of
treasure would not make him gay and happy; and that it must be much more
delightful and glorious to float about in the free and fresh breezes of
spring, and to hum joyously in the web of the sunbeams, than, with heavy
feet and heavy heart, to stow the silver wax and the golden honey into
cells.
To this the butterfly assented and he told how, once on a time, he too
had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing but eating, and
had never once turned his eyes upwards to the blue heavens. At length,
however, a complete change had come over him and instead of crawling
spiritless about the dirty earth, half dreaming, he all at once awaked as
out of a deep sleep. And now he could rise into the air and it was his
greatest joy sometimes to play with the light, and to reflect the heavens
in the bright eyes of his wings, sometimes to listen to the soft language
of the flowers, and catch their secrets. Such talk delighted the child,
and his breakfast was the sweeter to him and the sunshine on leaf and
flower seemed to him more bright and cheering.
But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the
butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the dragon-fly still
remained poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body, more
brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in the sunbeam
and her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because _they_ could not
fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and the rain. The dragon-fly
sipped a little of the child’s clear dew-drops and blue-violet honey, and
then whispered her winged words. And the child made an end of his repast,
closed his dark blue eyes, bent down his beautiful head, and listened to
the sweet prattle.
Then the dragon-fly told much of the merry life in the green wood,—how
sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under the broad
leaves of the oak and the beech trees or hunt-the-hare along the surface
of the still waters or sometimes quietly watched the sunbeams, as they
flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to bush, and shed life
and warmth over all. But at night, she said, the moonbeams glided softly
around the wood, and dropped dew into the mouths of all the thirsty
plants; and when the dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft roses of
heaven, some of the half-drunken flowers looked up and smiled, but most
of them could not so much as raise their heads for a long, long time.
Such stories did the dragon-fly tell and as the child sat motionless,
with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she thought
he had fallen asleep, so poised her double wings and flew into the
rustling wood.
THE STORY OF A DROP OF WATER
But the child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing _he_
were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear more
and more, and forever. But at last, as all was still, he opened his eyes
and looked around for his dear guest, but she was flown far away; so he
could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose and went to the
gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly
along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels into the river, just
as if the great massy rock out of which it sprang were close behind it,
and could only be escaped by a break-neck leap.
Then the child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them whence
they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but danced away,
one over another, till at last, that the sweet child might not be
grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of rock. From her the
child heard strange histories; but he could not understand them all, for
she told him about her former life, about the depths of the mountain.
“A long while ago,” said the drop of water, “I lived with my countless
sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts of
pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and peeped at
the stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and watched how the
coral-builders work till they are tired, that they may reach the light of
day at last. But I was conceited, and thought myself much better than my
sisters. And so one day, when the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast
to one of his hot beams, and thought that now I should reach the stars,
and become one of them. But I had not ascended far, when the sunbeam
shook me off, and, in spite of all I could say or do, let me fall into a
dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through the cloud, and now I
thought I must surely die; but the whole cloud laid itself down softly
upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped. Now I thought I should
remain hidden, when all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell
from one stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain, till at
last it was pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear anything. Then
I found, indeed, that ‘pride goeth before a fall,’ resigned myself to
my fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the
cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after undergoing many
purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and minerals, I was at
length permitted to come up once more into the free cheerful air and now
will I run back to my sisters, and there wait patiently till I am called
to something better.”
But hardly had she done when the root of a forget-me-not caught the
drop of water by her hair, and sucked her in, that she might become a
floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of
earth.
LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT
There was once a little plant that grew by a shady brook. It had many
companions even in this quiet spot. The great branches of the old tree
stretched over it, and the beautiful flowers were friendly; but it did
not seem happy. The flowers often thought they heard it sigh as its head
drooped almost to the ground.
“How I wish I might have flowers like the other plants,” it said to
itself, “blue ones, the colour of the beautiful sky. There is so much
blue, surely some could be spared for the earth. Then the children would
not always need to look up to see the sky.” But it kept its secret close
to its heart and only bent its head a little lower.
“What makes you droop so, little plant?” asked one of the flowers. “Your
leaves are quite down again. Surely the sun is not too warm here.”
“Tell us,” said the others, “perhaps we can be of some help to you. We
want to see you look up again at the sky as you used to do.”
“It would be of no use to tell you,” answered the little plant. “I have
often whispered my secret to the old tree as its branches swayed near me,
but it has all been of no use,” and its head bent lower and lower.
“Perhaps,” said the flowers to each other, “perhaps our Angel can be of
some help. Let us speak to her.”
And when evening came, and the Angel closed the flowers as she kissed
them good-night, she heard one whisper, “Something makes our little
friend very sad. She will not tell us. See if she will tell you her
secret.” They saw the Angel stoop down and whisper something to the
little plant and go away.
* * * * *
“See how our little companion has raised its head this morning,” said the
grasses.
“An Angel visited her last night,” one answered.
By and by a day came when the little plant was covered with many tiny
blossoms. The other flowers rejoiced to see them. “We’ve guessed your
secret. What beautiful flower children—blue, like the sky. It makes the
sky seem very near.”
“That is my secret,” answered the little plant. “When I told it to the
Angel I said, ‘My flowers must be just the colour of the sky.’ And she
whispered, ‘Then always look up, for your flowers will be like that which
you love most.’ Then she went away.”
The Forget-me-not was happy. She never drooped her head again, and the
Angel always kissed her good-night as she passed by.
FOUR-LEAF CLOVER[13]
ELLA HIGGINSON
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow.
One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
And one is for love, you know,
And God put another one in for luck,
If you search you will find where they grow.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow.
But you must have hope, and you must have faith,
You must love and be strong, and so
If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow.
JOLLY LITTLE TARS
AGNES MCCLELLAN DAULTON
“Tur-r-r-r-t, tre-t-t,” trilled a tree-toad who was perched one June day,
on a log at the water’s edge. “This is a perfect day for us Water-folk.
Surely there never was such blue in the sky, such green in the grass, nor
such dimpling cloud shadows skipping about everywhere. It is the very day
to sit down and dream.”
“We think it just the day for a race,” cried a whirligig beetle who was
whizzing past. “Come on, Whirligigs! let us see who will win this time.”
And away they went with a dash, flash, and spin, a long curve here, a
quick turn there, faster and faster.
“My, my!” said the tree-toad, half closing his eyes. “It seems to me
every day is the day for a race with those Whirligigs. I never saw one of
them meditating in my life. It makes me dizzy and gives me a headache to
watch them spinning. It is a wonder they don’t dash themselves to pieces.”
“Not they,” yawned a little snapping-turtle, who had been drowsing on a
stone near by. “If you look close at a Whirligig, you will see that he
is nearly as well protected as I am in my strong shell. How you exist
with that soft body of yours is more than I can understand. You are a
peaceable sort of fellow, but your best friend must admit that you are
very ugly.”
“No such thing,” sputtered the tree-toad, leaning far out to look at
his reflection in the water. “I’m nothing of the sort. My mother says
that I was the handsomest polliwog in the family. You are forced to wear
one dress always, and that a dull old shell, while I change the colour
of my clothes to suit the occasion, as all well-bred persons should.
This morning I am wearing a full suit of grey-brown; that is because it
matches so perfectly this lichen-covered log upon which I am seated. When
I go swimming, my bathing suit is ashen grey, with green trimmings.
If I were to visit the swamp maples I should don plain brown, and if I
should take a hop in the grass I should wear a beautiful dress suit of
green. I am Mr. Hyla Versicolour, I’d have you know. See how rough and
warty my back is; that is a sign of good family among toads. Watch me
puff out my throat like a great white bubble as I whistle my tur-r-r-r-t,
tre-t-t! Besides having a winning voice and power to change my colour I
can breathe through my skin. I have a remarkable foot, also. Look at this
delicate webbing, and these cunning little disks at the ends of my toes.
I can climb as well as swim, Mr. Snapper. See me dart out my tongue; it
is fastened in front and free at the back, so that I may catch a fly in a
flash.
“Ugly fellow, indeed!” Mr. Hyla puffed out his throat as far as he could.
“Fiddlesticks!” snapped the turtle, slipping into the pool with a splash.
“You are a worse boaster than a water-boatman. Talk to yourself, please,”
and away he swam.
“That Snapper always was a disagreeable fellow,” mused Hyla, with his
eyes half shut. “There come those Whirligigs back. I wonder which one
beat.”
“Pooh, how could a Whirligig beat?” scornfully asked a water-strider who
had overheard the tree-toad. “They swim in circles, the foolish things.”
“That’s all you know about Whirligig racing,” cried the largest
whirligig, who was swimming near. “We _all_ win every race. But of course
you can’t expect a common water-strider with only one pair of eyes to
understand that.”
“One pair of eyes!” exclaimed Hyla. “Why, have you more eyes than the
rest of us, Mr. Whirligig?”
“Certainly,” replied the beetle, proudly. “We are not given to boasting,
but, since you ask, I will say that we Whirligigs have many remarkable
traits. Our family name is Gyrinidæ.”
“Who cares for that?” shouted the angry water-strider, skating toward the
whirligig with all his might. “Get out of the road, you beetle, or I will
skate you down! Ugh, what a horrid perfume you use! How dare you, sir!”
gasped the strider, as the whirligig swam away, leaving the poor strider
gasping and sputtering on the other side of the pool.
“Keep your distance, then,” called the whirligig after him.
“He won’t bother me for a time,” laughed the beetle to the tree-toad.
“You see I have the power to give off a milky fluid from my joints, and
common water-folk object to the odour, but it is my only way to get on
with these skaters.”
“But do you really mean,” asked the Hyla, “that you have more eyes than
the rest of us?”
“I certainly do,” replied the beetle with dignity. “We Whirligigs have a
second pair of eyes under our chins, which enable us to see to the bottom
of the pool as we swim about, and most convenient we find them.”
“Wonderful! wonderful!” The Hyla could scarcely express his amazement.
“I suppose that is the reason you never hurt yourselves in such rapid
swimming?”
“Not at all,” said the whirligig. “Examine this handsome, glittering
blueblack uniform I wear. It is really a coat of mail to protect not only
our bodies but also our gauzy wings, for we fly as well as swim.”
“I shouldn’t think you could hop very well,” remarked the tree-toad;
“your legs look like oars.”
“Who wants to hop if he can swim and fly?” retorted the whirligig, with
scorn. “I am sure I don’t.”
“Come, come,” cried the other whirligigs, who were swimming by. “Don’t
spend the day talking when there is racing to be done.”
“Well, good-bye, Mr. Tree-toad. There comes that skater again so I will
be gone,” and off whisked the beetle.
“Now that was interesting,” said the Hyla to himself. “I really ought to
know something more of my neighbours. There comes a Water-Spider[14] for
a bubble. Now I must ask her what she does with it.
“Good-morning, Mistress Spider. What are you going to do with that silver
bubble, may I ask?”
“Good-morning,” replied Mrs. Spider, as she snatched a bubble of air
and held it with her hind legs. “I haven’t time to explain up here, Mr.
Tree-Toad, but if you will call at my home I will be glad to tell you.”
“I shall be most happy,” replied the Hyla, slipping into the water in a
jiffy, and in a second later he was resting on the bottom of the pool,
just under Mrs. Water Spider’s glittering balloon.
“That certainly is very beautiful, Mrs. Spider. Would you mind explaining
how it is done?” said he.
“Not at all,” said the spider, as she came and sat in the door of her
home. “My house, sir, is woven of silk, just as are those of other
spiders, but instead of a web I weave this egg-shaped nest with the door
at the bottom. Now, although I live under water, I breathe air, and it
is necessary for me to fill my house with it. So up to the top I go and
catch a bubble of air with the hairs of my abdomen and my two hinder
legs. I then bring it down here and hang it in my silken balloon until it
is, as you see, a glittering, transparent bell. In the top of my nest I
weave a little chamber in which to lay my eggs, and when my babies hatch
out they stay in this shining home until they are strong enough to build
a nest for themselves.”
“And how many eggs, Mrs. Spider,” asked Hyla, politely, “do you put in
the chamber?”
“A hundred is the usual number,” replied Mrs. Spider, “but now you really
must excuse me, as I am in need of more air.”
“Goodness gracious,” mused the tree-toad, looking after her as she darted
toward the top. “I should think she would feel something like that old
woman who lived in a shoe, who had so many children she didn’t know what
to do. But what have we here?” and Mr. Hyla leaned forward to watch a wee
log hut that was creeping in the queerest way on a water-weed.
“Ugh! What great goggle eyes you have!” piped a tiny voice from the door
of the hut. “I should like to know what you are staring at.”
“Well, this is surprising,” gasped the Hyla. “Now, who in the world are
you?”
“I am a caddis-worm out for an airing,” said the voice again, as the hut
reached the edge of the leaf. “I hope you have no objections.”
“Oh, no; of course not,” stammered the astonished Hyla. “Only I should
like to know if all caddis-worms carry their houses about with them?”
“This is my overcoat, I’d have you know,” said the caddis, thrusting out
his little black head. “My brother wears one of leaves, my sister wears a
sand jacket. But mine is the best fit.”
“May I ask who is your tailor?” asked the tree-toad. “It is certainly a
remarkable coat.”
“I am my own tailor,” replied the worm. “A caddis would scorn to have his
clothes made for him; but it is very hard work, I can assure you of that.”
“Would you mind telling me about it?” inquired the Hyla. “Your coat is a
perfect fit; there isn’t a wrinkle in it.”
“Thank you,” replied the gratified caddis-worm. “You see,” he went on to
explain, “we always make our coats out of the material at hand. Now,
when I found these stylish sticks I anchored myself to a stone by a bit
of silk which I spun from my mouth, for we caddis-worms furnish our own
thread. Then by the aid of the same silk I wove this handsome coat, bit
by bit, making one section at a time, and then slipping my head through
and wriggling it down into place. See, I can put out my head and my first
three pairs of feet, and so creep where I will.”
“Most remarkable, most remarkable,” drawled the toad, who didn’t believe
a word of it. “And did you say your sister wears a jacket of sand?”
“Oh, yes, that is common enough,” answered the caddis. “I have heard
that my grandfather, who wore an overcoat of shells, wove into it some
tiny ones, each of which was the home of a little living creature, and
the poor things had to pick up a living the best way they could. I have
also been told that in captivity some of my family have made remarkable
coats of gold dust and crushed glass. After a time I shall draw my head
back into my overcoat and weave a silk veil, and so shut myself in and
go to sleep. When I wake up I shall no longer be a worm, but a beautiful
four-winged fly; my gauzy wings will be delicately fringed and there will
be slender antennæ upon my head, and I shall float in the air. Is not
that a beautiful future? But here comes a pond-snail, a most interesting
fellow. Shall I introduce you?”
“Most happy. I hope you are well,” said Mr. Hyla.
But the snail said he wasn’t feeling very well, as he had eaten a
water-weed that didn’t agree with him; still, he was very pleasant and
answered all the tree-toad’s questions most kindly.
He said the first he could remember he was a little baby-snail not as big
as a pinhead, moving about with hundreds of his brothers in the sand. Yet
even then he carried a house on his back, a tiny, perfect shell, into
which he could creep when danger threatened.