Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
GOLDEN GRAIN
BY VARIUOS AUTHORS
GARNERED FROM THE
WORLD'S GREAT HARVEST-FIELD OF KNOWLEDGE
COMPRISING
Selections from the ablest Modern Writers.
OF
Prose, Poetry, and Legendary Lore.
Some Books with heaps of chaff are stored
And some do Golden Grain afford;
Leave then the chaff and spend thy pains
In gathering up the Golden Grains.
Elegantly Illustrated.
J. C. CHILTON & COMPANY,
DETROIT. MICH.,
1884.
COPYRIGHTED
1884.
J.C. CHILTON & CO.
PRESS OF
RAYNOR & TAYLOR,
75 BATES STREET.
DETROIT.
AUTHORS
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ALFRED TENNYSON.
JOHN G. WHITTIER. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. PETER CHRISTIAN ASBJORNSEN.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. SIR ISAAC NEWTON. REV. LAURENCE STERNE.
HON. JOHN D. LONG. JOHN G. SAXE. PAUL H. HAYNE.
CHARLES DICKENS. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THOMAS MOORE.
THOMAS GRAY. LORD LYTTON. J. C. F. SCHILLER.
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. MARTIN VAN BUREN.
GEORGE WASHINGTON. JAMES A. GARFIELD.
REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY. BARRY CORNWALL.
PH[OE]BE CARY. SIDNEY DAYRE. LUCIE COBB.
PHILA H. CASE. LUCY LARCOM. ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.
MARY D. BRINE. ELIZABETH AKERS. MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.
GEORGE MCDONALD. EMMA ALICE BROWN. SAMUEL ROGRES.
BRET HARTE. GEORGE L. CATLIN. J. T. CHOATE.
GEORGE D. PRENTICE. NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. PHILLIP JAMES BAILEY.
D. BETHUNE DUFFIELD. WILLIAM L. SMITH.
FRIEDERICH GRIMM.
PUBLISHERS' NOTE.
It has been the constant endeavor of the publishers of GOLDEN GRAIN,
to produce a book in every respect worthy to be classed among the very
best works offered to an intelligent public.
Many of the selections are protected by copyright and for the use of
such, special thanks are due to the following publishers, for the
courtesies extended.
To Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for selections from Longfellow,
Whittier, and Miss Cary; Messrs. D. Lothrop & Co., for use of
selections from Mrs. Piatt, Paul Hayne, and Mary D. Brine; and to those
authors who have furnished special contributions, we are under many
obligations.
The volume is sent forth with the belief that such a work will meet
with appreciative readers all over the land.
INTRODUCTION.
GOLDEN GRAIN.
The best introduction to a book is a glance at its pages, an
examination of its illustrations and the names of its authors.
In all the essentials which go to make up a work which shall meet with
popular favor and a wide range of readers, the Editor and Publishers
confidently believe that GOLDEN GRAIN presents a high standard of
excellence.
That all tastes might be suited, the literature of all modern nations
has been searched and selections of the highest standard made therefrom.
Golden Grain only has been garnered. The great fields of knowledge have
been visited, and none but the choicest and ripest kernels have been
chosen.
Young Folks must, and will, have something to read--something to feed
the mind as well as the body. It therefore becomes a very important
duty of parents to make choice of such books as are pure in tone and
elevating in sentiment; and it follows also, as night follows day, that
if parents fail or neglect this duty the young folks themselves will
find something to read, nor will they be so careful in their selections.
In GOLDEN GRAIN will be found a work in every respect worthy of a
place in the Family Circle. Its pages lend inspiration to fight life's
battles nobly. Those who go out from a home with noble impulses, pure
motives, and true hearts will bear the burden of Earth's cares, duties
and disappointments with patience and resignation, having
"A heart to resolve, a head to contrive and a hand to execute."
CONTENTS.
Harvest Song John G. Whittier 13
Minute Men of Liberty George William Curtis 14
Kind Hearts 16
The Children's Hour Henry W. Longfellow 17
The Brook Alfred Tennyson 21
Eulogy on Garfield James G. Blaine 23
Gems from James A. Garfield 24
At the Fireside John D. Long 25
The Frost Spirit John G. Whittier 26
The Arrow and the Song Henry W. Longfellow 29
The Bridge Henry W. Longfellow 31
The Responsive Chord J. William Jones 34
Grandma's Angel Sidney Dayre 35
Cold, Bitter Cold Hans Christian Andersen 37
Nobody's Child Phila H. Case 42
Snow-White and Rosy-Red Friederich Grimm 45
The Song of the Thrush Lucy Larcom 58
The Fox and the Geese 60
Count That Day Lost 61
The Children in the Moon 62
A Night in a Norwegian
Forest P. Chr. Asbjornsen 65
Two Little Kittens 88
Labor of Authorship 90
She Was Somebody's Mother 92
Dot Lambs What Mary Haf Got 94
The Mills of God Henry W. Longfellow 95
Bob Cratchit's Christmas Charles Dickens 96
Full Many a Gem Thomas Gray 103
A Snug Little Island 104
Don't Crowd Charles Dickens 111
The Boys Oliver Wendell Holmes 112
Quarrel Between Mountain
and Squirrel Ralph Waldo Emerson 114
For Fathers Sake 116
Backbone 130
A Dog Sheep-Stealer 132
The Best Answer to
Calumny George Washington 133
If We Knew Ph[oe]be Cary 134
Holiday Song D. Bethune Duffield 137
A Queer Duckling Hans Christian Andersen 138
Truth James Russell Lowell 156
The Clearin' 157
Prince Willful's
Three Lessons J. T. Choate 161
Miss Edith Helps
Things Along F. Bret Harte 170
The Giant Who Had
No Heart P. Chr. Asbjornsen 173
Beauty Everywhere W. L. Smith 185
Bread on the Waters George L. Catlin 186
The Use of Books 189
The Spring 190
Gem from "Lalla Rookh" Thomas Moore 190
How Bayard Shot the Bear J. T. Choate 191
How We Live Phillip James Bailey 195
New Year's Eve Alfred Tennyson 197
East of the Sun and
West of the Moon P. Chr. Asbjornsen 199
Do; Not Dream Charles Kingsley 216
The Baby in the Home George MacDonald 217
Saturday Afternoon N. P. Willis 220
The King of the Night Barry Cornwall 222
A 'Rithmetic Lesson Phillip James Bailey 225
Press on 227
Fairies or Fireflies Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt 228
Speak No Ill 229
The Ambitious Twig Lucie Cobbe 230
Universal Law Samuel Rogers 233
The Turk and the Fiddler Friederich Grimm 234
Sober Second Thought Martin Van Buren 241
Little Lottie's Grievance Paul H. Hayne 242
There is no Death Lord Lytton 245
The Siege of Troy J. C. Chilton 248
Think for Thyself Wilson 251
George Nidiver F. Brete Hart 252
March and the Boys Mary D. Brine 255
The Crusades J. C. Chilton 259
Pride of Native Land Sir Walter Scott 262
The Children's Crusade J. C. Chilton 263
The Soldier's Reprieve Rose Hartwick Thorpe 265
The Maid of Orleans J. C. Chilton 269
'Tis Only Noble to be Good Alfred Tennyson 272
A Bird's Story M. E. B. 274
The Wolf and the
Seven Kids Freiderich Grimm 276
There is a Day of
Sunny Rest William Cullen Bryant 280
Birdie and Baby Alfred Tennyson 281
The Influence of Books Edwin P. Whipple 282
Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers 283
Heroism Ralph Waldo Emerson 285
Politeness 285
Measuring the Baby Emma Alice Brown 286
Pearl of Thought Johann Chr. F. Schiller 288
The Noble Roman John G. Saxe 288
The Engineer's Story 289
As He Saw Himself Sir Isaac Newton 293
The Random Shaft Sir Walter Scott 293
Two Brave Boys Pritt's "Border Life" 294
Undoubted Evidence Rev. Laurence Stern 298
The Flight of Years George D. Prentice 299
Airy Nothings William Shakespeare 304
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HARVEST SONG.
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
O Painter of the fruits and flowers!
We thank Thee for thy wise design
Whereby these human hands of ours
In Nature's garden work with thine.
And thanks that from our daily need
The joy of simple faith is born;
That he who smites the summer weed,
May trust Thee for the autumn corn.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
Who sows a field, or trains a flower,
Or plants a tree, is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest;
And God and man shall own his worth,
Who toils to leave as his bequest
An added beauty to the earth.
And, soon or late, to all that sow,
The time of harvest shall be given;
The flowers shall bloom, the fruit shall grow,
If not on earth, at last in heaven!
[Illustration]
MINUTE MEN OF LIBERTY.
Delivered on the one-hundredth anniversary of the battle of Lexington,
Mass., by GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS, April 19, 1875.
After reviewing the leading incidents of the battle of Lexington, in
1775, and the subsequent victories of Washington; and closing with a
brilliant picture of the final triumph of the Colonial troops, Mr.
Curtis said:
"NOT such are our enemies to-day. They do not come proudly stepping to
the drum-beat, with bayonets flashing in the morning sun. But wherever
party spirit shall strain the ancient guarantees of Freedom, or bigotry
and ignorance shall lay their fatal hands upon education, or the
ignorance of caste shall strike at equal rights, or corruption shall
poison the very springs of national life, there, Minutemen of Liberty
are _your_ Lexington-Green and Concord-Bridge, and as you love your
country and your kind, and would have your children rise up and call
you blessed, spare not the enemy! Over the hills, out of the earth,
down from the clouds pour in resistless might.
[Illustration: "NOT SUCH ARE OUR ENEMIES TO-DAY."]
Fire! fire from every rock and tree, from every door and window, from
hearthstone and chamber; hang upon his flank and rear from noon to
sunset, and so through a land blazing with holy indignation, hurl the
hordes of ignorance, corruption and injustice back, back into utter
defeat and ruin!"
[Illustration]
Kind hearts are the gardens,
Kind thoughts are the roots,
Kind words are the blossoms,
Kind deeds are the fruits.
[Illustration]
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Between the dark and the daylight,
When night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the children's hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
[Illustration: "BLUE-EYED BANDITTI."]
A whisper and then a silence;
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together,
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall,
By three doors left unguarded,
They enter my castle wall.
They climb up into my turret,
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me intwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen,
In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine.
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away.
[Illustration]
SONG OF THE BROOK.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
I come from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally;
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges:
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance,
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flow,
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
[Illustration]
EULOGY ON GARFIELD.
Surely if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this
world, on that quiet July morning, James A. Garfield may well have
been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest
premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him
in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident, in the
years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded,
bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and
the grave.
Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the
very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he
was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes,
its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death--and
he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned
and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment,
but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that
was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm
courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his
anguished eyes, whose lips may tell! Before him desolation and great
darkness! And his soul was not shaken.
Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center of a nation's
love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the
sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press
alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness
he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet
he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the
divine decree.
[Illustration]
GEMS FROM JAS. A. GARFIELD.
If there be one thing upon this broad earth that mankind love and
admire, better than another, it is a brave man--it is a man who dares
look the Devil in the face and tell him he is a Devil.
Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing.
Things don't turn up in this world till somebody turns them up.
[Illustration]
AT THE FIRESIDE.
At nightfall by the firelight's cheer
My little Margaret sits me near,
And begs me tell of things that were
When I was little just like her.
Ah, little lips you touch the spring
Of sweetest sad remembering,
And hearth and heart flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago.
I at my father's fireside sit,
Youngest of all who circle it,
And beg him tell me what did he
When he was little just like me.
JOHN D. LONG
THE FROST SPIRIT.
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields,
And the brown hill's withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees
Where their pleasant green came forth,
And the winds which follow wherever he goes,
Have shaken them down to earth.
[Illustration]
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
From the frozen Labrador,--
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas,
Which the white bear wanders o'er,--
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice,
And the luckless forms below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night,
Into marble statues grow!
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
On the rushing Northern blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed
As his fearful breath went past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,
Where the fires of Hecla glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above,
And the ancient ice below.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
And the quiet lake shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath,
And ring to the skater's heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks,
Or sang to the leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain,
And in mournful silence pass.
[Illustration: "THE FISHERMAN'S SAIL IS STIFF WITH ICE."]
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
Let us meet him as we may,
And turn with light of the parlor-fire
His evil power away;
And gather closer the circle round,
When that fire-light dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend,
As his sounding wing goes by.
[Illustration]
THE ARROW AND THE SONG.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
[Illustration]
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE BRIDGE.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them.
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The sea-weed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me,
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often; Oh! how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often; Oh! how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me,
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen upon me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean,
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in Heaven,
And its wavering image here.
[Illustration]
THE RESPONSIVE CHORD.
J. WILLIAM JONES.
One evening in 1863, when the Confederate and Union armies were both
near Spottsylvania, two bands chanced, at the same hour, to begin to
play on either bank of the river.
The soldiers of both armies gathered to listen, and soon the bands
began to answer each other. First the Federal band would play "Hail
Columbia" or some other national air, and at its close the "boys in
blue" would cheer most lustily. Then the Confederate band would respond
with "Dixie" or "Bonnie Blue Flag," and the "boys in gray" would yell
their approval. But presently one of the bands struck up, in sweet and
sad tones, the grand old tune "Home, Sweet Home." It was caught up by
the other band, and at its close there went up a shout _from both sides
of the river_--cheer followed cheer and the hills re-echoed the glad
acclaim. A chord had been struck to which all hearts could beat in
unison; and, for the time being, their enmity was forgotten.
[Illustration]
GRANDMA'S ANGEL.
Mamma said; 'Little one, go and see
If Grandmother's ready to come to tea.'
I knew I must'nt disturb her, so
I stepped as gently along, tiptoe,
And stood a moment to take a peep--
And there was Grandmother, fast asleep.
"I knew it was time for her to wake;
I thought I'd give her a little shake,
Or tap at her door, or softly call;
But I had'nt the heart for that at all--
She looked so sweet and so quiet there,
Lying back in her high arm-chair,
With her dear white hair and a little smile,
That means she's loving you all the while.
"I did'nt make a speck of a noise;
I knew she was dreaming of little boys
And girls who lived with her, long ago,
And then went to Heaven--she told me so.
"I went up close, and I did'nt speak
One word, but I gave her on her cheek
The softest bit of a little kiss,
Just in a whisper, and then said this;
'Grandmother dear it's time for tea.'
"She opened her eyes and looked at me,
And said: 'Why, Pet, I have just now dreamed
Of a little angel who came, and seemed
To kiss me lovingly on my face.'
She pointed right at the very place.
"I never told her 'twas only me;
I took her hand and we went to tea."
SYDNEY DAYRE in St. Nicholas.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
COLD--BITTER COLD.
It was dreadfully cold, it snowed, and was getting quite dark, for it
was evening--yes, the last evening of the year.
Amid the cold and the darkness, a little girl, with bare head and naked
feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of
slippers, when she left home, but that was not of much use, for they
were very large slippers; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto
been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she
hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages, that were driving at
a fearful rate. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other
was pounced upon by a boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would
serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own.
So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet, that were red
and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron,
and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything
of her the whole livelong day, and nobody had even given her a penny.
She crept along, shivering with cold and hunger, a perfect picture of
misery--poor little thing!
The snowflakes covered her long, flaxen hair, which hung in pretty
curls round her throat; but she heeded them not.
Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory
smell of roast goose; for it was St. Sylvester's evening.
She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of
which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under
her, but she felt colder than ever; yet she dared not return home, for
she had not sold a match, and could not bring back a penny.
Her father would certainly beat her; and it was cold enough at home,
besides,--for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came
howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with
straw and rags.
Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold.
Alas! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one
out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers.
So at last she drew one out. Whist! how it shed sparks, and how it
burned! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as
she held her hands over it,--truly, it was a wonderful little light!
It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a
large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs.
The fire burned so blessedly, and warmed so nicely, that the little
creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo! the
flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little
half-burned match in her hand.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where
it shown upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, and
she could see into the room.
A snow-white table-cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood
a splendid china dinner service, while a roast goose, stuffed with
apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory fumes. And what was more
delightful still, the goose jumped down from the dish, and waddled
along the ground with a knife and fork in its breast, up to the poor
girl.
The match then went out, and nothing remained but the thick, damp wall.
She lit another match.
She now sat under the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was larger,
and more superbly decked, than even the one she had seen through the
glass door at the rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on its
green branches, and gay pictures, such as one sees on targets, seemed
to be looking down upon her. The match then went out.
The Christmas lights kept rising higher and higher. They now looked
like stars in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a long streak of
fire.
"Somebody is now dying," thought the little girl,--for her old
grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now
dead, had told her, that when a star falls, it is a sign that a soul is
going up to heaven.
She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all
round; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and
shining like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving.
"Grandmother," cried the little one, "oh! take me with you! I know you
will go away when the match goes out,--you will vanish like the warm
stove and the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas
tree!"
And she made haste to rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished
to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light that was
brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful
nor so large. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew
upwards, all radiant and joyful, far--far above mortal ken--where there
was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care to be found; for it was to the
land of the blessed that they had flown.
But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against the
wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth; she had been frozen on the
last night of the old year.
The new year's sun shone upon the little corpse.
The child sat in the stiffness of death, still holding the matches, one
bundle of which was burned.
People said: "She tried to warm herself."
Nobody dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in what splendor
she had entered upon the joys of the new year, together with her
grandmother.
[Illustration]
NOBODY'S CHILD.
PHILA H. CASE.
Alone, in the dreary, pitiless street,
With my torn old dress and bare, cold feet,
All day I've wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go;
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head;
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I'm nobody's child?
Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty, and all things bright;
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,
Are caroling songs in rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me;
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering and nothing to eat.
Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down,
In its terrible darkness, all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,
On the cold, hard pavements, alone, to die?
When the beautiful children their prayers have said,
And mamas have tucked them up snugly in bed.
No dear mother ever upon me smiled--
Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child.
No father, no mother, no sister, not one
In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run,
When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see,
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!
Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark, blue sky,
Watching for hours some large, bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar.
And a host of white-robed, nameless things,
Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings;
A hand that is strangely soft and fair,
Caresses gently my tangled hair,
And a voice like the carol of some wild bird,
The sweetest voice that was ever heard--
Calls me many a dear pet name,
'Till my heart and spirits are all aflame;
And tells me of such unbounded love,
And bids me come up to their home above,
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes,
And it seems to me, out of the dreary night,
I am going up to the world of light,
And away from the hunger and storms so wild--
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.
[Illustration]
SNOW-WHITE AND ROSY-RED.
GRIMM.
[Illustration]
A poor widow once lived in a small cottage, and before the cottage
was a garden in which grew two rose-trees, one of which bore white
roses, and the other red. She had two children, who resembled the
rose trees--one was named Snow-white, and the other Rosy-red, and they
were as pious, kind, and industrious as any two children ever were.
Snow-white was quieter and more gentle than her sister, who preferred
skipping over the fields, seeking flowers, and catching summer birds;
while Snow-white remained at home with her mother, either assisting
her in her work, or reading aloud to her when that was done. The two
children had the greatest love for each other; they were always seen
hand-in-hand, and if Snow-white said to her sister, "We will never
separate!" the other replied, "Not while we live!" the mother adding,
"what one has, let her always share with the other." They often ran
together in the woods, and gathered ripe berries; but not a single
animal would have done them an injury--on the contrary, they all felt
the greatest regard for the young creatures: the hare came and ate
parsley from their hands, the deer grazed by their side, the stag
sprang past them unconcerned, the birds likewise stirred not from the
branch, but sang in the most perfect security. No mischance befell
them; if benighted in the wood, they laid themselves in the moss to
repose, and slept until the morning, and their mother was satisfied
they were safe, and felt no fear on their account. Once, when they
had passed the night in the wood, and the bright sunrise awoke them,
they saw a beautiful child, in a snow-white dress, which shone like
diamonds, sitting near the place where they had rested. She stood up
when they opened their eyes, and looked kindly at them, but said not
a word, and passed from their sight into the wood. When the children
looked around, they saw that they had slept on the edge of a high
cliff, and would certainly have fallen over, if they had proceeded two
steps farther in the darkness. Their mother told them the beautiful
child must have been the angel who watches over good children.
Snow-white and Rosy-red kept their mother's cottage so clean, that it
was a pleasure only to look in. In the summer Rosy-red looked after
the house, and placed by her mother's bed every morning, before she
awoke, a bouquet, in which was a rose from each of the rose trees. In
the winter Snow-white lighted the fire, and put the kettle on, after
scouring it, so that it resembled gold in brightness. In the evening,
when the snowflakes fell, her mother bade her bolt the door, and then
seating themselves by the hearth, the good widow read aloud to them
from a large book, while the girls spun; near them lay a lamb, and
behind was a white pigeon upon a perch, with its head tucked under its
wing.
[Illustration]
One evening as they all sat thus comfortably together, a knock was
heard at the door, as if somebody desired to enter, "Quick, Rosy-red,"
said her mother, "open the door; it must be some traveler seeking
shelter." Rosy-red accordingly opened the door, thinking to see a poor
man; but it was no such thing, it was a bear, who thrust his great
black head into the open door. Rosy-red uttered a cry and sprang
back, the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered her wings, and Snow-white
hid herself behind her mother's bed. The bear began to speak, and
said, "Fear not, I will do you no harm; I am half frozen, and only
wish to warm myself a little at your fire." "Poor bear," returned the
mother, "come and lie by the fire, only take care that your hair does
not burn." Then calling Snow-white and Rosy-red, she bade them come
out, "The bear," she said, "was kind, and would do them no harm." So
they obeyed, and by degrees the lamb and the dove approached also,
and had no fear. "Children," said the bear, "knock a little of the
snow out of my coat." So they got the broom, and swept the bear's coat
quite clean. After which, he stretched himself out before the fire and
amused himself with a little growl, just to prove he was happy and
comfortable. Before long, they were all quite good friends, and the
children began to sport with their unexpected guest, tugging at his
thick fur, or putting their feet on his back, or rolling him over and
over. Then they took a thin hazel twig, with which they struck his
thick fur, and when he growled, they laughed. The bear very kindly
allowed them to amuse themselves thus, only sometimes, when it
proceeded a little too far, he called out, "Children, children, leave
me an inch of life.
"Snow-white and Rosy-red,
Strike not your lover dead."
When night came, and all prepared to go to bed, the widow said to the
bear, "You can stay here, and lie on the hearth if you like, you will
then be sheltered from the cold and the bad weather." The offer was
accepted, but in the morning, as soon as day broke in the east, the
two children let him out, and he trotted over the snow back into the
wood. From this time the bear came every evening at the same hour, laid
himself by the fire, and permitted the children to amuse themselves
with him, so that they became quite attached to their strange
playfellow, and the door was never bolted of an evening, until he had
made his appearance.
When spring came, and everything around began to look green and bright,
the bear said one morning to Snow-white, "I must now leave you, and I
shall not be able to return for the whole summer." "Where are you then
going, dear bear?" inquired Snow-white. "I must go to the woods, to
protect my treasure from the bad dwarfs; in the winter, when the earth
is hard frozen, they are obliged to stay underground, and cannot work
their way through; but now the sun has thawed and warmed the earth,
they find their way to the surface, and are ever on the watch for what
they can steal, and whatever touches their hands, or reaches their
caves, rarely, if ever, sees daylight again." Snow-white was very
sorrowful when she took leave of the good-natured bear, and unbolted
the door, that he might depart; but in passing out, he caught on a
hook in the door-post, and a little of his fur being torn, Snow-white
thought she saw something shine like gold through the rent; but he
passed out so rapidly, that she did not feel sure what it was, and he
was soon lost among the trees.
One day the mother sent her children into the wood to collect sticks;
they found a large tree lying on the ground, which had been felled,
and among the roots they saw something jumping and hopping, which they
could not at all understand, it being sometimes hidden among the grass.
When they drew nearer, they saw it was a dwarf, with an old withered
face and a snow-white beard a yard long. The beard was fastened in a
split in the trunk of the tree, and the little fellow was springing
backwards and forwards like a dog at the end of a cord, but could not
succeed in getting free. He stared at the children with his fiery red
eyes, and cried out, "What are you standing there for? Can you not
come and see if you can help me?" "What have you been doing, little
man?" asked Rosy-red. "Silly inquisitive goose:" answered the dwarf,
"I wanted to split the tree that I might chop it into sticks for the
kitchen; thick logs would burn up the small portion of food we cook,
for we do not swallow great mountains of provisions, as you coarse
greedy folks do. I have driven in the wedge, and should soon have done
what I wanted, but the tool sprang out of the split, which closed again
so quickly, that my beautiful white beard was caught, and here I am
detained for I cannot get away." "You silly white-faced creatures! you
are laughing, are you?" Notwithstanding the little man's ill-temper,
the girls gave themselves all imaginable trouble, in order to release
the dwarf, but in vain--the beard was held too fast.
"I will run and call somebody else," said Rosy-red. "Idiot," replied
the dwarf, "who would go and fetch more people? here are already two
too many; can you not think of anything better?" "Do not be impatient,"
said Snow-white, "I will try and consider." Clapping her hands, as
if she had found a remedy, she took out her scissors, and instantly
released the dwarf by cutting off the end of his beard. Directly the
dwarf felt himself free, he seized a sack filled with gold, which
was hidden among the roots of the tree, and raising it, growled out,
"Awkward creatures! to cut off a bit of my beautiful beard, of which
I am so proud, the cuckoos may pay you for what you have done." With
these words, he swung the sack over his shoulder and went away, without
even casting a look upon the children.
Shortly after this the two sisters went to fish in the brook, thinking
to catch some fish for dinner. As they approached the water, they saw
something that looked like a large cricket jumping towards the brook as
if it were going in. They ran to see what it could be, and perceived
the dwarf. "Where are you going?" asked Rosy-red; "you will not surely
jump into the water?" "I am not quite such a simpleton," screamed the
dwarf; "do you not see that the confounded fish is pulling me in?" The
little man had been sitting on the bank fishing, when unfortunately the
wind had entangled his beard in the line, and as a large fish directly
afterwards took the bait, the little fellow had not strength to pull it
out; the fish therefore got the upper-hand, and was drawing the dwarf
after it. It is true, he caught at every stalk and twig near him, but
that did not help him much, he was obliged to follow all the movements
of the fish, and was in danger of being drawn into the water.
The girls came up just in time; they held him fast and tried to
disentangle his beard from the line, but in vain. Nothing remained
but again to use the scissors, so they were taken out, and the part
entangled cut off. When the dwarf saw what they were doing, he cried
out in a great rage, "Is this the way you spoil my beard? Not content
with shortening it before, you are now cutting it the other way, and
ruining it entirely. I shall never dare to show my face to my friends.
I wish you had lost your way, before you came this road." Then fetching
a sack of pearls lying in the rushes, and without another word he
hobbled away and vanished behind a large stone.
It happened that soon after this the poor widow sent her children to
the town in order to buy thread, needles, ribbon and tape. The road
lay over a heath on which large masses of rock were scattered in all
directions, and the children's attention was soon drawn to a large
bird hovering in the air: they observed that after flying slowly in a
circle for some time, and gradually approaching nearer to the earth,
it suddenly dashed down among a mass of rock; immediately a pitiable
cry pierced their ears, and running hastily to the spot, they saw with
horror that the eagle had seized their old acquaintance, the dwarf,
and was preparing to bear him away. The children did not wait for
a moment, but taking firm hold of the little man, they disputed so
stoutly with the eagle for the possession of his prey, that after much
rough handling on both sides, the dwarf remained in the hands of his
little friends, and the eagle took to flight.
When the little man had in a degree recovered from his fright, his
little thin cracked voice was heard saying, "Could you not handle me
more gently? look at my little coat, you have torn and mangled it in
a fine fashion, you awkward creatures!" He then took up a sack of
precious stones, and slipped out of sight behind a fragment of a rock.
The maidens were by this time quite accustomed to his thankless manner,
so they thought nothing of it, but continued their way, executed their
mother's commission, and then prepared to return to their happy home.
On their road thither, they suddenly came again upon their friend the
dwarf; he had emptied out his sack of precious stones upon a clean
spot, that he might number or admire them, for he did not expect that
any one would be crossing the heath at so late an hour. The setting
sun shone upon the bright stones, and their varying hues and brilliant
rays induced the children to stop and admire them. "What are you
looking at?" said the dwarf, rudely, at the same time reddening with
anger; "and why do you stand there making faces?" It is likely that
he might have continued in the same strain, but suddenly a loud growl
was heard close to them, and a large black bear joined the party. The
dwarf sprang up in the greatest terror, but was unable to reach his
hiding-place, the bear was too near him; so he exclaimed in the most
evident anguish, "Dear Mr. Bear, pray pardon me, I will give you all
my treasure, only look at the valuable stones lying there. Grant me my
life! You would not feel me between your teeth; but look at those two
children, they would be tender morsels, and are as fat as quails--pray
take them, good Mr. Bear, and let me go." The bear, however, was not to
be moved with his words; he gave the dwarf one blow with his paw, and
he lay lifeless on the ground.
In the meantime the maidens had ran away, and were making the best
of their way towards their home, but they were suddenly stopped by a
well-known voice, which cried, "Snow-white! Rosy-red! stop, do not be
afraid. I will go with you."
The bear rapidly advanced towards them; but as he joined them, the
bear-skin suddenly fell to the ground, and there stood before them a
handsome man, entirely dressed in gold. "I am the son of a king," said
he, "but was enchanted by the wicked dwarf lying yonder, who stole my
treasure, and forced me to run about the woods in the form of a great
bear, until I should be set free by his death. He has therefore only
met with a well-merited punishment."
After some time, Snow-white married the prince, and Rosy-red his
brother; and they divided between them the immense treasure that the
dwarf had collected in his cave. The old mother passed many happy years
with her children; but when she left her cottage, she carried with her
the two rose-trees, and they stood before her window, and continued to
bear the most beautiful red and white roses every year.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE SONG OF THE THRUSH.
LUCY LARCOM.
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.
"He's singing to me! he's singing to me!"
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? Don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I'm as happy as happy can be!"
And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."
[Illustration]
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? Don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be."
THE FOX AND THE GEESE.
[Illustration]
A fox came suddenly into a meadow, where a flock of beautiful, fat
geese were reposing; this amused him, so he laughed, and said, "It is
just as if I had been called; I am just arrived at the right moment;
you sit all there so comfortably together, that I can eat you up one
after the other, without disturbing you much." The geese cackled with
apprehension, and began to lament their impending fate, and entreat
for their lives. The fox, however, would listen to nothing, and said,
"There is no mercy for you; you must die!" At last one took courage,
and said, "If we poor geese must lose our young, fresh lives, grant us
at least this small favor--that we may repeat one prayer, and not die
in our sins; after that we will place ourselves in a row, that you may
be able to choose the fattest." "Well," said the fox, "perhaps that
is only just, it is certainly proper, begin your prayer, and I will
wait." The first began with a remarkably long prayer, nothing but "ga,
ga," and as it did not seem inclined to leave off, the second would not
wait until her turn came, but began likewise, "ga, ga," the third and
fourth followed, and they soon all cackled together. (When the prayer
is finished you shall have the rest of the story; but as far as I know,
they are all still going on.)
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
"Count that day lost whose low-descending sun,
Views from thy hand no worthy action done."
[Illustration]
THE CHILDREN IN THE MOON.
Harken, child, unto a story!
For the moon is in the sky,
And across her shield of silver,
See! two tiny cloudlets fly.
Watch them closely, mark them sharply,
As across the light they pass,--
Seem they not to have the figures
Of a little lad and lass?
See, my child, across their shoulders
Lies a little pole! and lo!
Yonder speck is just the bucket,
Swinging softly to and fro.
It is said, these little children,
Many and many a Summer night,
To a little well far northward
Wandered in the still moonlight.
To the wayside well they trotted,
Filled their little buckets there,
And the Moon-man looking downwards,
Saw how beautiful they were.
Quoth the man, "How vexed and sulky
Looks the little rosy boy!
But the little handsome maiden,
Trips behind him full of joy.
To the well behind the hedgerow
Trot the little lad and maiden;
From the well behind the hedgerow
Now the little pail is laden.
How they please me! how they tempt me!
Shall I snatch them up to-night?
Snatch them, set them here forever,
In the middle of my light?
Children, ay, and children's children
Should behold my babes on high,
And my babes should smile forever,
Calling others to the sky?"
Thus the philosophic Moon-man
Muttered many years ago,
Set the babes with pole and bucket,
To delight the folks below.
Never is the bucket empty,
Never are the children old;
Ever when the moon is shining
We the children may behold.
Ever young, and ever little,
Ever sweet and ever fair!
When thou art a man, my darling,
Still the children will be there!
Ever young, and ever little,
They will smile when thou art old!
When thy locks are thin and silver,
Theirs will still be shining gold.
They will haunt you from their heaven,
Softly beckoning down the gloom,--
Smiling in eternal sweetness
On thy cradle, on thy tomb!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A NIGHT IN A NORWEGIAN FOREST.
PETER CHRISTIAN ASBJORNSEN.
The evening shadows now unfold
Their curtain o'er the lonely wold;
The night wind sighs with dreary moan,
And whispers over stock and stone.
Tramp, Tramp! the trolls come trooping, hark!
Across the moor to the deep woods dark.
GEIJER.
When I was a boy about fourteen years old, I came one Saturday
afternoon in the middle of the summer to Upper Lyse, the last farm
in Sorkerdale. I had frequently walked or driven over the main road
between Christiania and Ringerike, and I had now, after having been
at home on a short visit, taken the road past Bokstad to Lyse for a
change, with the intention of making a short cut through the north part
of the Krog-wood.
I found all the doors of the farm-house wide open, but I looked in vain
in the parlor, in the kitchen, and in the barn, for a human being whom
I could ask for a drink and who could give me some direction about the
road.
There was no one at home but a black cat, who was sitting quite content
and purring on the hearth, and a dazzling white cock, who was walking
up and down the passage breasting himself and crowing incessantly, as
much as to say: "Now I am the cock of the walk!"
Tired with the heat and my walk, I threw myself down on the grass in
the shadow of the house, where I lay half-asleep enjoying a quiet rest,
when I was startled by an unpleasant clamour,--the jarring voice of a
woman, who was trying by alternately scolding and using pet names to
pacify a litter of grunting pigs on the farm. By following the sound I
came upon a bare-footed old woman with a yellow dried-up countenance,
who was bending down over the pigs' trough, busy filling it with food,
for which the noisy little creatures were fighting, tearing, pushing,
and yelling, with expectation and delight.
On my questioning her about the road, she answered me by asking me
another question, while she, without raising herself up, turned her
head half away from her pets to stare at me.
"Where might you come from?"
When she had got a satisfactory answer to this, she continued, while
she repeatedly addressed herself to the young pigs:
"Ah, so!--you are at school at the parson's, eh!--hush, hush! little
piggies, then!----The road to Stubdale, do you say?----Just look at
that one now! Will you let the others get something as well, you
rascal! Hush, hush! Be quiet, will you! Oh, poor fellow, did I kick you
then?----Yes, yes, I'll tell you the road directly,--its--its straight
on through the wood till you come to the big water-wheel!"