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A Little Book
OF
PROFITABLE TALES
BY EUGENE FIELD.
A Little Book of
PROFITABLE TALES.
A Little Book of
WESTERN VERSE.
Second
BOOK OF VERSE.
Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25.
With Trumpet and Drum.
One vol., 16mo, $1.00.
A Little Book
OF
PROFITABLE TALES
BY
EUGENE FIELD
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1894
_Copyright, 1889_
BY EUGENE FIELD
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
TO
MY SEVEREST CRITIC, MY MOST LOYAL ADMIRER,
AND MY ONLY DAUGHTER,
MARY FRENCH FIELD,
_THIS LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES_
IS
Affectionately Dedicated.
E. F.
The Tales in this Little Book.
PAGE
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE 3
THE SYMBOL AND THE SAINT 15
THE COMING OF THE PRINCE 31
THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM 51
THE DIVELL'S CHRYSTMASSE 75
THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SEA 87
THE ROBIN AND THE VIOLET 95
THE OAK-TREE AND THE IVY 105
MARGARET: A PEARL 115
THE SPRINGTIME 135
RODOLPH AND HIS KING 147
THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS 155
EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST 167
LUDWIG AND ELOISE 185
FIDO'S LITTLE FRIEND 195
THE OLD MAN 213
BILL, THE LOKIL EDITOR 223
THE LITTLE YALLER BABY 233
THE CYCLOPEEDY 245
DOCK STEBBINS 257
THE FAIRIES OF PESTH 269
The First Christmas Tree.
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE.
Once upon a time the forest was in a great commotion. Early in the
evening the wise old cedars had shaken their heads ominously and
predicted strange things. They had lived in the forest many, many years;
but never had they seen such marvellous sights as were to be seen now in
the sky, and upon the hills, and in the distant village.
"Pray tell us what you see," pleaded a little vine; "we who are not as
tall as you can behold none of these wonderful things. Describe them to
us, that we may enjoy them with you."
"I am filled with such amazement," said one of the cedars, "that I can
hardly speak. The whole sky seems to be aflame, and the stars appear to
be dancing among the clouds; angels walk down from heaven to the earth,
and enter the village or talk with the shepherds upon the hills."
The vine listened in mute astonishment. Such things never before had
happened. The vine trembled with excitement. Its nearest neighbor was a
tiny tree, so small it scarcely ever was noticed; yet it was a very
beautiful little tree, and the vines and ferns and mosses and other
humble residents of the forest loved it dearly.
"How I should like to see the angels!" sighed the little tree, "and how
I should like to see the stars dancing among the clouds! It must be very
beautiful."
As the vine and the little tree talked of these things, the cedars
watched with increasing interest the wonderful scenes over and beyond
the confines of the forest. Presently they thought they heard music, and
they were not mistaken, for soon the whole air was full of the sweetest
harmonies ever heard upon earth.
"What beautiful music!" cried the little tree. "I wonder whence it
comes."
"The angels are singing," said a cedar; "for none but angels could make
such sweet music."
"But the stars are singing, too," said another cedar; "yes, and the
shepherds on the hills join in the song, and what a strangely glorious
song it is!"
The trees listened to the singing, but they did not understand its
meaning: it seemed to be an anthem, and it was of a Child that had been
born; but further than this they did not understand. The strange and
glorious song continued all the night; and all that night the angels
walked to and fro, and the shepherd-folk talked with the angels, and the
stars danced and carolled in high heaven. And it was nearly morning when
the cedars cried out, "They are coming to the forest! the angels are
coming to the forest!" And, surely enough, this was true. The vine and
the little tree were very terrified, and they begged their older and
stronger neighbors to protect them from harm. But the cedars were too
busy with their own fears to pay any heed to the faint pleadings of the
humble vine and the little tree. The angels came into the forest,
singing the same glorious anthem about the Child, and the stars sang in
chorus with them, until every part of the woods rang with echoes of
that wondrous song. There was nothing in the appearance of this angel
host to inspire fear; they were clad all in white, and there were crowns
upon their fair heads, and golden harps in their hands; love, hope,
charity, compassion, and joy beamed from their beautiful faces, and
their presence seemed to fill the forest with a divine peace. The angels
came through the forest to where the little tree stood, and gathering
around it, they touched it with their hands, and kissed its little
branches, and sang even more sweetly than before. And their song was
about the Child, the Child, the Child that had been born. Then the
stars came down from the skies and danced and hung upon the branches of
the tree, and they, too, sang that song,--the song of the Child. And all
the other trees and the vines and the ferns and the mosses beheld in
wonder; nor could they understand why all these things were being done,
and why this exceeding honor should be shown the little tree.
When the morning came the angels left the forest,--all but one angel,
who remained behind and lingered near the little tree. Then a cedar
asked: "Why do you tarry with us, holy angel?" And the angel answered:
"I stay to guard this little tree, for it is sacred, and no harm shall
come to it."
The little tree felt quite relieved by this assurance, and it held up
its head more confidently than ever before. And how it thrived and
grew, and waxed in strength and beauty! The cedars said they never had
seen the like. The sun seemed to lavish its choicest rays upon the
little tree, heaven dropped its sweetest dew upon it, and the winds
never came to the forest that they did not forget their rude manners and
linger to kiss the little tree and sing it their prettiest songs. No
danger ever menaced it, no harm threatened; for the angel never
slept,--through the day and through the night the angel watched the
little tree and protected it from all evil. Oftentimes the trees talked
with the angel; but of course they understood little of what he said,
for he spoke always of the Child who was to become the Master; and
always when thus he talked, he caressed the little tree, and stroked its
branches and leaves, and moistened them with his tears. It all was so
very strange that none in the forest could understand.
So the years passed, the angel watching his blooming charge. Sometimes
the beasts strayed toward the little tree and threatened to devour its
tender foliage; sometimes the woodman came with his axe, intent upon
hewing down the straight and comely thing; sometimes the hot, consuming
breath of drought swept from the south, and sought to blight the forest
and all its verdure: the angel kept them from the little tree. Serene
and beautiful it grew, until now it was no longer a little tree, but the
pride and glory of the forest.
One day the tree heard some one coming through the forest. Hitherto the
angel had hastened to its side when men approached; but now the angel
strode away and stood under the cedars yonder.
"Dear angel," cried the tree, "can you not hear the footsteps of some
one approaching? Why do you leave me?"
"Have no fear," said the angel; "for He who comes is the Master."
The Master came to the tree and beheld it. He placed His hands upon its
smooth trunk and branches, and the tree was thrilled with a strange and
glorious delight. Then He stooped and kissed the tree, and then He
turned and went away.
Many times after that the Master came to the forest, and when He came it
always was to where the tree stood. Many times He rested beneath the
tree and enjoyed the shade of its foliage, and listened to the music of
the wind as it swept through the rustling leaves. Many times He slept
there, and the tree watched over Him, and the forest was still, and all
its voices were hushed. And the angel hovered near like a faithful
sentinel.
Ever and anon men came with the Master to the forest, and sat with Him
in the shade of the tree, and talked with Him of matters which the tree
never could understand; only it heard that the talk was of love and
charity and gentleness, and it saw that the Master was beloved and
venerated by the others. It heard them tell of the Master's goodness and
humility,--how He had healed the sick and raised the dead and bestowed
inestimable blessings wherever He walked. And the tree loved the Master
for His beauty and His goodness; and when He came to the forest it was
full of joy, but when He came not it was sad. And the other trees of the
forest joined in its happiness and its sorrow, for they, too, loved the
Master. And the angel always hovered near.
The Master came one night alone into the forest, and His face was pale
with anguish and wet with tears, and He fell upon His knees and prayed.
The tree heard Him, and all the forest was still, as if it were standing
in the presence of death. And when the morning came, lo! the angel had
gone.
Then there was a great confusion in the forest. There was a sound of
rude voices, and a clashing of swords and staves. Strange men appeared,
uttering loud oaths and cruel threats, and the tree was filled with
terror. It called aloud for the angel, but the angel came not.
"Alas," cried the vine, "they have come to destroy the tree, the pride
and glory of the forest!"
The forest was sorely agitated, but it was in vain. The strange men
plied their axes with cruel vigor, and the tree was hewn to the ground.
Its beautiful branches were cut away and cast aside, and its soft, thick
foliage was strewn to the tenderer mercies of the winds.
"They are killing me!" cried the tree; "why is not the angel here to
protect me?"
But no one heard the piteous cry,--none but the other trees of the
forest; and they wept, and the little vine wept too.
Then the cruel men dragged the despoiled and hewn tree from the forest,
and the forest saw that beauteous thing no more.
But the night wind that swept down from the City of the Great King that
night to ruffle the bosom of distant Galilee, tarried in the forest
awhile to say that it had seen that day a cross upraised on
Calvary,--the tree on which was stretched the body of the dying Master.
1884.
* * * * *
The Symbol and the Saint.
THE SYMBOL AND THE SAINT.
Once upon a time a young man made ready for a voyage. His name was
Norss; broad were his shoulders, his cheeks were ruddy, his hair was
fair and long, his body betokened strength, and good-nature shone from
his blue eyes and lurked about the corners of his mouth.
"Where are you going?" asked his neighbor Jans, the forge-master.
"I am going sailing for a wife," said Norss.
"For a wife, indeed!" cried Jans. "And why go you to seek her in foreign
lands? Are not our maidens good enough and fair enough, that you must
need search for a wife elsewhere? For shame, Norss! for shame!"
But Norss said, "A spirit came to me in my dreams last night and said,
'Launch the boat and set sail to-morrow. Have no fear; for I will guide
you to the bride that awaits you.' Then, standing there, all white and
beautiful, the spirit held forth a symbol--such as I had never before
seen--in the figure of a cross, and the spirit said: 'By this symbol
shall she be known to you.'"
"If this be so, you must need go," said Jans. "But are you well
victualled? Come to my cabin, and let me give you venison and bear's
meat."
Norss shook his head. "The spirit will provide," said he. "I have no
fear, and I shall take no care, trusting in the spirit."
So Norss pushed his boat down the beach into the sea, and leaped into
the boat, and unfurled the sail to the wind. Jans stood wondering on the
beach, and watched the boat speed out of sight.
On, on, many days on sailed Norss,--so many leagues that he thought he
must have compassed the earth. In all this time he knew no hunger nor
thirst; it was as the spirit had told him in his dream,--no cares nor
dangers beset him. By day the dolphins and the other creatures of the
sea gambolled about his boat; by night a beauteous Star seemed to direct
his course; and when he slept and dreamed, he saw ever the spirit clad
in white, and holding forth to him the symbol in the similitude of a
cross.
At last he came to a strange country,--a country so very different from
his own that he could scarcely trust his senses. Instead of the rugged
mountains of the North, he saw a gentle landscape of velvety green; the
trees were not pines and firs, but cypresses, cedars, and palms; instead
of the cold, crisp air of his native land, he scented the perfumed
zephyrs of the Orient; and the wind that filled the sail of his boat and
smote his tanned cheeks was heavy and hot with the odor of cinnamon and
spices. The waters were calm and blue,--very different from the white
and angry waves of Norss's native fiord.
As if guided by an unseen hand, the boat pointed straight for the beach
of this strangely beautiful land; and ere its prow cleaved the shallower
waters, Norss saw a maiden standing on the shore, shading her eyes with
her right hand, and gazing intently at him. She was the most beautiful
maiden he had ever looked upon. As Norss was fair, so was this maiden
dark; her black hair fell loosely about her shoulders in charming
contrast with the white raiment in which her slender, graceful form was
clad. Around her neck she wore a golden chain, and therefrom was
suspended a small symbol, which Norss did not immediately recognize.
"Hast thou come sailing out of the North into the East?" asked the
maiden.
"Yes," said Norss.
"And thou art Norss?" she asked.
"I am Norss; and I come seeking my bride," he answered.
"I am she," said the maiden. "My name is Faia. An angel came to me in my
dreams last night, and the angel said: 'Stand upon the beach to-day, and
Norss shall come out of the North to bear thee home a bride.' So, coming
here, I found thee sailing to our shore."
Remembering then the spirit's words, Norss said: "What symbol have you,
Faia, that I may know how truly you have spoken?"
"No symbol have I but this," said Faia, holding out the symbol that was
attached to the golden chain about her neck. Norss looked upon it, and
lo! it was the symbol of his dreams,--a tiny wooden cross.
Then Norss clasped Faia in his arms and kissed her, and entering into
the boat they sailed away into the North. In all their voyage neither
care nor danger beset them; for as it had been told to them in their
dreams, so it came to pass. By day the dolphins and the other creatures
of the sea gambolled about them; by night the winds and the waves sang
them to sleep; and, strangely enough, the Star which before had led
Norss into the East, now shone bright and beautiful in the Northern sky!
When Norss and his bride reached their home, Jans, the forge-master, and
the other neighbors made great joy, and all said that Faia was more
beautiful than any other maiden in the land. So merry was Jans that he
built a huge fire in his forge, and the flames thereof filled the whole
Northern sky with rays of light that danced up, up, up to the Star,
singing glad songs the while. So Norss and Faia were wed, and they went
to live in the cabin in the fir-grove.
To these two was born in good time a son, whom they named Claus. On the
night that he was born wondrous things came to pass. To the cabin in the
fir-grove came all the quaint, weird spirits,--the fairies, the elves,
the trolls, the pixies, the fadas, the crions, the goblins, the kobolds,
the moss-people, the gnomes, the dwarfs, the water-sprites, the courils,
the bogles, the brownies, the nixies, the trows, the stille-volk,--all
came to the cabin in the fir-grove, and capered about and sang the
strange, beautiful songs of the Mist-Land. And the flames of old Jans's
forge leaped up higher than ever into the Northern sky, carrying the
joyous tidings to the Star, and full of music was that happy night.
Even in infancy Claus did marvellous things. With his baby hands he
wrought into pretty figures the willows that were given him to play
with. As he grew older, he fashioned, with the knife old Jans had made
for him, many curious toys,--carts, horses, dogs, lambs, houses, trees,
cats, and birds, all of wood and very like to nature. His mother taught
him how to make dolls too,--dolls of every kind, condition, temper, and
color; proud dolls, homely dolls, boy dolls, lady dolls, wax dolls,
rubber dolls, paper dolls, worsted dolls, rag dolls,--dolls of every
description and without end. So Claus became at once quite as popular
with the little girls as with the little boys of his native village; for
he was so generous that he gave away all these pretty things as fast as
he made them.
Claus seemed to know by instinct every language. As he grew older he
would ramble off into the woods and talk with the trees, the rocks, and
the beasts of the greenwood; or he would sit on the cliffs overlooking
the fiord, and listen to the stories that the waves of the sea loved to
tell him; then, too, he knew the haunts of the elves and the
stille-volk, and many a pretty tale he learned from these little people.
When night came, old Jans told him the quaint legends of the North, and
his mother sang to him the lullabies she had heard when a little child
herself in the far-distant East. And every night his mother held out to
him the symbol in the similitude of the cross, and bade him kiss it ere
he went to sleep.
So Claus grew to manhood, increasing each day in knowledge and in
wisdom. His works increased too; and his liberality dispensed everywhere
the beauteous things which his fancy conceived and his skill executed.
Jans, being now a very old man, and having no son of his own, gave to
Claus his forge and workshop, and taught him those secret arts which he
in youth had learned from cunning masters. Right joyous now was Claus;
and many, many times the Northern sky glowed with the flames that danced
singing from the forge while Claus moulded his pretty toys. Every color
of the rainbow were these flames; for they reflected the bright colors
of the beauteous things strewn round that wonderful workshop. Just as of
old he had dispensed to all children alike the homelier toys of his
youth, so now he gave to all children alike these more beautiful and
more curious gifts. So little children everywhere loved Claus, because
he gave them pretty toys, and their parents loved him because he made
their little ones so happy.
But now Norss and Faia were come to old age. After long years of love
and happiness, they knew that death could not be far distant. And one
day Faia said to Norss: "Neither you nor I, dear love, fear death; but
if we could choose, would we not choose to live always in this our son
Claus, who has been so sweet a joy to us?"
"Ay, ay," said Norss; "but how is that possible?"
"We shall see," said Faia.
That night Norss dreamed that a spirit came to him, and that the spirit
said to him: "Norss, thou shalt surely live forever in thy son Claus, if
thou wilt but acknowledge the symbol."
Then when the morning was come Norss told his dream to Faia, his wife;
and Faia said,--
"The same dream had I,--an angel appearing to me and speaking these very
words."
"But what of the symbol?" cried Norss.
"I have it here, about my neck," said Faia.
So saying, Faia drew from her bosom the symbol of wood,--a tiny cross
suspended about her neck by the golden chain. And as she stood there
holding the symbol out to Norss, he--he thought of the time when first
he saw her on the far-distant Orient shore, standing beneath the Star in
all her maidenly glory, shading her beauteous eyes with one hand, and
with the other clasping the cross,--the holy talisman of her faith.
"Faia, Faia!" cried Norss, "it is the same,--the same you wore when I
fetched you a bride from the East!"
"It is the same," said Faia, "yet see how my kisses and my prayers have
worn it away; for many, many times in these years, dear Norss, have I
pressed it to my lips and breathed your name upon it. See now--see what
a beauteous light its shadow makes upon your aged face!"
The sunbeams, indeed, streaming through the window at that moment, cast
the shadow of the symbol on old Norss's brow. Norss felt a glorious
warmth suffuse him, his heart leaped with joy, and he stretched out his
arms and fell about Faia's neck, and kissed the symbol and acknowledged
it. Then likewise did Faia; and suddenly the place was filled with a
wondrous brightness and with strange music, and never thereafter were
Norss and Faia beholden of men.
Until late that night Claus toiled at his forge; for it was a busy
season with him, and he had many, many curious and beauteous things to
make for the little children in the country round about. The colored
flames leaped singing from his forge, so that the Northern sky seemed to
be lighted by a thousand rainbows; but above all this voiceful glory
beamed the Star, bright, beautiful, serene.
Coming late to the cabin in the fir-grove, Claus wondered that no sign
of his father or of his mother was to be seen. "Father--mother!" he
cried, but he received no answer. Just then the Star cast its golden
gleam through the latticed window, and this strange, holy light fell and
rested upon the symbol of the cross that lay upon the floor. Seeing it,
Claus stooped and picked it up, and kissing it reverently, he cried:
"Dear talisman, be thou my inspiration evermore; and wheresoever thy
blessed influence is felt, there also let my works be known henceforth
forever!"
No sooner had he said these words than Claus felt the gift of
immortality bestowed upon him; and in that moment, too, there came to
him a knowledge that his parents' prayer had been answered, and that
Norss and Faia would live in him through all time.
And lo! to that place and in that hour came all the people of Mist-Land
and of Dream-Land to declare allegiance to him: yes, the elves, the
fairies, the pixies,--all came to Claus, prepared to do his bidding.
Joyously they capered about him, and merrily they sang.
"Now haste ye all," cried Claus,--"haste ye all to your homes and bring
to my workshop the best ye have. Search, little hill-people, deep in the
bowels of the earth for finest gold and choicest jewels; fetch me, O
mermaids, from the bottom of the sea the treasures hidden there,--the
shells of rainbow tints, the smooth, bright pebbles, and the strange
ocean flowers; go, pixies, and other water-sprites, to your secret
lakes, and bring me pearls! Speed! speed you all! for many pretty
things have we to make for the little ones of earth we love!"
But to the kobolds and the brownies Claus said: "Fly to every house on
earth where the cross is known; loiter unseen in the corners, and watch
and hear the children through the day. Keep a strict account of good and
bad, and every night bring back to me the names of good and bad, that I
may know them."
The kobolds and the brownies laughed gleefully, and sped away on
noiseless wings; and so, too, did the other fairies and elves.
There came also to Claus the beasts of the forest and the birds of the
air, and bade him be their master. And up danced the Four Winds, and
they said: "May we not serve you, too?"
The Snow King came stealing along in his feathery chariot. "Oho!" he
cried, "I shall speed over all the world and tell them you are
coming. In town and country, on the mountain-tops and in the
valleys,--wheresoever the cross is raised,--there will I herald your
approach, and thither will I strew you a pathway of feathery white.
Oho! oho!" So, singing softly, the Snow King stole upon his way.
But of all the beasts that begged to do him service, Claus liked the
reindeer best. "You shall go with me in my travels; for henceforth I
shall bear my treasures not only to the children of the North, but to
the children in every land whither the Star points me and where the
cross is lifted up!" So said Claus to the reindeer, and the reindeer
neighed joyously and stamped their hoofs impatiently, as though they
longed to start immediately.
Oh, many, many times has Claus whirled away from his far Northern home
in his sledge drawn by the reindeer, and thousands upon thousands of
beautiful gifts--all of his own making--has he borne to the children of
every land; for he loves them all alike, and they all alike love him, I
trow. So truly do they love him that they call him Santa Claus, and I am
sure that he must be a saint; for he has lived these many hundred years,
and we, who know that he was born of Faith and Love, believe that he
will live forever.
1886.
* * * * *
The Coming of the Prince.
THE COMING OF THE PRINCE.
I.
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" said the wind, and it tore through
the streets of the city that Christmas eve, turning umbrellas inside
out, driving the snow in fitful gusts before it, creaking the rusty
signs and shutters, and playing every kind of rude prank it could think
of.
"How cold your breath is to-night!" said Barbara, with a shiver, as she
drew her tattered little shawl the closer around her benumbed body.
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" answered the wind; "but why are you
out in this storm? You should be at home by the warm fire."
"I have no home," said Barbara; and then she sighed bitterly, and
something like a tiny pearl came in the corner of one of her sad blue
eyes.
But the wind did not hear her answer, for it had hurried up the street
to throw a handful of snow in the face of an old man who was struggling
along with a huge basket of good things on each arm.
"Why are you not at the cathedral?" asked a snowflake, as it alighted on
Barbara's shoulder. "I heard grand music, and saw beautiful lights there
as I floated down from the sky a moment ago."
"What are they doing at the cathedral?" inquired Barbara.
"Why, haven't you heard?" exclaimed the snowflake. "I supposed everybody
knew that the prince was coming to-morrow."
"Surely enough; this is Christmas eve," said Barbara, "and the prince
will come to-morrow."
Barbara remembered that her mother had told her about the prince, how
beautiful and good and kind and gentle he was, and how he loved the
little children; but her mother was dead now, and there was none to tell
Barbara of the prince and his coming,--none but the little snowflake.
"I should like to see the prince," said Barbara, "for I have heard he
was very beautiful and good."
"That he is," said the snowflake. "I have never seen him, but I heard
the pines and the firs singing about him as I floated over the forest
to-night."
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" cried the wind, returning boisterously to where
Barbara stood. "I've been looking for you everywhere, little snowflake!
So come with me."
And without any further ado, the wind seized upon the snowflake and
hurried it along the street and led it a merry dance through the icy air
of the winter night.
Barbara trudged on through the snow and looked in at the bright things
in the shop windows. The glitter of the lights and the sparkle of the
vast array of beautiful Christmas toys quite dazzled her. A strange
mingling of admiration, regret, and envy filled the poor little
creature's heart.
"Much as I may yearn to have them, it cannot be," she said to herself,
"yet I may feast my eyes upon them."
"Go away from here!" said a harsh voice.
"How can the rich people see all my fine things if you stand before the
window? Be off with you, you miserable little beggar!"
It was the shop-keeper, and he gave Barbara a savage box on the ear that
sent her reeling into the deeper snowdrifts of the gutter.
Presently she came to a large house where there seemed to be much mirth
and festivity. The shutters were thrown open, and through the windows
Barbara could see a beautiful Christmas tree in the centre of a spacious
room,--a beautiful Christmas tree ablaze with red and green lights, and
heavy with toys and stars and glass balls, and other beautiful things
that children love. There was a merry throng around the tree, and the
children were smiling and gleeful, and all in that house seemed content
and happy. Barbara heard them singing, and their song was about the
prince who was to come on the morrow.
"This must be the house where the prince will stop," thought Barbara.
"How I would like to see his face and hear his voice!--yet what would he
care for _me_, a 'miserable little beggar'?"
So Barbara crept on through the storm, shivering and disconsolate, yet
thinking of the prince.
"Where are you going?" she asked of the wind as it overtook her.
"To the cathedral," laughed the wind. "The great people are flocking
there, and I will have a merry time amongst them, ha, ha, ha!"
And with laughter the wind whirled away and chased the snow toward the
cathedral.
"It is there, then, that the prince will come," thought Barbara. "It is
a beautiful place, and the people will pay him homage there. Perhaps I
shall see him if I go there."
So she went to the cathedral. Many folk were there in their richest
apparel, and the organ rolled out its grand music, and the people sang
wondrous songs, and the priests made eloquent prayers; and the music,
and the songs, and the prayers were all about the prince and his
expected coming. The throng that swept in and out of the great edifice
talked always of the prince, the prince, the prince, until Barbara
really loved him very much, for all the gentle words she heard the
people say of him.
"Please, can I go and sit inside?" inquired Barbara of the sexton.
"No!" said the sexton, gruffly, for this was an important occasion with
the sexton, and he had no idea of wasting words on a beggar child.
"But I will be very good and quiet," pleaded Barbara. "Please may I not
see the prince?"
"I have said no, and I mean it," retorted the sexton. "What have you for
the prince, or what cares the prince for you? Out with you, and don't be
blocking up the doorway!" So the sexton gave Barbara an angry push, and
the child fell half-way down the icy steps of the cathedral. She began
to cry. Some great people were entering the cathedral at the time, and
they laughed to see her falling.
"Have you seen the prince?" inquired a snowflake, alighting on Barbara's
cheek. It was the same little snowflake that had clung to her shawl an
hour ago, when the wind came galloping along on his boisterous search.
"Ah, no!" sighed Barbara, in tears; "but what cares the prince for
_me_?"
"Do not speak so bitterly," said the little snowflake. "Go to the
forest and you shall see him, for the prince always comes through the
forest to the city."
Despite the cold, and her bruises, and her tears, Barbara smiled. In the
forest she could behold the prince coming on his way; and he would not
see her, for she would hide among the trees and vines.
"Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" It was the mischievous, romping wind once more;
and it fluttered Barbara's tattered shawl, and set her hair to streaming
in every direction, and swept the snowflake from her cheek and sent it
spinning through the air.
Barbara trudged toward the forest. When she came to the city gate the
watchman stopped her, and held his big lantern in her face, and asked
her who she was and where she was going.
"I am Barbara, and I am going into the forest," said she, boldly.
"Into the forest?" cried the watchman, "and in this storm? No, child;
you will perish!"
"But I am going to see the prince," said Barbara. "They will not let me
watch for him in the church, nor in any of their pleasant homes, so I am
going into the forest."
The watchman smiled sadly. He was a kindly man; he thought of his own
little girl at home.
"No, you must not go to the forest," said he, "for you would perish with
the cold."
But Barbara would not stay. She avoided the watchman's grasp and ran as
fast as ever she could through the city gate.
"Come back, come back!" cried the watchman; "you will perish in the
forest!"
But Barbara would not heed his cry. The falling snow did not stay her,
nor did the cutting blast. She thought only of the prince, and she ran
straightway to the forest.
II.
"What do you see up there, O pine-tree?" asked a little vine in the
forest. "You lift your head among the clouds to-night, and you tremble
strangely as if you saw wondrous sights."
"I see only the distant hill-tops and the dark clouds," answered the
pine-tree. "And the wind sings of the snow-king to-night; to all my
questionings he says, 'Snow, snow, snow,' till I am wearied with his
refrain."
"But the prince will surely come to-morrow?" inquired the tiny snowdrop
that nestled close to the vine.
"Oh, yes," said the vine. "I heard the country folks talking about it as
they went through the forest to-day, and they said that the prince would
surely come on the morrow."
"What are you little folks down there talking about?" asked the
pine-tree.
"We are talking about the prince," said the vine.
"Yes, he is to come on the morrow," said the pine-tree, "but not until
the day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east."
"Yes," said the fir-tree, "the east is black, and only the wind and the
snow issue from it."
"Keep your head out of my way!" cried the pine-tree to the fir; "with
your constant bobbing around I can hardly see at all."
"Take _that_ for your bad manners," retorted the fir, slapping the
pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.
The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his
largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there
were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.
"Hush!" cried the vine in a startled tone; "there is some one coming
through the forest."
The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarrelling, and the snowdrop nestled
closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very tightly.
All were greatly alarmed.
"Nonsense!" said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed bravery. "No one
would venture into the forest at such an hour."
"Indeed! and why not?" cried a child's voice. "Will you not let me watch
with you for the coming of the prince?"
"Will you not chop me down?" inquired the pine-tree, gruffly.
"Will you not tear me from my tree?" asked the vine.
"Will you not pluck my blossoms?" plaintively piped the snowdrop.
"No, of course not," said Barbara; "I have come only to watch with you
for the prince."
Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been treated
in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to come on
the morrow. And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt a great
compassion for her.
"Lie at my feet," said the pine-tree, "and I will protect you."
"Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs
till they are warm," said the vine.
"Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs," said
the snowdrop.
And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses. She
rested in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine
chafed her body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to
her.
"Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" There was that noisy wind again, but this time
it was gentler than it had been in the city.
"Here you are, my little Barbara," said the wind, in kindly tones. "I
have brought you the little snowflake. I am glad you came away from the
city, for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will have my
fun with them!"
Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara's cheek, the wind
whisked off to the city again. And we can imagine that it played rare
pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as you
know, is no respecter of persons.
"Dear Barbara," said the snowflake, "I will watch with thee for the
coming of the prince."
And Barbara was glad, for she loved the little snowflake, that was so
pure and innocent and gentle.
"Tell us, O pine-tree," cried the vine, "what do you see in the east?
Has the prince yet entered the forest?"
"The east is full of black clouds," said the pine-tree, "and the winds
that hurry to the hill-tops sing of the snow."
"But the city is full of brightness," said the fir. "I can see the
lights in the cathedral, and I can hear wondrous music about the prince
and his coming."
"Yes, they are singing of the prince in the cathedral," said Barbara,
sadly.
"But we shall see him first," whispered the vine, reassuringly.
"Yes, the prince will come through the forest," said the little
snowdrop, gleefully.
"Fear not, dear Barbara, we shall behold the prince in all his glory,"
cried the snowflake.
Then all at once there was a strange hubbub in the forest; for it was
midnight, and the spirits came from their hiding-places to prowl about
and to disport themselves. Barbara beheld them all in great wonder and
trepidation, for she had never before seen the spirits of the forest,
although she had often heard of them. It was a marvellous sight.
"Fear nothing," whispered the vine to Barbara,--"fear nothing, for they
dare not touch you."
The antics of the wood-spirits continued but an hour; for then a cock
crowed, and immediately thereat, with a wondrous scurrying, the elves
and the gnomes and the other grotesque spirits sought their abiding
places in the caves and in the hollow trunks and under the loose bark of
the trees. And then it was very quiet once more in the forest.
"It is very cold," said Barbara. "My hands and feet are like ice."
Then the pine-tree and the fir shook down the snow from their broad
boughs, and the snow fell upon Barbara and covered her like a white
mantle.
"You will be warm now," said the vine, kissing Barbara's forehead. And
Barbara smiled.
Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet.
And Barbara said, "I am going to sleep; will you wake me when the prince
comes through the forest?"
And they said they would. So Barbara fell asleep.
III.
"The bells in the city are ringing merrily," said the fir, "and the
music in the cathedral is louder and more beautiful than before. Can it
be that the prince has already come into the city?"
"No," cried the pine-tree, "look to the east and see the Christmas day
a-dawning! The prince is coming, and his pathway is through the forest!"
The storm had ceased. Snow lay upon all the earth. The hills, the
forest, the city, and the meadows were white with the robe the
storm-king had thrown over them. Content with his wondrous work, the
storm-king himself had fled to his far Northern home before the dawn of
the Christmas day. Everything was bright and sparkling and beautiful.
And most beautiful was the great hymn of praise the forest sang that
Christmas morning,--the pine-trees and the firs and the vines and the
snow-flowers that sang of the prince and of his promised coming.
"Wake up, little one," cried the vine, "for the prince is coming!"
But Barbara slept; she did not hear the vine's soft calling, nor the
lofty music of the forest.
A little snow-bird flew down from the fir-tree's bough and perched upon
the vine, and carolled in Barbara's ear of the Christmas morning and of
the coming of the prince. But Barbara slept; she did not hear the carol
of the bird.
"Alas!" sighed the vine, "Barbara will not awaken, and the prince is
coming."
Then the vine and the snowdrop wept, and the pine-tree and the fir were
very sad.
The prince came through the forest clad in royal raiment and wearing a
golden crown. Angels came with him, and the forest sang a great hymn
unto the prince, such a hymn as had never before been heard on earth.
The prince came to the sleeping child and smiled upon her and called her
by name.
"Barbara, my little one," said the prince, "awaken, and come with me."
Then Barbara opened her eyes and beheld the prince. And it seemed as if
a new life had come to her, for there was warmth in her body, and a
flush upon her cheeks and a light in her eyes that were divine. And she
was clothed no longer in rags, but in white flowing raiment; and upon
the soft brown hair there was a crown like those which angels wear. And
as Barbara arose and went to the prince, the little snowflake fell from
her cheek upon her bosom, and forthwith became a pearl more precious
than all other jewels upon earth.
And the prince took Barbara in his arms and blessed her, and turning
round about, returned with the little child unto his home, while the
forest and the sky and the angels sang a wondrous song.
The city waited for the prince, but he did not come. None knew of the
glory of the forest that Christmas morning, nor of the new life that
came to little Barbara.
_Come thou, dear Prince, oh, come to us this holy Christmas time! Come
to the busy marts of earth, the quiet homes, the noisy streets, the
humble lanes; come to us all, and with thy love touch every human heart,
that we may know that love, and in its blessed peace bear charity to all
mankind!_
1886.
* * * * *
The Mouse and the Moonbeam.
THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM.
Whilst you were sleeping, little Dear-my-Soul, strange things happened;
but that I saw and heard them, I should never have believed them. The
clock stood, of course, in the corner, a moonbeam floated idly on the
floor, and a little mauve mouse came from the hole in the chimney corner
and frisked and scampered in the light of the moonbeam upon the floor.
The little mauve mouse was particularly merry; sometimes she danced upon
two legs and sometimes upon four legs, but always very daintily and
always very merrily.
"Ah, me!" sighed the old clock, "how different mice are nowadays from
the mice we used to have in the good old times! Now there was your
grandma, Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your grandpa, Master
Sniffwhisker,--how grave and dignified they were! Many a night have I
seen them dancing upon the carpet below me, but always the stately
minuet and never that crazy frisking which you are executing now, to my
surprise--yes, and to my horror, too."
"But why shouldn't I be merry?" asked the little mauve mouse. "To-morrow
is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve."
"So it is," said the old clock. "I had really forgotten all about it.
But, tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss Mauve Mouse?"
"A great deal to me!" cried the little mauve mouse. "I have been very
good a very long time: I have not used any bad words, nor have I gnawed
any holes, nor have I stolen any canary seed, nor have I worried my
mother by running behind the flour-barrel where that horrid trap is set.
In fact, I have been so good that I'm very sure Santa Claus will bring
me something very pretty."
This seemed to amuse the old clock mightily; in fact, the old clock fell
to laughing so heartily that in an unguarded moment she struck twelve
instead of ten, which was exceedingly careless and therefore to be
reprehended.
"Why, you silly little mauve mouse," said the old clock, "you don't
believe in Santa Claus, do you?"
"Of course I do," answered the little mauve mouse. "Believe in Santa
Claus? Why shouldn't I? Didn't Santa Claus bring me a beautiful
butter-cracker last Christmas, and a lovely gingersnap, and a
delicious rind of cheese, and--and--lots of things? I should be very
ungrateful if I did _not_ believe in Santa Claus, and I certainly
shall not disbelieve in him at the very moment when I am expecting him
to arrive with a bundle of goodies for me.
"I once had a little sister," continued the little mauve mouse, "who did
not believe in Santa Claus, and the very thought of the fate that befell
her makes my blood run cold and my whiskers stand on end. She died
before I was born, but my mother has told me all about her. Perhaps you
never saw her; her name was Squeaknibble, and she was in stature one of
those long, low, rangey mice that are seldom found in well-stocked
pantries. Mother says that Squeaknibble took after our ancestors who
came from New England, where the malignant ingenuity of the people and
the ferocity of the cats rendered life precarious indeed. Squeaknibble
seemed to inherit many ancestral traits, the most conspicuous of which
was a disposition to sneer at some of the most respected dogmas in
mousedom. From her very infancy she doubted, for example, the widely
accepted theory that the moon was composed of green cheese; and this
heresy was the first intimation her parents had of the sceptical turn of
her mind. Of course, her parents were vastly annoyed, for their maturer
natures saw that this youthful scepticism portended serious, if not
fatal, consequences. Yet all in vain did the sagacious couple reason and
plead with their headstrong and heretical child.
"For a long time Squeaknibble would not believe that there was any such
archfiend as a cat; but she came to be convinced to the contrary one
memorable night, on which occasion she lost two inches of her beautiful
tail, and received so terrible a fright that for fully an hour afterward
her little heart beat so violently as to lift her off her feet and bump
her head against the top of our domestic hole. The cat that deprived my
sister of so large a percentage of her vertebral colophon was the same
brindled ogress that nowadays steals ever and anon into this room,
crouches treacherously behind the sofa, and feigns to be asleep, hoping,
forsooth, that some of us, heedless of her hated presence, will venture
within reach of her diabolical claws. So enraged was this ferocious
monster at the escape of my sister that she ground her fangs viciously
together, and vowed to take no pleasure in life until she held in her
devouring jaws the innocent little mouse which belonged to the mangled
bit of tail she even then clutched in her remorseless claws."
"Yes," said the old clock, "now that you recall the incident, I
recollect it well. I was here then, in this very corner, and I remember
that I laughed at the cat and chided her for her awkwardness. My
reproaches irritated her; she told me that a clock's duty was to run
itself down, _not_ to be depreciating the merits of others! Yes, I
recall the time; that cat's tongue is fully as sharp as her claws."
"Be that as it may," said the little mauve mouse, "it is a matter of
history, and therefore beyond dispute, that from that very moment the
cat pined for Squeaknibble's life; it seemed as if that one little
two-inch taste of Squeaknibble's tail had filled the cat with a
consuming passion, or appetite, for the rest of Squeaknibble. So the cat
waited and watched and hunted and schemed and devised and did everything
possible for a cat--a cruel cat--to do in order to gain her murderous
ends. One night--one fatal Christmas eve--our mother had undressed the
children for bed, and was urging upon them to go to sleep earlier than
usual, since she fully expected that Santa Claus would bring each of
them something very palatable and nice before morning. Thereupon the
little dears whisked their cunning tails, pricked up their beautiful
ears, and began telling one another what they hoped Santa Claus would
bring. One asked for a slice of Roquefort, another for Neufchatel,
another for Sap Sago, and a fourth for Edam; one expressed a preference
for de Brie, while another hoped to get Parmesan; one clamored for
imperial blue Stilton, and another craved the fragrant boon of Caprera.
There were fourteen little ones then, and consequently there were
diverse opinions as to the kind of gift which Santa Claus should best
bring; still, there was, as you can readily understand, an enthusiastic
unanimity upon this point, namely, that the gift should be cheese of
some brand or other.
"'My dears,' said our mother, 'what matters it whether the boon which
Santa Claus brings be royal English cheddar or fromage de Bricquebec,
Vermont sage, or Herkimer County skim-milk? We should be content with
whatsoever Santa Claus bestows, so long as it be cheese, disjoined from
all traps whatsoever, unmixed with Paris green, and free from glass,
strychnine, and other harmful ingredients. As for myself, I shall be
satisfied with a cut of nice, fresh Western reserve; for truly I
recognize in no other viand or edible half the fragrance or half the
gustfulness to be met with in one of these pale but aromatic domestic
products. So run away to your dreams now, that Santa Claus may find you
sleeping.'
"The children obeyed,--all but Squeaknibble. 'Let the others think what
they please,' said she, 'but _I_ don't believe in Santa Claus. I'm not
going to bed, either. I'm going to creep out of this dark hole and have
a quiet romp, all by myself, in the moonlight.' Oh, what a vain,
foolish, wicked little mouse was Squeaknibble! But I will not reproach
the dead; her punishment came all too swiftly. Now listen: who do you
suppose overheard her talking so disrespectfully of Santa Claus?"
"Why, Santa Claus himself," said the old clock.