the Fir-tree's branches had gone far away to the South. The father and
mother bird had gone too, and on the way had stopped to say good-by to
the brave little tree.
The white snow had fallen in gentle flakes, and covered the cones and
the glossy carpet of pine needles. All was still and shining and cold in
the forest, and the great trees seemed taller and darker than ever.
One day some men came into the wood with saws and ropes and axes, and
cut down many of the great trees, and among these was the mother-fir.
They fastened oxen to all the trees, and dragged them away, rustling and
waving, over the smooth snow.
The mother-tree had gone,--“gone to be useful,” said the little Fir; and
though he missed her very much, and the world seemed very empty when he
looked up and no longer saw her thick branches and her strong trunk, yet
he was not unhappy, for he was a brave little Fir.
Still the days grew colder, and often the Fir-tree wondered if the
children who had made a ring and danced about him would remember him
when Christmas time came.
He could not grow, for the weather was too cold, and so he had the more
time for thinking. He thought of the birds, of the mother-tree, and,
most of all, of the little girl who had lifted her finger, and said,
“Hush! hear the Fir-tree sing.”
Sometimes the days seemed long, and he sighed in all his branches, and
almost thought he would never be a Christmas tree.
But suddenly, one day, he heard something far away that sounded like the
ringing of Christmas bells. It was the children laughing and singing, as
they ran over the snow.
Nearer they came, and stood beside the Fir. “Yes,” said the little girl,
“it is my very tree, my very singing tree!”
“Indeed,” said the father, “it will be a good Christmas tree. See how
straight and well shaped it is.”
Then the tree was glad; not proud, for he was a good little Fir, but
glad that they saw he had tried his best.
{Illustration: Not all firs can be Christmas trees.}
So they cut him down and carried him away on a great sled; away from the
tall dark trees, from the white shining snow-carpet at their feet, and
from all the murmuring and whispering that go on within the forest.
The little trees stood on tiptoe and waved their green branches for
“Good-by,” and the great trees bent their heads to watch him go.
“Not all firs can be Christmas trees,” said they; “only those who grow
their best.”
The good Fir-tree stood in the children's own room. Round about his feet
were flowers and mosses and green boughs. From his branches hung toys
and books and candies, and at the end of each glossy twig was a bright
glittering Christmas candle.
The doors were slowly opened; the children came running in; and when
they saw the shining lights, and the Christmas tree proudly holding
their presents, they made a ring, and danced about him, singing.
And the Fir-tree was very happy!
PICCOLA.
Suggested by One of Mrs. Celia Thaxter's Poems.
“Story-telling is a real strengthening spirit-bath.”--Froebel.
Piccola lived in Italy, where the oranges grow, and where all the year
the sun shines warm and bright. I suppose you think Piccola a very
strange name for a little girl; but in her country it was not strange at
all, and her mother thought it the sweetest name a little girl ever had.
Piccola had no kind father, no big brother or sister, and no sweet baby
to play with and to love. She and her mother lived all alone in an old
stone house that looked on a dark, narrow street. They were very poor,
and the mother was away from home almost every day, washing clothes and
scrubbing floors, and working hard to earn money for her little girl and
herself. So you see Piccola was alone a great deal of the time; and if
she had not been a very happy, contented little child, I hardly know
what she would have done. She had no playthings except a heap of stones
in the back yard that she used for building houses, and a very old, very
ragged doll that her mother had found in the street one day.
But there was a small round hole in the stone wall at the back of
her yard, and her greatest pleasure was to look through that into her
neighbor's garden. When she stood on a stone, and put her eyes close to
the hole, she could see the green grass in the garden, smell the sweet
flowers, and even hear the water plashing into the fountain. She had
never seen any one walking in the garden, for it belonged to an old
gentleman who did not care about grass and flowers.
One day in the autumn her mother told her that the old gentleman had
gone away, and had rented his house to a family of little American
children, who had come with their sick mother to spend the winter
in Italy. After this, Piccola was never lonely, for all day long the
children ran and played and danced and sang in the garden. It was
several weeks before they saw her at all, and I am not sure they would
ever have done so but that one day the kitten ran away, and in chasing
her they came close to the wall, and saw Piccola's black eyes looking
through the hole in the stones. They were a little frightened at first,
and did not speak to her; but the next day she was there again, and
Rose, the oldest girl, went up to the wall and talked to her a little
while. When the children found that she had no one to play with and was
very lonely, they talked to her every day, and often brought her fruits
and candies, and passed them through the hole in the wall.
One day they even pushed the kitten through; but the hole was hardly
large enough for her, and she mewed and scratched, and was very much
frightened. After that the little boy said he should ask his father if
the hole might not be made larger, and then Piccola could come in and
play with them. The father had found out that Piccola's mother was a
good woman, and that the little girl herself was sweet and kind, so that
he was very glad to have some of the stones broken away, and an opening
made for Piccola to come in.
How excited she was, and how glad the children were when she first
stepped into the garden! She wore her best dress, a long bright-colored
woolen skirt and a white waist. Round her neck was a string of beads,
and on her feet were little wooden shoes. It would seem very strange to
us--would it not?--to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her mother
had never worn anything else, and never had any money to buy stockings.
Piccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kittens and the
chickens and the little ducks. What a good time they had that day, and
how glad Piccola's mother was that her little girl could have such a
pleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!
By and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk about
Christmas. One day, when Piccola's curly head and bright eyes came
peeping through the hole in the wall, they ran to her and helped her
in; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought she
would have for a Christmas present. “A Christmas present!” said Piccola.
“Why, what is that?”
All the children looked surprised at this, and Rose said, rather
gravely, “Dear Piccola, don't you know what Christmas is?”
Oh, yes, Piccola knew it was the happy day when the baby Christ was
born, and she had been to church on that day, and heard the beautiful
singing, and had seen a picture of the Babe lying in the manger, with
cattle and sheep sleeping round about. Oh, yes, she knew all that very
well, but what was a Christmas present?
Then the children began to laugh, and to answer her all together. There
was such a clatter of tongues that she could hear only a few words now
and then, such as “chimney,” “Santa Claus,” “stockings,” “reindeer,”
“Christmas Eve,” “candies and toys.” Piccola put her hands over her
ears, and said, “Oh, I can't understand one word. You tell me, Rose.”
Then Rose told her all about jolly old Santa Claus, with his red cheeks
and white beard and fur coat, and about his reindeer and sleigh full of
toys. “Every Christmas Eve,” said Rose, “he comes down the chimney, and
fills the stockings of all the good children; so, Piccola, you hang up
your stocking, and who knows what a beautiful Christmas present you
will find when morning comes!” Of course Piccola thought this was a
delightful plan, and was very pleased to hear about it. Then all the
children told her of every Christmas Eve they could remember, and of
the presents they had had; so that she went home thinking of nothing but
dolls, and hoops, and balls, and ribbons, and marbles, and wagons, and
kites. She told her mother about Santa Claus, and her mother seemed to
think that perhaps he did not know there was any little girl in that
house, and very likely he would not come at all. But Piccola felt very
sure Santa Claus would remember her, for her little friends had promised
to send a letter up the chimney to remind him.
Christmas Eve came at last. Piccola's mother hurried home from her
work; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it was
bedtime,--time to get ready for Santa Claus. But oh! Piccola remembered
then for the first time that the children had told her she must hang up
her stocking, and she hadn't any, and neither had her mother.
How sad, how sad it was! Now Santa Claus would come, and perhaps be
angry because he couldn't find any place to put the present. The poor
little girl stood by the fireplace; and the big tears began to run down
her cheeks. Just then her mother called to her, “Hurry, Piccola; come
to bed.” What should she do? But she stopped crying, and tried to think;
and in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and ran off to get one
of them. She put it close to the chimney, and said to herself, “Surely
Santa Claus will know what it's there for. He will know I haven't any
stockings, so I gave him the shoe instead.”
Then she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon as
she had nestled close to her mother's side.
The sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola awoke.
With one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the chimney.
The wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you could never,
never guess what was in it.
{Illustration: See the present Santa Claus brought me}
Piccola had not meant to wake her mother, but this surprise was more
than any little girl could bear and yet be quiet; so she danced to the
bed with the shoe in her hand, calling, “Mother, mother! look, look! see
the present Santa Claus brought me!”
Her mother raised her head and looked into the shoe. “Why, Piccola,” she
said, “a little chimney swallow nestling in your shoe? What a good Santa
Claus to bring you a bird!”
“Good Santa Claus, dear Santa Claus!” cried Piccola; and she kissed her
mother and kissed the bird and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses up
the chimney, she was so happy.
When the birdling was taken out of the shoe, they found that he did not
try to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, they
could see that one of his wings was hurt a little. But the mother bound
it up carefully, so that it did not seem to pain him, and he was so
gentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate crumbs and
seeds from Piccola's hand. She was a proud little girl when she took
her Christmas present to show the children in the garden. They had had
a great many gifts,--dolls that could say “mamma,” bright picture-books,
trains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive,
like Piccola's birdling. They were as pleased as she, and Rose hunted
about the house till she found a large wicker cage that belonged to a
blackbird she once had. She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallow
seemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perch
winking his bright eyes at the children. Rose had saved a bag of candies
for Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dear
swallow safely inside it, I am sure there was not a happier little girl
in the whole country of Italy.
THE CHILD AND THE WORLD.
I see a nest in a green elm-tree
With little brown sparrows,--one, two, three!
The elm-tree stretches its branches wide,
And the nest is soft and warm inside.
At morn, the sun, so golden bright,
Climbs up to fill the world with light;
It opens the flowers, it wakens me,
And wakens the birdies,--one, two, three.
And leaning out of my window high,
I look far up at the blue, blue sky,
And then far out at the earth so green,
And think it the loveliest ever seen,--
The loveliest world that ever was seen!
But by and by, when the sun is low,
And birds and babies sleepy grow,
I peep again from my window high,
And look at the earth and clouds and sky.
The night dew comes in silent showers,
To cool the hearts of thirsty flowers;
The moon comes out,--the slender thing,
A crescent yet, but soon a ring,--
And brings with her one yellow star;
How small it looks, away so far!
But soon, in the heaven's shining blue,
A thousand twinkle and blink at you,
Like a thousand lamps in the sky so blue.
And hush! a light breeze stirs the tree,
And rocks, the birdies,--one, two, three.
What a beautiful cradle, that soft, warm nest!
What a dear little coverlid, mamma-bird's breast!
She's hugging them close to her,--tight, so tight
That each downy head is hid from sight;
But out from under her sheltering wings
Their bright eyes glisten,--the darling things!
I lean far out from my window's height
And say, “Dear, lovely world, good-night!
“Good-night, dear, pretty baby moon!
Your cradle you'll outgrow quite soon,
And then, perhaps, all night you'll shine,
A grown-up lady moon!--so fine
And bright that all the stars
Will want to light their lamps from yours.
Sleep sweetly, birdies, never fear,
For God is always watching near!
And you, dear, friendly world above,
The same One holds us in His love:
Both you so great, and I so small,
Are safe,--He sees the sparrow's fall,--
The dear God watcheth over all!”
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL.
OUR FROGGERY.
“Turn back observantly into your own youth, and awaken, warm, and vivify
the eternal youth of your mind.”--FROEBEL.
When I was a little girl my sister and I lived in the country. She was
younger than I, and the dearest, fattest little toddlekins of a sister
you ever knew. She always wanted to do exactly as I did, so that I had
to be very careful and do the right things; for if I had been naughty
she would surely have been naughty too, and that would have made me very
sad.
As we lived in the country we had none of the things to amuse us that
city children have. We couldn't walk in crowded streets and see people
and look in at beautiful shop-windows, or hear the street-organs play
and see the monkeys do tricks; we couldn't go to dancing school, nor to
children's parties, nor to the circus to see the animals.
But we had lovely plays, after all.
In the spring we hunted for mayflowers, and sailed boats in the brooks,
and gathered fluffy pussy-willows. We watched the yellow dandelions
come, one by one, in the short green grass, and we stood under the
maple-trees and watched the sap trickle from their trunks into the great
wooden buckets; for that maple sap was to be boiled into maple sugar
and syrup, and we liked to think about it. In the summer we went
strawberrying and blueberrying, and played “hide and coop” behind the
tall yellow haycocks, and rode on the top of the full haycarts. In the
fall we went nutting, and pressed red and yellow autumn leaves between
the pages of our great Webster's Dictionary; we gathered apples, and
watched the men at work at the cider-presses, and the farmers as they
threshed their wheat and husked their corn. And in the winter we made
snow men, and slid downhill from morning till night when there was any
snow to slide upon, and went sleighing behind our dear old horse Jack,
and roasted apples in the ashes of the great open fire.
But one of the things we cared for most was our froggery, and we used to
play there for hours together in the long summer days.
Perhaps you don't know what a froggery is; but you do know what a frog
is, and so you can guess that a froggery is a place where frogs live.
My little sister and I used at first to catch the frogs and keep them in
tin cans filled with water; but when we thought about it we saw that the
poor froggies couldn't enjoy this, and that it was cruel to take them
away from their homes and make them live in unfurnished tin houses. So
one day I asked my father if he would give us a part of the garden brook
for our very own. He laughed, and said, “Yes,” if we wouldn't carry it
away.
Our garden was as large as four or five city blocks, and a beautiful
silver-clear brook flowed through it, turning here and there, and here
and there breaking into tinkling little waterfalls, and dropping gently
into clear, still pools.
It was one of these deep, quiet pools that we chose for our froggery. It
was almost hidden on two sides by thick green alder-bushes, so that it
was always cool and pleasant there, even on the hottest days.
My father put pieces of fine wire netting into the water on each of the
four sides of the pool, and so arranged them that we could slip those
on the banks up and down as we pleased. Whenever we went there we always
took away the side fences, and sat flat down upon the smooth stones at
the edges of the brook and played with the frogs.
Here we used to watch our gay young polliwogs grow into frogs, one leg
at a time coming out at each “corner” of their fat wriggling bodies. We
kept two great bull-frogs,--splendid bass singers both of them,--that
had been stoned by naughty small boys, and left for dead by the
roadside. We found them there, bound up their broken legs and bruised
backs, and nursed them quite well again in one corner of the froggery
that we called the hospital. In another corner was the nursery, and here
we kept all the tiniest frogs; though we always let them out once a
day to play with the older ones, for fear that they never would learn
anything if they were kept entirely to themselves. One of our great
bull-frogs grew so strong and well, after being in the hospital for a
while, that he jumped over the highest of the wire fences, which was
two feet higher than any frog ever was known to jump, so our hired man
said,--jumped over and ran away. We called him the “General,” because he
was the largest of our frogs and the oldest, we thought. (He hadn't any
gray hairs, but he was very much wrinkled.) We were sorry to lose the
General, and couldn't think why he should run away, when we gave him
such good things to eat and tried to make him so happy. My father said
that perhaps his home was in a large pond, some distance off, where
there were so many hundred frogs that it was quite a gay city life for
them, while the froggery was in a quiet brook in our quiet old garden.
(If I were a frog, it seems to me I should like such a home better than
a great noisy stagnant pond near the road, where I should be frightened
to death half a dozen times a day; but there is no accounting for
tastes!)
{Illustration: “We were sorry to lose the General.”}
But what do you think? After staying away for three days and nights
the General came back safe and sound! We knew it was our own beloved
General, and not any common stranger-frog, because there was the scar
on his back where the boys had stoned him. My little sister thought that
perhaps the General was born in Lily Pad Pond, on the other side of the
village, and only went back to get a sight of the pond lilies, which
were just in full bloom. If that was so, I cannot blame the General; for
snow-white pond lilies, with their golden hearts and the green frills
round their necks, are the loveliest things in the world, as they float
among their shiny pads on the surface of the pond. Did you ever see
them?
All our frogs had names of their own, of course, and we knew them all
apart, although they looked just alike to other people. There was Prince
Pouter, Brownie, and Goldilegs; Bright-Eye, Chirp, and Gray Friar;
Hop-o'-my-Thumb, Croaker, Baby Mine, Nimblefoot, Tiny Tim, and many
others.
We were so afraid that our frogs wouldn't like the froggery better than
any other place in the brook that we gave them all the pleasures we
could think of. They always had plenty of fat juicy flies and water-bugs
for their dinners, and after a while we put some silver shiners and tiny
minnows into the pool, so that they would have fishes to play with as
well as other frogs. You know you do not always like to play with other
children; sometimes you like kittens and dogs and birds better.
Then we gave our frogs little vacations once in a while. We tied a long
soft woolen string very gently round one of their hind legs, fastened it
to a twig of one of the alderbushes, and let them take a long swim and
make calls on all their friends.
We had a singing-school for them once a week. It was very troublesome,
for they didn't like to stand in line a bit, and it is quite useless to
try and teach a class in singing unless the scholars will stand in a row
or keep in some sort of order. We used to put a nice little board across
the pool, and then try to get the frogs to sit quietly in line during
their lesson. The General behaved quite nicely, and really got into the
spirit of the thing, so that he was a splendid example for the head of
the class. Then we used to put Myron W. Whitney next in line, on account
of his beautiful bass voice. We named him after a gentleman who had once
sung in our church, and I hope if he ever heard of it he didn't mind,
for the frog was really a credit to him. Myron W. Whitney behaved nearly
as well as the General, but we could never get him to sing unless we
held the class just before bedtime, and then the little frogs were so
sleepy that they kept tumbling out of the singing-school into the pool.
That was the trouble with them all; they never could quite see the
difference between school and pool. It seems to me they must have known
it was very slight after all.
Towards the end of the summer we had trained them so well that once in a
long while we could actually get them all still at once, and all facing
the right way as they sat upon that board. Oh! it was a beautiful sight,
and worth any amount of trouble and work! Twenty-one frogs in a row, all
in fresh green suits, with clean white shirt fronts, washed every day.
The General and Myron W. Whitney always looked as if they were bursting
with pride, and as they were too fat and lazy to move, we could
generally count upon their good behavior.
We thought that if we could only get them to look down into the pool,
which made such a lovely looking-glass, and just see for once what a
beautiful picture they made,--sitting so straight and still, and all so
nicely graded as to size,--they would like it better and do it a little
more willingly.
We thought, too, the baby frogs would be ashamed, when they looked in
the glass, to see that while the big frogs stayed still of their own
free will, THEY had to be held down with forked sticks. But we could
never discover that they were ashamed.
So when everything was complete my little sister used to “let go” of
the baby frogs (for, as I said, she had to hold them down while we were
forming the line), and I would begin the lesson. Sometimes they would
listen a minute, and then they would begin their pranks. They would
insist on playing leap-frog, which is a very nice game, but not
appropriate for school. Tiny Tim would jump from the foot of the class
straight over all the others on to Myron W. Whitney's back. Baby Mine
would try to get between Croaker and Goldilegs, where there wasn't any
room. Nimblefoot would twist round on the board and turn his back to me,
which was very impolite, as I was the teacher. Finally, Hop-o'-my-Thumb
would go splash into the pool, and all the rest, save the good old
General, would follow him, and the lesson would end. I suppose you have
heard frogs singing just after sunset, when you were going to bed? Some
people think the big bull-frogs say, “JUGO'RUM! JUGO'RUM! JUGO'RUM!” But
I don't think this is at all likely, as the frogs never drink anything
but water in their whole lives.
We used to think that some of the frogs said, “KERCHUG! KERCHUG!” and
that the largest one said, “GOTACRUMB! GOTACRUMB! GOTACRUMB!” Perhaps
you can't make it sound right, but if you listen to the frogs you can
very soon do it.