[Illustration]

THE TURK AND THE FIDDLER.

GRIMM.

There was once a rich farmer who had a faithful and diligent servant

named Fritz. He was always the first up in the morning and last in bed

at night, and whenever there was any hard work that others were averse

to, he was always willing to do it. He was a good-natured fellow, but

was content with everything, and was always cheerful.

At the end of the first year his master gave him no wages, thinking to

himself that thus he would not only save something, but would also

retain the man in his service. To this Fritz never said a word, but

stayed another year with him, working as hard as he had the first;

and when at the close of the second twelve-month he still received no

wages, he submitted to that too, and continued to serve on.

At the end of the third year his master bethought himself, and put his

hand into his pocket as if to give him something, but took out nothing.

Then Fritz said, "Master, I have worked hard for you these three years;

pray give me now what is right for my trouble; I want to go out into

the wide world, and look about me," The miser answered, "Yes, my good

man, you have served me honestly and faithfully, and for this I will

now reward you generously."

He then put his hand into his pocket, and took out three farthings,

which he gave him, saying, "Here is a farthing for each year; this is

a great and generous reward, such as you would not have got from any

other master." The simple-hearted fellow, who knew very little about

money, put the sum into his pocket, thinking to himself, "Now that my

pocket is full of money, why should I plague myself with hard work any

longer?"

So he set out, and roamed over hill and dale, singing and dancing with

joy. One day, when passing by a bush, a dwarf popped out of it, and

accosted him, saying, "Whither away my merry fellow? I see your load of

cares is not heavy to bear."

"Why should I be melancholy?" answered Fritz; "I have plenty of money;

I have my three years' earnings safe in my pocket."

"How much may your treasure be?" said the dwarf. "How much? Three whole

farthings," replied Fritz. "I wish you would give them to me," said the

other; "I am very poor and needy, and can earn nothing; but you are

young, and can easily work for your bread."

Then Fritz, who was very kind-hearted, took pity on the dwarf, and gave

him his three farthings, saying, "Take them, I shall not be the worse

off for the want of them," The dwarf then said, "As you have such a

kind heart, I will grant you three wishes, one for each farthing; so

choose whatever you like."

"My first wish," said Fritz, "is to have a fowling-piece that will

bring down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set

everyone dancing that hears me play on it; and thirdly, I should like

to be able to make everyone grant me whatever I ask."

"All your wishes shall be fulfilled," said the dwarf. He thrust his

hand into the bush, and only think! there lay the fiddle and the

fowling-piece ready, as if they had been put there on purpose. So he

gave them to Fritz, adding, "And whatever you ask for, nobody in the

world shall ever refuse you."

"What else can my heart wish for?" said Fritz to himself; "I now have

everything that I can desire;" and so he journeyed merrily on his way.

He had not gone far before he met an old Turk, bearded like a goat, who

was standing near a tree, listening to the sprightly song of a bird

perched on its topmost branch.

"Oh, what a wonderful bird!" exclaimed the Turk; "how can such a little

creature have such a powerful voice? Oh, if he were only mine! If one

could but put salt on his tail and catch him!"

"If that's all," said Fritz, "I will soon bring him down."

So he took up his fowling-piece, and fired, when down came the bird

into the thorn bushes that grew at the foot of the tree. "I will pick

it up and keep it for myself, as you have hit it," said the Turk; and,

laying himself down upon the ground, he began to work his way into the

bush. But as soon as he had got into the middle of it, a fit of wanton

playfulness seizing Fritz, he took up his fiddle, and gave him a tune,

and the Turk began to dance and spring about; and the more lively the

fiddler scraped, the more lively grew the dance.

The thorns soon began to tear the Turk's shabby clothes, comb his

goat's beard, and scratch and wound him all over. "Oh, dear!" cried

he, "mercy, mercy, master! pray stop your fiddling! I do not want

to dance." But Fritz paid no heed, and only struck up another tune,

thereby making the Turk cut and caper higher than ever, so that pieces

torn out of his clothes, hung about the thorn.

"Oh, mercy!" cried the Turk, "do stop your fiddling, master! I will

give you whatever you ask, a bagfull of gold, if you only will!"

"Ah! if you are as generous as that," said the man, "I will put up my

fiddle; but I must say you are a capital dancer." He then took the

offered purse, put up his fiddle, and traveled onward.

The Turk stood still looking after his tormentor for some time, and

when he was almost out of sight, began to cry as loud as he could, "You

miserable fiddler! you ale-house scraper! take care, if I get hold

of you I will make you take to your heels; you beggarly knave! you

ragamuffin!" And he went on loading him with all manner of abuse.

After having thus given vent to his feelings, he went to the judge,

saying, "See, your honor, how I have been robbed and ill-used by a

rascal on the highway! the very stones might pity me. Do but look at

the deplorable state I am in. My clothes are torn, my body is wounded

and scratched; the little money I had is gone, purse and all! nothing

but ducats, one piece finer than the other. For Heaven's sake, do have

the fellow caught and imprisoned!"

The judge then asked him whether it was a soldier who had put him in

that plight with his sword. "By no means," said the Turk; "he had no

sword, but he had a fowling-piece hanging on his back, and a fiddle

round his neck. The fellow may easily be recognized."

So the judge sent out his bailiffs in search of the man. They met the

honest fellow walking slowly and carelessly on, and, on searching him,

found the money-bag in question.

When he was taken before the judge he said, "I have not touched the

Turk, nor have I taken away his money; he offered it me of his own free

will, if I would but leave off playing the fiddle, as he could not bear

my music."

"Not a word of truth in it!" cried the Turk, "those are bare-faced

lies." And the judge not believing it either, said, "That is a very

poor excuse;" and sentenced the poor man to the gallows for highway

robbery.

As he was being taken away, the Turk cried after him, "You lubber! you

shall now get your well-deserved punishment!" The poor man ascended the

ladder very composedly, accompanied by the executioner; but when he

had got up to the top of it, he turned round and addressed the judge,

saying, "May it please your honor to grant me but one last request

before I die!"

"Anything but your life," replied the other.

"I do not ask my life," said Fritz; "only let me play one tune upon my

fiddle for the last time."

The Turk cried out, "Oh, no, no! for pity's sake don't let him! don't

let him!" But the judge said, "Why should I not grant him this last

request? He shall do so." The fact was, he _could not_ say no, because

the dwarf's third gift enabled Fritz to make everyone grant whatever he

asked. Then the Turk said, "Bind me fast, bind me fast, bind me fast,

for pity's sake!" But the condemned man seized his fiddle and struck up

a merry tune; and at the first note, judge, clerks, and jailor were set

agoing; at the second note, all began capering and the hangman let his

prisoner go, and prepared to dance; at the third note all were dancing

and springing together, and the judge and the Turk took the lead and

sprang the highest.

In a little while all the market people who were looking on, old and

young, stout and lean, were dancing together; even the very dogs that

had come along with them were up on their hind legs, and were leaping

along with the rest. And the longer the fiddler played, the higher the

dancers capered, so that they knocked their heads together and began to

cry out piteously.

At last the judge exclaimed, quite out of breath, "I grant you your

life; do but give over playing." Then Fritz suffered himself to be

persuaded, stopped playing, and, hanging his fiddle round his neck,

came down the ladder. Then, stepping up to the Turk, who was lying

breathless on the ground, he said, "You scoundrel! now confess where

you got that money from, or I will take my fiddle down and make you

dance to another tune." "I stole it, I stole it!" cried he; "but it is

you who have won it fairly." The judge then had the Turk taken to the

gallows and hung as a thief.

* * * * *

The sober second thought is always essential, and seldom wrong.

MARTIN VAN BUREN.

[Illustration]

LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

Mamma's in Heaven! and so, you see,

My sister Bet's mamma to me.

Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say,

I love her well the whole bright _day_;

For Sis is kind as kind can be,

Until, indeed, we've finished tea--

Then (why _did_ God make ugly night?)

She never, _never_ treats me right.

But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head,

'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"

Just when the others, Fred and Fay,

Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,--

Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks,

Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box--

I must (it's that bad gas, I think,

That makes me, somehow, _seem_ to wink!)

_Must_ leave them all, to seek the gloom

Of sister Bet's close-curtained room,

Put on that long, stiff gown I hate,

And go to bed--oh, dear! at eight!

[Illustration: RUSSELL & RICHARDSON-SD

"GHOSTS."]

Now, is it fair that I who stand

Taller than Dolly by a hand,

(I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told,

That Cousin Doll is ten years old!)

And just because I'm only seven,

Should be so teazed, yes, almost _driven_,

Soon as I've supped my milk and bread,

To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?

I've lain between the dusky posts,

And shivered when I thought of ghosts;

Or else have grown so mad, you know,

To hear those laughing romps below,

While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!)

With one dim lamp for company.

I've longed for courage, just to dare

Dress softly--then trip down the stair,

And in the parlor pop my head

With "_No, I will not stay a-bed!_"

I'll do it yet, all quick and bold,

No matter how our Bet may scold,

For oh! I'm sure it can't be right

To keep me here each dismal night,

Half scared by shadows grimly tall

That dance along the cheerless wall

Or by the wind, with fingers chill,

Shaking the worn-out window sill--

One might as well be sick, or dead,

As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed!

[Illustration]

THERE IS NO DEATH.

LORD LYTTON.

There is no death! The stars go down

To rise upon some fairer shore;

And bright in Heaven's jeweled crown

They shine forevermore.

There is no death! The dust we tread

Shall change beneath the summer showers

To golden grain or mellowed fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize,

And feed the hungry moss they bear;

The forest leaves drink daily life,

From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall,

And flowers may fade and pass away;

They only wait through wintry hours,

The coming of the May.

There is no death! An angel form

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread;

He bears our best loved things away;

And then we call them "dead."

He leaves our hearts all desolate,

He plucks our fairest, sweetest, flowers;

Transplanted into bliss, they now

Adorn immortal bowers.

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones,

Made glad these scenes of sin and strife,

Sing now an everlasting song,

Around the tree of life.

Where'er he sees a smile too bright,

Or heart too pure for taint and vice,

He bears it to that world of light,

To dwell in Paradise.

Born unto that undying life,

They leave us but to come again;

With joy we welcome them the same--

_Except_ their sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen,

The dear immortal spirits tread;

For all the boundless universe

Is life--_there are no dead_.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE SIEGE OF TROY.

OR THE STORY OF THE WOODEN HORSE.

Troy was one of the most noted cities of ancient times, and was

situated in the northwestern part of Asia Minor.

Much of its history is obscured by uncertainty and mystery, yet Homer

in his Iliad has told the most interesting part of the history of this

great city.

At the time of which Homer wrote, Priam was king of Troy, and Paris,

his son, was, like many young men, always getting his father into

trouble; the one of which we now write resulting in the complete

destruction of Troy.

Paris went to visit the Grecian princes and kings, all of whom treated

him in the most hospitable manner.

Helen, the most beautiful woman of the age, was the wife of

Men-a-la-us, king of Sparta, and one day when her husband was away, she

eloped with the handsome Paris, who took her to Troy.

When Men-a-la-us discovered what Paris had done, he called upon all

the Greek princes and heroes to make war upon Troy and assist him in

recovering the faithless Helen.

The command of the expedition was given to Ag-a-mem-non, brother of

Men-a-la-us. The whole army set sail in twelve hundred ships and soon

arrived at the port of Troy. The war lasted for ten years, and it was

not till the last year that the Greeks succeeded in taking the city,

and then only by strategy.

Paris was killed long before the war was over, but the Trojans would

not then give up Helen, for two of his brothers had fallen in love with

her, and so the war went on.

There was in Troy an _image_ called the Pal-la-di-um, and the gods,

some of whom helped the Greeks and some the Trojans, had decreed that

so long as this image remained within the walls, Troy should never be

taken.

When the Greeks found this out, they set to work to obtain the

image. One night, Ulysses, the great hero, scaled the wall and stole

the wonderful Pal-la-di-um. Still the city held out and it seemed

impossible to take it.

At last the Greeks pretended to abandon the siege; their ships sailed

away and it really seemed as though the long and bloody war was at an

end.

The Trojans were filled with joy, and rushed out of the city and down

to the shore. Judge of their surprise at finding an immense _wooden

horse_, built of strong timbers and so large that it would require

several thousand men to move it. Of course they did not understand it,

but an old man named Sinon, who had been left on purpose by the Greeks,

falsely said that the wooden horse was a sacred image and that if it

were taken into Troy it would be the same to them as the image Ulysses

stole at night.

Though warned of this man Sinon, they set to work and by means of

rollers and pulleys the great horse was taken inside the walls.

Then followed one of the most dreadful massacres. The horse was full

of Greeks armed with torches and lances. As soon as night fell, they

opened a secret door in the horse and were quickly upon the sleeping

Trojans. The Greek ships, which really were hiding along the coast,

returned, and the soldiers poured in at the gates, which had been

opened by their allies from the great horse. With torch and lance the

city was soon in flames, and its defenders struggling against fearful

odds.

The morning found Troy in ashes, her wealth in the hands of the Greeks,

and her inhabitants dead or in slavery.

Priam was slain at his own family altar, and the beautiful but

perfidious Helen, the cause of so much bloodshed and misery, the cause

of the overthrow of one of the greatest cities of ancient times, was

taken captive by her former people.

* * * * *

Think for thyself--one good idea,

But known to be thine own,

Is better than a thousand gleaned

From fields by others sown.

WILSON.

[Illustration]

GEORGE NIDIVER.

BRET HARTE.

Men have done brave deeds,

And bards have sung them well:

I, of good George Nidiver,

Now the tale will tell.

In California mountains,

A hunter bold was he.

Keen his eye and sure his aim

As any you should see.

A little Indian boy

Followed him everywhere,

Eager to share the hunter's joy,

The hunter's meal to share.

And when the bird or deer,

Fell by the hunter's skill,

The boy was always near

To help with right good will,

One day, as through the cleft,

Between two mountains steep,

Shut in both right and left,

Their weary way they keep;

They see two grizzly bears,

With hunger fierce and fell,

Rush at them unawares,

Right down the narrow dell.

The boy turned round, with screams,

And ran with terror wild;

One of the pair of savage beasts

Pursued the shrieking child.

The hunter raised his gun;

He knew one charge was all;

And through the boy's pursuing foe

He sent his only ball.

The other on George Nidiver,

Came on with dreadful pace;

The hunter stood unarmed

And met him face to face.

I say unarmed he stood:

Against those frightful paws

The rifle-butt or club of wood

Could stand no more than straws.

George Nidiver stood still,

And looked him in the face;

The wild beast stopped amazed,

Then came on with slackening pace.

Still firm the hunter stood

Although his heart beat high;

Again the creature stopped,

And gazed with wondering eye.

The hunter met his gaze,

Nor yet an inch gave way:

The bear turned slowly round,

And slowly moved away.

What thoughts were in his mind,

It would be hard to spell;

What thoughts were in George Nidiver's,

I rather guess than tell.

But sure that rifle's aim,

Swift choice of generous part,

Showed in its passing gleam

The depth of a brave heart.

[Illustration]

MARCH AND THE BOYS.

MARY D. BRINE.

March, you're a jolly old fellow, I know;

They may call you a _blustering_ old chap, but you blow

For us boys and our kites and we don't care a fig,

For the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig.

Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high,

At our _kites_ you may bluster, and "_blow_ them sky-high!"

Nobody will find any fault, but the girls--

And _they_ make a fuss 'cause you "_blow_ out their curls!"

You're just _our_ own season--we've waited for you;

And our kites are all ready, so strong and so new,

You jolly old fellow, if _you_ were a boy,

_You'd know_ why the March-month gives us such joy.

It is fun to stand high on the top of a hill,

And pay out your string--let it run with a will;

It is fun to "hold hard" while your kite pulls away,

And the wind blows a gale! ah! kite-flying is gay.

The ladies complain that you "_blow off their veils_,"

But never you mind, give no heed to their tales,

Devote yourself wholly to boys and their kites,

And trust to the _boys_ to fight hard for your rights.

For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we know,

And we like you the better, the harder you blow!

When you marched in upon us, we gave you a shout,

And we'll miss you at last, when 'tis time to _march out_.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "BIVOUAC OF CRUSADERS."]

[Illustration]

THE CRUSADES.

OR THE WARS OF THE CROSS.

Adapted from Joseph F. Michaud's History of the Crusades.

It was for a long time the custom among the devout Christians of

France, Germany, Italy and England, to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem

and pray at the many spots made sacred by the events in the life of

Jesus, especially at the Holy Sepulchre.

The people who lived there did not object to these pilgrimages,

especially as those who came, spent money and increased their trade.

But about the year A. D. 1020 the Saracen king Hakem, over-ran all

of Palestine, destroyed the Christian churches and persecuted the

Christians. Pilgrims returning to Europe, spread the news abroad and

the whole Christian world became alarmed. But matters grew better for

awhile and Christians were not molested, until in 1076 the Turks came

into possession of Jerusalem, when they were again subject to all kinds

of dangers, and made to pay for the privilege of visiting the Holy Land.

In 1094, Peter the Hermit, a monk, returned from a pilgrimage and began

to preach a Holy War--a Crusade, throughout Europe. He went from town

to town, calling upon everyone, with fiery eloquence, to join the army.

The effect was magical. People of all classes took the vow to protect

the Holy Sepulchre of Jesus;--Kings, knights, nobles, lords, laborers,

and even women and children.

Each one bound to his shoulders a _red cross_, as a pledge. By-and-bye

they were all ready to march. Over 900,000 were in the vast army. But

in their religious zeal, they forgot that they must eat on the way. No

food was provided; still they marched on, seeming to expect to be fed

in some miraculous manner.

Their route lay through a region very well supplied with provisions,

and as they went along, they managed to beg and take by force, enough

to supply their necessities.

At last, after many battles and defeats, they reached Jerusalem. Of the

900,000 who started from Europe only 40,000 remained;--the rest had

fallen in battle, or died of disease and starvation.

The city was finally taken, "and," says one historian, "Seventy

thousand Turks were put to the sword. The Christian knights rode in

blood to their horses' knees."

Having recovered the Holy Sepulchre, and established a Christian

kingdom at Jerusalem, the greater number went back to Europe and the

First Crusade was ended.

The Christian kingdom set up did not last long. There were one thousand

Turks to every Christian in Palestine.

A SECOND CRUSADE was organized in 1146, but it resulted in defeat, and

so might it be said of six other Crusades, the last of which ended in

the complete overthrow of Christians in 1291.

Hundreds of thousands of noble lives had been sacrificed, in a blind

fury, to accomplish what might have been done by one army well supplied

and equipped.

Without believing that these holy wars did either all the good or all

the harm that is attributed to them, it must be admitted that they were

a source of bitter sorrow to the generations that saw them or took part

in them; but like the ills and tempests of human life, which render

man better, and often assist the progress of his reason, they have

forwarded the progress of nations.

PRIDE OF NATIVE LAND.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land!"

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch concenter'd all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

WALTER SCOTT: "LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."

[Illustration]

THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE.

A STRANGE PIECE OF HISTORY.

So great was the religious zeal during this period that even the

children were also enlisted in the cause.

At the close of the Fifth Crusade, these little ones were taught that

the warriors had failed because of their sins and that it now remained

for the weak and innocent to make an effort.

In 1212 not less than 50000 children in France and Germany, braving the

anger of parents, gathered together in cities and countries, singing

these words; "Lord Jesus, restore to us your holy cross."

They were led by two boys, Stephen of Colyes, and Nicholas of Hungary,

though it is probable that older leaders were also present.

When they were asked where they were going, or what they intended to

do, they replied, "We are going to Jerusalem to deliver the Sepulchre

of our Saviour."

A great portion of them tried to cross the Alps near Mt. Cenis and

nearly all perished. Others took another route, and crossing, at an

easier pass, arrived in Italy, while most who came from France went to

Marseilles.

They had been made to believe that the year 1213 would be very dry and

that the heat of the sun would be so great as to dry up the waters of

the sea; thus an easy road for pilgrims would be opened across the bed

of the Mediterranean sea to Jerusalem.

Finding no dry sea, seven vessels were provided and those who embarked

were either ship-wrecked or taken prisoners by the Saracens. Many were

lost in the forests then so abundant and large, others perished with

heat, hunger, thirst, and fatigue,--and of the fifty thousand who

started, few, if any, ever reached home or trod the sands of Palestine.

The narrative of the children's crusade seems too strange to be true,

but the facts are stated by the most truthful authors and are worthy of

being believed.

[Illustration]

THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE.

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.