wonderfully light," said the Mist. "I don't know how it came about,
but I thought I could rise up from the lake and fly; and before I
knew anything about it, I was drifting over the water, far away
from the dragon-flies and the water-lilies. The evening breeze bore
me away. I flew high up into the air, and there I met many of my
sisters, who had been just as eager for novelty as myself, and had
had the same fate. We drifted across the sky, for, you see, we had
become clouds."
"I am not sure I do see," said the Night-Violet. "The thing sounds
incredible."
"But it is true all the same," answered the Mist "And let me tell
you what happened then. The wind carried us for a long way through
the air. But all at once it would not do so any more, and let us
drop. Down we fell on to the earth as a splashing shower of rain.
The flowers all shut up in a hurry, and the birds crept under
cover--except, of course, the ducks and the geese, for, you know,
the wetter it is the more they like it. Yes--and the farmer too! He
wanted rain so much for his crops, he stood there hugely delighted,
and did not in the least mind getting wet. But otherwise we really
did make quite a sensation."
"Oh! so you are the rain as well?" said the Night-Violet. "I must
say you have plenty to do."
"Yes, I'm never idle," said the Mist.
"All the same, I have not yet heard how you became mist," said the
Night-Violet. "Only, _please_ don't get into a passion again.
You know you promised to tell me without my asking you, and I would
sooner hear the whole story over again than shiver once more in
your horrid, clammy arms."
The Mist lay silent and sobbed for a few moments. Then she went on
with her story:--"After I had fallen on the earth as rain, I sank
down into the black soil, and was already congratulating myself on
soon getting back to my birthplace, the deep underground spring.
There, at any rate, one enjoyed peace and had no cares. But, as I
was sinking into the ground, the tree roots sucked me up, and I had
to wander about for a whole day in the boughs and leaves. They
treated me as a beast of burden, I assure you. All the food that
the leaves and flowers needed I had to carry up to them from the
roots. It was not till the evening that I managed to get away. When
the sun had gone down the flowers and trees all heaved a deep sigh,
and I and my sisters flew off in that sigh in the form of bright
airy Mists. To-night we dance on the meadow. But when the sun rises
in the morning we shall turn into those pretty transparent dewdrops
which hang from your petals. When you shake us off we shall sink
deeper and deeper till we reach the spring we came from--that is,
if some root or other does not snap us up on the way. And so the
journey goes on. Down the brook, out into the lake, up into the
air, down again to the earth--"
"Stop!" said the Night-Violet. "If I listen to you any more, I
shall become quite sea-sick."
Now the frog began to stir. He stretched his legs, and went down to
the ditch to take his morning bath. The birds began to twitter in
the wood, and the bellow of the stag echoed amongst the trees. It
was on the point of dawn, and here came the Sun peeping up over the
hill.
"Hullo, what is that?" he said. "What a strange sight! One can't
see one's hand before one's face. Wind of the morning! up with you,
you sluggard, and drive the foul Mists away."
The Morning Wind came over the meadow, and away went the Mists. And
at the very same moment the first rays of the Sun fell right on the
Night-Violet.
"Heyday!" said the flower. "We have got the Sun already, so I had
better make haste and shut up. Where in the world has the Mist gone
to?"
"I am still here," said the Dewdrop that hung on its stalk.
But the Night-Violet shook herself peevishly. "You may stuff
children with that nonsense," she said. "As for me, I don't believe
a word of your whole story. It is as weak as water."
Then the Sun laughed and said, "You are quite right _there_!"
THE ANEMONES
By Carl Ewald
"Peeweet! peeweet!" cried the Plover, as he flew over the bog in
the wood. "My Lady Spring is coming! I can tell it from the feeling
in my legs and wings."
When the new Grass that lay below in the earth heard that, it
pushed up at once and peeped out merrily from among the old yellow
Grass of last year. For the Grass is always in a great hurry.
The Anemones in among the trees also heard the Plover's cry; but
they, on the contrary, would not come up yet on any account. "You
must not believe the Plover," they whispered to one another. "He is
a gay young spark who is not to be depended upon. He always comes
too early, and begins crying out at once. No, we will wait quietly
till the Starlings and Swallows come. They are sensible,
steady-going people who know what's what, and don't go sailing with
half a wind."
And then the Starlings came. They perched on the stumps in front of
their summer villa, and looked about them. "Too early as usual,"
said Daddy Starling. "Not a green leaf and not a fly to be seen,
except an old tough one from last year, which isn't worth opening
one's bill for." Mother Starling said nothing, but she did not seem
any more enchanted with the prospect.
"If we had only stayed in our cosy winter home down there beyond
the mountains," said Daddy Starling. He was angry at his wife's not
answering him, because he was so cold that he thought it might do
him good to have a little fun. "But it is _your_ fault, as it
was last year. You are always in such a dreadful hurry to come out
to the country."
"If I am in a hurry, I know the reason for it," said Mother
Starling. "And you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you didn't
know it also, since they are your eggs just as much as mine."
"What do you mean?" said Daddy Starling, much insulted. "When have
I neglected my family? Perhaps you even want me to sit in the cold
and sing to you?"
"Yes, I do," said Mother Starling in the tone he couldn't resist.
He began to pipe at once as well as he knew how. But Mother
Starling had no sooner heard the first notes than she gave him a
flap with her wings and snapped at him with her beak. "Oh, please
stop it!" she cried bitterly. "It sounds so sad that it makes one
quite heartsick. Instead of piping like that, get the Anemones to
come up. I think it must be time for them. And besides, one always
feels warmer when there are others freezing besides oneself."
Now as soon as the Anemones had heard the first piling of the
Starling, they cautiously stuck out their heads from the earth. But
they were so tightly wrapped up in green kerchiefs that one could
not get a glimpse of them. They looked like green shoots which
might turn into anything. "It is too early," they whispered. "It is
a shame of the Starling to entice us out. One can't rely on
anything in the world nowadays."
Then the Swallow came. "Chee! chee!" he twittered, and shot through
the air on his long, tapering wings. "Out with you, you stupid
flowers! Don't you see that my Lady Spring has come?"
But the Anemones had grown cautious. They only drew their green
kerchiefs a little apart and peeped out. "One Swallow does not make
a summer," they said. "Where is your wife? You have only come here
to see if it is possible to stay here, and you want to take us in.
But we are not so stupid. We know very well that if we once catch a
bad cold we are done for, for this year at any rate."
"You are cowards," said the Swallow, perching himself on the
forest-ranger's weathercock, and peering out over the landscape.
But the Anemones waited still and shivered. A few of them who could
not control their impatience threw off their kerchiefs in the sun.
The cold at night nipped and killed them; and the story of their
pitiful death was passed on from flower to flower, and caused a
great consternation.
And then--one delightfully mild, still night--my Lady Spring came.
No one knows how she looks, because no one has ever seen her. But
all long for her, and thank her and bless her. She goes through the
wood and touches the flowers and trees, and at once they burst out.
She goes through the cattle-stalls and unties the beasts, and lets
them out on to the field. She goes straight into the hearts of men
and fills them with gladness. She makes it hard for the best boy to
sit still on his form at school, and she is the cause of a terrible
number of mistakes in the copy-books. But she does not do all this
at once. Night after night she plies her task, and she comes first
to him who longs for her most.
So it happened that on the very night of her coming she went
straight to the Anemones, who stood in their green kerchiefs and
didn't know how to hold out any longer. And one, two, three! there
they stood in their newly-ironed white collars, and looked so fresh
and so pretty that the Starlings sang their prettiest songs out of
sheer joy in them.
"Ah, how sweet it is here!" said the Anemones. "How warm the sun
is, and how the birds sing! It is a thousand times better than last
year." But they said the same thing every year, so one needn't take
any account of it.
There were many others who were quite beside themselves when they
saw the Anemones had come out. One was a schoolboy who wanted to
have his summer holidays at once; and another was the Beech Tree,
who felt exceedingly put out. "Aren't you coming soon to me, my
Lady Spring?" he said. "I am a much more important person than
those silly Anemones, and I can't really hold in my buds much
longer."
"I am coming, I am coming," answered my Lady Spring. "But you must
give me a little time."
She went on her way through the wood, and at every step many and
many an Anemone burst into flower. They stood in crowds round the
roots of the Birch Tree, and bashfully bowed their round heads to
the earth.
"Look up," said my Lady Spring, "and rejoice in God's bright
sunshine. Your life is short, so you must enjoy it while you have
it."
The Anemones did as she told them. They stretched and strained, and
spread their white petals to all sides, to drink as much sunshine
as they could. They pushed their heads against one another, and
twined their stalks together, and laughed, and were immensely
happy.
"Now I can wait no longer," said the Beech, and he burst into leaf.
Leaf after leaf crept forth from its green sheath and waved in the
wind. The great Tree made a green arch, like a mighty roof over the
earth.
"Dear me, is it already evening?" asked the Anemones, who noticed
that it had grown quite dark.
"No; it is Death," said my Lady Spring. "Now _your_ time is
over. It happens to you just as it happens to all that is best on
earth. Everything in turn must spring to life, and bloom, and die."
"Die?" cried some little Anemones. "Must we die already?"
And some of the big ones grew quite red in the face in their terror
and vexation.
"We know what it is," they said. "It is the Beech that is the death
of us. He steals the sunshine for his own leaves, and does not
allow us a single ray. He is a mean, wicked thing."
They stood for some days, grumbling and crying. Then my Lady Spring
came for the last time through the wood. She had still the Oak
Trees and some other crusty old fellows to attend to. "Lie down
nicely in the earth and go to sleep," she said to the Anemones, "It
is of no use to kick against the pricks. Next year I will come back
and waken you once more to life."
And some of the Anemones did as she told them. But others still
stretched their heads into the air, and grew so ugly and stalky
that it was horrid to see them.
"Fie for shame!" they cried to the Beech Leaves. "It is you who are
killing us,"
But the Beech shook his long boughs and let his brown husks drop
down to the ground, "Wait till the autumn, you little simpletons,"
he said, laughing. "Then you shall see."
The Anemones could not understand what he meant. But when they had
stretched themselves till they were as tall as they could be, they
broke off and withered.
The summer was over, and the farmer had carried his corn home from
the field. The wood was still green, but it was a darker green than
before; and in many places red and yellow leaves glowed among the
green ones. The sun was tired after his hot work in the summer, and
went early to bed.
At night Winter was stealing about among the trees to see if his
time was not soon coming. When he found a flower, he gallantly
kissed it, saying,--"What! are you here still? I am charmed to meet
you. Please stay where you are. I am a good old man, and would not
harm a cat."
But the flower shuddered at his kiss, and the transparent dewdrop
that hung from its petal froze to ice at the instant.
Again and again Winter ran through the wood. When he breathed on
them, the leaves turned yellow and the earth grew hard. Even the
Anemones, who lay below in the earth waiting till my Lady Spring
should come back as she had promised, they too felt his breath and
shuddered down in their roots.
"Ugh! how cold it is!" they said to one another. "How shall we
stand the winter? We shall die for a certainty before it is over."
"Now it's _my_ time," said Winter. "Now I need no longer steal
about like a thief in the night. After to-day I shall look
everybody in the face, and bite their noses, and make their eyes
run with water."
At night he let loose the Storm. "Let me see you make a clean
sweep," he said. And the Storm obeyed his command. He went howling
through the wood, and shook the branches till they creaked and
cracked. Any that were rotten broke off, and those that held on had
to turn and bow this way and that. "Away with that finery!" howled
the Storm as he tore off the leaves. "This is not the time to dress
yourself up. The snow will soon be coming on to your branches; that
will be quite another story."
All the leaves fell in terror to the earth, but the Storm would not
let them rest. He seized them round the waist and waltzed with them
out over the field, high up into the air, and into the wood again,
swept them into great heaps, and then scattered them in all
directions--just as it pleased him.
Not till morning came did the Storm grow weary and lie down to
rest. "Now you shall have peace for a time," he said. "I will take
a rest till we have the spring cleaning. Then we can have another
turn together--that is, if there are any of you left by then." And
the leaves lay down to rest, and spread themselves like a thick
carpet over the whole land.
The Anemones felt that it had become pleasantly warm. "Can it be my
Lady Spring already?" they asked each other.
"I haven't got my buds ready," shouted one of them.
"Nor I! Nor I!" cried the others in one voice. But one of them took
courage and peeped out over the earth.
"Good-morning!" cried the withered Beech Leaves. "It is a little
too early, little lady. I hope you will be none the worse for it."
"Isn't it my Lady Spring?" inquired the Anemone.
"Not yet," answered the Beech Leaves. "It is only the green Beech
Leaves that you were so angry with last summer. The green has gone
from us, so we have no great finery to boast of now. We have
enjoyed our youth and had our fling, I can tell you. And now we lie
here and protect all the little flowers in the earth against the
winter."
"And meanwhile _I_ stand shivering in all my bare boughs,"
said the Beech peevishly.
The Anemones talked it over one to another down below in the earth,
and thought it was grand. "Those grand Beech Leaves!" they said.
"Mind you remember this next summer when I burst into leaf," said
the Beech.
"We will! we will!" whispered the Anemones.
But that sort of promise is easily made--and easily broken.
THE WEEDS
By Carl Ewald
It was a beautiful, fruitful season. Rain and sunshine came by
turns just as it was best for the corn. As soon as ever the farmer
began to think that things were rather dry, you might depend upon
it that next day it would rain. And when he thought that he had had
rain enough, the clouds broke at once, just as if they were under
his command.
So the farmer was in a good humour, and he did not grumble as he
usually does. He looked pleased and cheerful as he walked over the
field with his two boys.
"It will be a splendid harvest this year," he said. "I shall have
my barns full, and shall make a pretty penny. And then Jack and
Will shall have some new trousers, and I'll let them come with me
to market."
"If you don't cut me soon, farmer, I shall sprawl on the ground,"
said the Rye, and she bowed her heavy ear quite down towards the
earth.
The farmer could not hear her talking, but he could see what was in
her mind, and so he went home to fetch his scythe.
"It is a good thing to be in the service of man," said the Rye. "I
can be quite sure that all my grain will be well cared for. Most of
it will go to the mill: not that that proceeding is so very
enjoyable, but in that way it will be made into beautiful new
bread, and one must put up with something for the sake of honour.
The rest the farmer will save, and sow next year in his field."
At the side of the field, along the hedge, and the bank above the
ditch, stood the weeds. There were dense clumps of them--Thistle
and Burdock, Poppy and Harebell, and Dandelion; and all their heads
were full of seed. It had been a fruitful year for them also, for
the sun shines and the rain falls just as much on the poor weed as
on the rich porn.
"No one comes and mows _us_ down and carries us to a barn,"
said the Dandelion, and he shook his head, but very cautiously, so
that the seeds should not fall before their time. "But what will
become of all our children?" "It gives me a headache to think about
it," said the Poppy. "Here I stand with hundreds and hundreds of
seeds in my head, and I haven't the faintest idea where I shall
drop them." "Let us ask the Rye to advise us," answered the
Burdock. And so they asked the Rye what they should do.
"When one is well off, one had better not meddle with other
people's business," answered the Rye. "I will only give you one
piece of advice: take care you don't throw your stupid seed on to
the field, for then you will have to settle accounts with
_me_."
This advice did not help the wild flowers at all, and the whole day
they stood pondering what they should do. When the sun set they
shut up their petals and went to sleep; but the whole night through
they were dreaming about their seed, and next morning they had
found a plan.
The Poppy was the first to wake. She cautiously opened some little
trap-doors at the top of her head, so that the sun could shine
right in on the seeds. Then she called to the Morning Breeze, who
was running and playing along the hedge. "Little Breeze," she said,
in friendly tones, "will you do me a service?"
"Yes, indeed," said the Breeze. "I shall be glad to have something
to do."
"It is the merest trifle," said the Poppy. "All I want of you is to
give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds may fly out of the
trap-doors."
"All right," said the Breeze.
And the seeds flew out in all directions. The stalk snapped, it is
true; but the Poppy did not mind about that, for when one has
provided for one's children, one has really nothing more to do in
the world.
"Good-bye," said the Breeze, and would have run on farther.
"Wait a moment," said the Poppy. "Promise me first that you will
not tell the others, else they might get hold of the same idea, and
then there would be less room for my seeds."
"I am mute as the grave," answered the Breeze, running off.
"Ho! ho!" said the Harebell. "Haven't you time to do me a little,
tiny service?"
"Well," said the Breeze, "what is it?"
"I merely wanted to ask you to give me a little shake," said the
Harebell. "I have opened some trap-doors in my head, and I should
like to have my seed sent a good way off into the world. But you
musn't tell the others, or else they might think of doing the same
thing."
"Oh! of course not," said the Breeze, laughing. "I shall be as dumb
as a stone wall." And then she gave the flower a good shake and
went on her way.
"Little Breeze, little Breeze," called the Dandelion, "whither away
so fast?"
"Is there anything the matter with you, too?" asked the Breeze.
[Illustration: PEOPLE WHO WERE OUT FOR AN EVENING
STROLL.
_From the painting by Edmund Dulac _]
"Nothing at all," answered the Dandelion. "Only I should like a few
words with you."
"Be quick then," said the Breeze, "for I am thinking seriously of
lying down and having a rest."
"You cannot help seeing," said the Dandelion, "what a fix we are in
this year to get all our seeds put out in the world; for, of
course, one wishes to do what one can for one's children. What is
to happen to the Harebell and the Poppy and the poor Burdock I
really don't know. But the Thistle and I have put our heads
together, and we have hit on a plan. Only we must have you to help
us."
"That makes _four_ of them," thought the Breeze, and could not
help laughing out loud.
"What are you laughing at?" asked the Dandelion. "I saw you
whispering just now to the Harebell and Poppy; but if you breathe a
word to them, I won't tell you anything."
"Why, of course not," said the Breeze. "I am mute as a fish. What
is it you want?"
"We have set up a pretty little umbrella on the top of our seeds.
It is the sweetest little plaything imaginable. If you will only
blow a little on me, the seeds will fly into the air and fall down
wherever you please. Will you do so?"
"Certainly," said the Breeze.
And ush! it went over the Thistle and the Dandelion and carried all
the seeds with it into the cornfield.
The Burdock still stood and pondered. Its head was rather thick,
and that was why it waited so long. But in the evening a Hare leapt
over the hedge. "Hide me! Save me!" he cried. "The farmer's dog
Trusty is after me."
"You can creep behind the hedge," said the Burdock, "then I will
hide you."
"You don't look to me much good for that job," said the Hare, "but
in time of need one must help oneself as one can." And so he got in
safety behind the hedge.
"Now you may repay me by taking some of my seeds with you over into
the cornfield," said the Burdock; and it broke off some of its many
heads and fixed them on the Hare.
A little later Trusty came trotting up to the hedge. "Here's the
dog," whispered the Burdock, and with one spring the Hare leapt
over the hedge and into the Rye.
"Haven't you seen the Hare, Burdock?" asked Trusty. "I see I have
got too old to go hunting. I am quite blind in one eye, and I have
completely lost my scent."
"Yes, I have seen him," answered the Burdock; "and if you will do
me a service, I will show you where he is."
Trusty agreed, and the Burdock fastened some heads on his back, and
said to him,--"If you will only rub yourself against the stile
there in the cornfield, my seeds will fall off. But you must not
look for the Hare there, for a little while ago I saw him run into
the wood."
Trusty dropped the burs on the field and trotted to the wood.
"Well, I've got _my_ seeds put out in the world all right,"
said the Burdock, and laughed as if much pleased with itself; "but
it is impossible to say what will become of the Thistle and the
Dandelion, and the Harebell and the Poppy."
Spring had come round once more, and the Rye stood high already.
"We are pretty well off on the whole," said the Rye plants. "Here
we stand in a great company, and not one of us but belongs to our
own noble family. And we don't get in each other's way in the very
least. It is a grand thing to be in the service of man."
But one fine day a crowd of little Poppies, and Thistles and
Dandelions, and Burdocks and Harebells poked up their heads above
ground, all amongst the flourishing Rye. "What does _this_
mean?" asked the Rye. "Where in the world are _you_ sprung
from?"
And the Poppy looked at the Harebell and asked, "Where do you come
from?"
And the Thistle looked at the Burdock and asked, "Where in the
world have _you_ come from?" They were all equally astonished,
and it was an hour before they had explained. But the Rye was the
angriest, and when she had heard all about Trusty and the Hare and
the Breeze she grew quite wild.
"Thank heaven, the farmer shot the Hare last autumn," she said;
"and Trusty, fortunately, is also dead, the old scamp. So I am at
peace, as far as _they_ are concerned. But how dare the Breeze
promise to drop the seeds of the weeds in the farmer's cornfield?"
"Don't be in such a passion, you green Rye," said the Breeze, who
had been lying behind the hedge and hearing everything. "I ask no
one's permission, but do as I like; and now I'm going to make you
bow to me." Then she passed over the young Rye, and the thin blades
swayed backwards and forwards.
"You see," she said, "the farmer attends to his Rye, because that
is _his_ business. But the rain and the sun and I--we attend
to all of you without respect of persons. To our eyes the poor weed
is just as pretty as the rich corn."