upon the matter, and get advice. How should a poor crawling creature
like me know what to do without asking my betters?"
But still there was a difficulty--whom should the Caterpillar
consult? There was the shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the
garden. But he was so rough!--he would most likely whisk all the
eggs off the cabbage-leaf with one brush of his tail. There was the
Tom Cat, to be sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot of the
apple-tree, basking himself and warming his fur in the sunshine;
but he was so selfish and indifferent! "I wonder which is the
wisest of all the animals I know," sighed the Caterpillar, in great
distress; and then she thought, and thought, till at last she
thought of the Lark; and she fancied that because he went up so
high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be very clever, and
know a great deal, for to go up very high (which _she_ could
never do), was the Caterpillar's idea of perfect glory.
Now in the neighbouring corn-field their lived a Lark, and the
Caterpillar sent a message to him, to beg him to come and talk to
her, and when he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked
him what she was to do to feed and rear the little creatures so
different from herself.
"Perhaps you will be able to inquire and hear something about it
next time you go up high," observed the Caterpillar, timidly.
The Lark said, "Perhaps he should;" but he did not satisfy her
curiosity any further. Soon afterwards, however, he went singing
upwards into the bright, blue sky. By degrees his voice died away
in the distance, till the green Caterpillar could not hear a sound.
So she resumed her walk round the Butterfly's eggs, nibbling a bit
of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along.
"What a time the Lark has been gone!" she cried, at last. "I wonder
where he is just now! I would give all my legs to know!" And the
green Caterpillar took another turn round the Butterfly's eggs.
At last the Lark's voice began to be heard again. The Caterpillar
almost jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her
friend descend with hushed note to the cabbage bed.
"News, news, glorious news, friend Caterpillar!" sang the Lark;
"but the worst of it is, you won't believe me!"
"I believe everything I am told," observed the Caterpillar,
hastily.
"Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what these little
creatures are to eat. What do you think it is to be? Guess!"
"Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am afraid," sighed the
Caterpillar.
"No such thing, old lady! Something simpler than that. Something
that _you_ can get at quite easily."
"I can get at nothing quite easily but cabbage-leaves," murmured
the Caterpillar, in distress.
"Excellent! my good friend," cried the Lark, exultingly; "you have
found it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves."
_"Never!"_ said the Caterpillar, indignantly. "It was their
dying mother's last request that I should do no such thing."
"Their dying mother knew nothing about the matter," persisted the
lark; "but why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You
have neither faith nor trust."
"Oh, I believe everything I am told," said the Caterpillar.
"Nay, but you do not," replied the Lark; "you won't believe me even
about the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have to
tell you. Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs
will turn out to be?"
"Butterflies, to be sure," said the Caterpillar.
"_Caterpillars!_" sang the Lark; "and you'll find it out in
time;" and the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and
contest the point with his friend.
"I thought the Lark had been wise and kind," observed the mild
green Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk around the eggs,
"but I find that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went
up _too_ high this time. I still wonder whom he sees, and what
he does up yonder."
"I would tell you if you would believe me," sang the Lark,
descending once more.
"I believe everything I am told," reiterated the Caterpillar, with
as grave a face as if it were a fact.
"Then I'll tell you something else," cried the Lark; "for the best
of my news remains behind. _You will one day be a Butterfly
yourself_."
"Wretched bird!" exclaimed the Caterpillar, "you jest with my
inferiority--now you are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I will
ask your advice no more."
"I told you you would not believe me!" cried the Lark, nettled in
his turn.
"I believe everything that I am told" persisted the Caterpillar;
"that is"--and she hesitated--"everything that it is _reasonable_
to believe. But to tell me that Butterflies' eggs are Caterpillars,
and that Caterpillars leave off crawling and get wings, and become
Butterflies!--Lark! you are too wise to believe such nonsense
yourself, for you know it is impossible."
"I know no such thing," said the Lark, warmly. "Whether I hover
over the corn-fields of earth, or go up into the depths of the sky,
I see so many wonderful things, I know no reason why there should
not be more. Oh, Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because you
never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you call _any_ thing
_impossible_."
"Nonsense!" shouted the Caterpillar, "I know what's possible, and
what's not possible, according to my experience and capacity, as
well as you do. Look at my long green body and these endless legs,
and then talk to me about having wings and a painted feathery coat!
Fool!--"
"And fool you!" cried the indignant Lark. "Fool, to attempt to
reason about what you cannot understand! Do you not hear how my
song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the mysterious
wonder-world above? Oh, Caterpillar; what comes to you from thence,
receive, as _I_ do, upon trust."
"That is what you call--"
"_Faith_," interrupted the Lark.
"How am I to learn Faith?" asked the Caterpillar.
At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked
round--eight or ten little green Caterpillars were moving about,
and had already made a show of a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had
broken from the Butterfly's eggs!
Shame and amazement filled our green friend's heart, but joy soon
followed; for, as the first wonder was possible, the second might
be so too. "Teach me your lesson, Lark!" she would say; and the
Lark sang to her of the wonders of the earth below and of the
heaven above. And the Caterpillar talked all the rest of her life
to her relations of the time when she should be a Butterfly.
But none of them believed her. She nevertheless had learnt the
Lark's lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis
grave, she said--
"I shall be a Butterfly some day!"
But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said,
"Poor thing!"
And when she was a Butterfly, and was going to die again, she
said--
"I have known many wonders--I have faith--I can trust even now
for what shall come next!"
THE DRAGON-FLY AND THE WATER-LILY
By Carl Ewald
In among the green bushes and trees ran the brook. Tall,
straight-growing rushes stood along its banks, and whispered to the
wind. Out in the middle of the water floated the Water-Lily, with
its white flower and its broad green leaves.
Generally it was quite calm on the brook. But when, now and again,
it chanced that the wind took a little turn over it, there was a
rustle in the rushes, and the Water-Lily sometimes ducked
completely under the waves. Then its leaves were lifted up in the
air and stood on their edges, so that the thick green stalks that
came up from the very bottom of the stream found that it was all
they could do to hold fast.
All day long the Larva of the Dragon-Fly was crawling up and down
the Water-Lily's stalk. "Dear me, how stupid it must be to be a
Water-Lily!" it said, and peeped up at the flower.
"You chatter as a person of your small mind might be expected to
do," answered the Water-Lily. "It is just the very nicest thing
there is."
"I don't understand that," said the Larva. "I should like at this
moment to tear myself away, and fly about in the air like the big,
beautiful Dragon-Flies."
"Pooh!" said the Water-Lily. "That would be a funny kind of
pleasure. No; to lie still on the water and dream, to bask in
the sun, and now and then to be rocked up and down by the
waves--there's some sense in _that_!"
The Larva sat thinking for a minute or two. "I have a longing for
something greater," it said at last. "If I had my will, I would be
a Dragon-Fly. I would fly on strong, stiff wings along the stream,
kiss your white flower, rest a moment on your leaves, and then fly
on."
"You are ambitious," answered the Water-Lily, "and that is stupid
of you. One knows what one has, but one does not know what one may
get. May I, by the way, make so bold as to ask you how you would
set about becoming a Dragon-Fly? You don't look as if that was what
you were born for. In any case you will have to grow a little
prettier, you gray, ugly thing,"
"Yes, that is the worst part of it," the Larva answered sadly. "I
don't know myself how it will come about, but I hope it _will_
come about some time or other. That is why I crawl about down here
and eat all the little creatures I can get hold of."
"Then you think you can attain to something great _by feeding!
_" the Water-Lily said, with a laugh. "That would be a funny way
of getting up in the world."
"Yes; but I believe it is the right way for me!" cried the
Dragon-Fly Grub earnestly. "All day long I go on eating till I get
fat and big; and one fine day, as I think, all my fat will turn
into wings with gold on them, and everything else that belongs to a
proper Dragon-Fly!"
The Water-Lily shook its clever white head, "Put away your silly
thoughts," it said, "and be content with your lot. You can knock
about undisturbed down here among my leaves, and crawl up and down
the stalk to your heart's desire. You have everything that you
need, and no cares or worries--what more do you want?"
"You are of a low nature," answered the Larva, "and therefore you
have no sense of higher things. In spite of what you say, I wish to
become a Dragon Fly." And then it crawled right down to the bottom
of the water to catch more creatures and stuff itself still bigger.
But the Water-Lily lay quietly on the water and thought things
over. "I can't understand these animals," it said to itself. "They
knock about from morning till night, chase one another and eat one
another, and are never at peace. We flowers have more sense.
Peacefully and quietly we grow up side by side, bask in the
sunshine, and drink the rain, and take everything as it comes. And
I am the luckiest of them all. Many a time have I been floating
happily out here on the water, while the other flowers there on dry
land were tormented with drought. The flowers' lot is the best; but
naturally the stupid animals can't see it."
When the sun went down the Dragon-Fly Larva was sitting on the
stalk, saying nothing, with its legs drawn up under it. It had
eaten ever so many little creatures, and was so big that it had a
feeling as if it would burst. But all the same it was not
altogether happy. It was speculating on what the Water-Lily had
said, and it could hardly get to sleep the whole night long on
account of its unquiet thoughts. All this speculating gave it a
headache, for it was work which it was not used to. It had a
back-ache too, and a stomach-ache. It felt just as though it was
going to break in pieces, and die on the spot.
When the sky began to grow gray in the early morning it could hold
out no longer. "I can't make it out," it said in despair. "I am
tormented and worried, and I don't know what will be the end of it.
Perhaps the Water-Lily is right, and I shall never be anything else
but a poor, miserable Larva. But that is a fearful thing to think
of. I did so long to become a Dragon-Fly and fly about in the sun.
Oh, my back! my back! I do believe I am dying!"
It had a feeling as if its back was splitting, and it shrieked with
pain. At that moment there was a rustle among the rushes on the
bank of the stream.
"That's the morning breeze," thought the Larva; "I shall at least
see the sun when I die." And with great trouble it crawled up one
of the leaves of the Water-Lily, stretched out its legs, and made
ready to die.
But when the sun rose, like a red ball, in the east, suddenly it
felt a hole in the middle of its back. It had a creepy, tickling
feeling, and then a feeling of tightness and oppression. Oh, it was
torture without end! Being bewildered, it closed its eyes; but it
still felt as though it were being squeezed and crushed. At last it
suddenly noticed that it was free; and when it opened its eyes it
was floating through the air on stiff, shining wings, a beautiful
Dragon-Fly. Down on the leaf of the Water-Lily lay its ugly gray
Larva case.
"Hurrah!" cried the new Dragon-Fly. "So I have got my darling wish
fulfilled!" and it started off at once through the air at such a
rate that you would think it had to fly to the ends of the earth.
"The creature has got its desire at any rate," thought the
Water-Lily. "Let us see if it will be any the happier for it."
Two days later the Dragon-Fly came flying back, and seated itself
on the flower of the Water-Lily.
"Oh, good-morning," said the Water-Lily. "Do I see you once more? I
thought you had grown too fine to greet your old friends."
"Good-day," said the Dragon-Fly. "Where shall I lay my eggs?"
"Oh, you are sure to find some place," answered the flower. "Sit
down for a bit, and tell me if you are any happier now than when
you were crawling up and down my stalk, a little ugly Larva."
"Where shall I lay my eggs? Where shall I lay my eggs?" screamed
the Dragon-Fly, and flew humming around from place to place, laid
one here and one there, and finally seated itself, tired and weary,
on one of the leaves.
"Well?" said the Water-Lily.
"Oh, it was better in the old days--much better," sighed the
Dragon-Fly. "The sunshine is really delightful, and it is a real
pleasure to fly over the water; but I have no time to enjoy it. I
have been so terribly busy, I tell you. In the old days I had
nothing to think about; now I have to fly about all day long to get
my silly eggs disposed of. I haven't a moment free. I have scarcely
time to eat."
"Didn't I tell you so?" cried the Water-Lily in triumph. "Didn't I
prophesy that your happiness would be hollow?"
"Good-bye," sighed the Dragon-Fly. "I have not time to listen to
your disagreeable remarks. I must lay some more eggs." But just as
it was about to fly off the Starling came.
"What a pretty little Dragon-Fly!" it said; "it will be a
delightful tit-bit for my little ones."
Snap! it killed the Dragon-Fly with its bill, and flew off with it.
"What a shocking thing!" cried the Water-Lily, as its leaves shook
with terror. "Those animals! those animals! They are funny
creatures. I do indeed value my quiet, peaceful life. I harm
nobody, and nobody wants to pick a quarrel with me. I am very
luck--"
It did not finish what it was saying, for at that instant a boat
came gliding close by. "What a pretty little Water-Lily!" cried
Ellen, who sat in the boat. "I will have it!" She leant over the
gunwale and wrenched off the flower. When she had got home she put
it in a glass of water, and there it stood for three days among a
whole company of other flowers.
"I can't make it out," it said on the morning of the fourth day. "I
have not come off a bit better than that miserable Dragon-Fly."
"The flowers are now withered," said Ellen, and she threw them out
of the window.
So there lay the Water-Lily with its fine white petals on the dirty
ground.
POWDER-POST
By C. A. Stephens
There is a tiny borer which eats seasoned oak wood, boring
thousands of minute holes through it till it becomes a mere shell,
and turning out a fine white powder known among country folk as
"powder-post." When a shovel or a pitchfork-handle snaps suddenly,
or an axe-helve or a rake's tail breaks off under no great strain,
the farmer says, "'Twas powder-post."
If this small pest obtains lodgment in a barn, or in the oak finish
or furniture of a house, it is likely to do a vexatious amount of
damage, and no practicable method of checking its ravages has been
found. Varnishes do not exclude it. Boiling will kill the borer,
but furniture and wainscotings are not easily boiled.
From the frames of old buildings, when of oak, powder-post will
sometimes run in streams when a beam or brace is struck.
But everything has its virtues, if only they can be found out; and
long ago, in New England, some rustic AEsculapius discovered that
powder-post was a sovereign balm for all flesh-wounds, causing them
to heal rapidly, without "proud flesh." And if proud flesh
appeared, the wound would still heal if it were opened and dressed
with powder-post.
What modern medical science would predicate concerning this
panacea, I know not, but thousands of cuts in rural districts
treated with powder-post did very well, and faith in it waxed
strong. So when Sam Eastman cut his foot over in the "east woods,"
all the wiseacres in the neighborhood declared that that foot must
be done up in powder-post. "If it isn't," they said, "proud flesh
will get into it, and that boy will be lame all winter."
It was a bad cut. Sam and Willis Murch had been splitting four-foot
logs, when Sam's axe, glancing from a log, had buried the blade in
his instep; the very bones were cut. There were four of us boys at
work together. We ran to him, tied a handkerchief round his ankle,
and twisted it tight with a stick; but blood flowed profusely. We
did not know how to apply a tourniquet.
When at last we had helped Sam home, night was at hand; and
although we went to all the neighbors, we could not collect enough
powder-post to dress the cut. Several people said, however, that
plenty of it could be obtained at the old Plancher barn, for the
braces of that barn had been made of cleft red oak, and were "all
powder-posted." But the Plancher barn was four miles distant, in
the clearing in the "great woods." A settler bearing the name had
cleared a farm there forty years before, and had lived there for
over twenty years. Ill fortune beset him, however. His children
died, his house burned on a winter night, and he moved away in
discouragement, abandoning the property.
The clearing was known to all the boys of the locality as a
favorite haunt of foxes.
The next morning Sam's younger brother, John, Willis Murch and I
went up to the old barn to get powder-post. John had a small axe
with which to split the timbers, four old newspapers in which to
gather up the precious dust, and a bottle in which to put it.
It was Thanksgiving morning. The sun rose in a clear, straw-colored
sky. It was cold; the ground was frozen, and there was skating on
the small ponds.
Red squirrels were scolding on the borders of the wood-lots, and
blue jays came squalling into the orchards.
"This is a weather-breeder," grandmother remarked at breakfast.
Low down on the southern horizon, scarcely visible above the
hilltops, was a line of slate-gray cloud.
Willis and I were not sorry of an excuse for a jaunt through the
woods, for Willis owned a gun--an old army rifle bored out smooth
for shot. Our only anxiety was to get back in good season for
dinner. Thanksgiving dinner was always at three o'clock.
We set off immediately after breakfast. There was no need for haste
on Sam's account, for John told us that the cut foot was no longer
very painful, and Sam had slept well. The distance was about four
miles, but there was neither road nor path through the forest.
It was a good time for hunting, for the swamps were frozen and the
foliage was off the trees. The leaves were sodden, and no longer
rustled underfoot. Red and gray squirrels scampered across our
path, but Willis disdained to fire at them. He was loaded for deer;
besides he had but three extra charges. Powder and shot were
usually scarce with us.
At length we heard a deer run, and followed it for an hour or more.
Then John espied a hedgehog in a poplar-tree, and Willis shot it.
The long black-pointed quills were a curiosity to us, but we did
not deem such game worth carrying home.
It was near noon when we reached the clearing, and the sky had
become overcast, but as we crossed the Plancher brook a new
diversion presented itself. The pools were frozen over, but the ice
was so transparent that the bottom was plainly visible, and we
could see trout lying sluggishly in the deep water. Several of them
were fine fish, that looked as if they might weigh a pound or more.
I had heard older boys say that if a gun is fired with the muzzle
held just through the ice of a frozen pool, the concussion will so
stun the fish beneath that they will float up to the under side of
the ice. Willis was afraid that this would burst his gun, but the
trout looked so alluring that at last he ventured the experiment.
John cut a small hole with the axe, and then Willis, lying down,
thrust the muzzle of the gun about six inches beneath the ice.
Then he edged away, and stretching out his arm at full length,
pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled, but no apparent damage was
done.
For a few moments the water was turbid with the smoke, but when it
cleared, there, sure enough, were five or six of the very largest
trout floating, belly upward, against the ice. We had but to cut
through and take them out, but John was so slow with his axe that
two of the trout recovered and darted away.
We had four fine fish to show for the charge of powder, and
immediately searched for another pool. We soon came to one much
deeper and better stocked with trout, and Willis fired under the
ice again. Eight fish were secured here; and going on up the brook,
we found still another pool. This time Willis thrust the gun deeper
into the water, with the result that about a foot of the muzzle was
split open!
We had angry words about this accident, for Willis, much chapfallen
over the mishap, blamed me, and declared that I ought to buy him a
new gun. As I had but fifty cents in the world, there was no other
way for me but to scoff at Willis's claim. He then seized all the
trout. This did not altogether please John Eastman, and he and I
turned our backs on Willis, and hit upon a stratagem for capturing
trout on our own account. Knowing that it was the concussion of the
shot that stunned the trout, we went up to the old barn and
procured a long, sweeping board. Using this like a flail, we could
strike the ice a blow that made a noise well-nigh as loud as a gun.
When we gave just the right sort of blow, the trout below would
turn on their backs and float up to the ice. John and I soon
secured two good strings of trout; and by this time Willis, who had
followed us, thought it best to make peace.
"Come on, boys!" he exclaimed. "We had better be going. It's two
o'clock, and beginning to snow."
We had become so engrossed in our novel method of fishing that we
had not heeded the weather. Fine snow was falling.
"But I must get the powder-post for Sam's foot!" exclaimed John.
Willis and I had forgotten that.
"Hurry, then," said Willis, "or we shall be late to Thanksgiving
dinner! I'm hungry now!"
We ran to the barn. The lean-to door was off its hinges, but wooden
pins held the oak braces of the frame in position. We knocked out
the pins, and prying out two of the braces, split them, and then
beat the pieces on the newspapers. The white powder ran from the
perforated wood in tiny streams. The bottle filled slowly, however,
and it needed much splitting and hammering to obtain even a
teaspoonful of powder-post. Then, at the last moment, Willis
spilled nearly all that he had collected, and another brace had to
be taken out and split.
By this time our newspapers were torn in pieces, and altogether we
had much trouble in collecting half a bottleful. When at last we
corked up the bottle and hurried out of the barn, a heavy snowstorm
had set in. We could not even see the forest across the clearing.
But we ran as fast as we could, and for fifteen minutes scarcely
slackened our pace.
The whole forest had taken on a wintry aspect. The snow rattled on
the bare twigs and sodden leaves, and the rising gusts of wind
sighed drearily.
"It seems to me we ought to come to that little hollow where the
muck-holes are," John said.
"So I think," replied Willis, stopping to look about.
"I think we're heading off too far toward Stoss Pond," said I.
"Oh no, we're not!" cried Willis. "Come on!"
Gripping our strings of fish, we ran on again, but presently we
were perplexed to discern the side of a mountain looking up
directly ahead.
"There, now, what did I tell you?" said I. "That's Stoss Pond
mountain."