Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE
PEARL STORY BOOK
_Stories and Legends of
Winter, Christmas, and New Year's Day_
COMPILED BY
ADA M. SKINNER
AND
ELEANOR L. SKINNER
_Editors of "The Emerald Story Book,"
"The Topaz Story Book," "The Turquoise
Story Book," "Children's Plays," Etc._
[Decoration]
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
1919
Copyright 1910 by
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
[Illustration: {Three shepherds look up at the sky, amazed}
_Drawn by Maxfield Parrish_]
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The editors' thanks are due to the following authors and publishers
for the use of valuable material in this book:
To T. C. and E. C. Jack of Edinburgh for permission to use "Holly" and
the legend of the "Yew" from "Shown to the Children Series"; to
Frederick A. Stokes Company for "The Voice of the Pine Trees," from
"Myths and Legends of Japan"; to the Wessels Company for "The First
Winter" by W. W. Canfield; to Julia Dodge for permission to use two
poems by Mary Mapes Dodge; to the Christian Herald for a poem by
Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.; to Lothrop, Lee and Shepherd for "The Pine
and the Flax" by Albrekt Segerstedt; to the Outlook Company for a
story by Mine Morishima; to the Independent for the poem "Who Loves
the Trees Best?"; to Laura E. Richards for her story "Christmas
Gifts"; to George Putnam and Sons for "Silver Bells" by Hamish Hendry,
and "The Happy Prince" by Oscar Wilde; to the Churchman for a story
by John P. Peters; to Dodd, Mead and Company for the story "Holly"
from the "Story Hour"; and "Prince Winter" from "The Four Seasons" by
Carl Ewald; to George Jacobs for "A Legend of St. Nicholas" from "In
God's Garden" by Amy Steedman; to A. Flanagan Company for "The New
Year's Bell" from "Christ-Child Tales" by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot; to
Jay T. Stocking and the Pilgrims Press for "The Snowball That Didn't
Melt" from "The Golden Goblet"; to the New York State Museum for
permission to use two stories contained in Bulletin 125, by Mrs. H. M.
Converse; to Small, Maynard and Company for "A Song of the Snow," from
"Complete Works of Madison Cawein."
The selections from James Russell Lowell, Edna Dean Proctor, Celia
Thaxter, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edith M. Thomas, Margaret Deland, John
Townsend Trowbridge, and Frank Dempster Sherman are used by permission
of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin Company,
authorized publishers of their works.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS
PAGE
Winter (selection) _James Russell Lowell_ 2
The Ice King (Indian legend) _Eleanor L. Skinner_ 3
A Song of the Snow (poem) _Madison Cawein_ 9
King Frost and King Winter
(adapted) _Margaret T. Canby_ 11
The Snowstorm (poem) _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 18
The First Winter (Iroquois
legend) _W. W. Canfield_ 20
Snow Song (poem) _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 24
The Snow Maiden (Russian
legend. Translated from
the French) _Eleanor L. Skinner_ 25
The Frost King (poem) _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 30
King Winter's Harvest _Selected_ 32
Old King Winter (poem) _Anna E. Skinner_ 36
Sheltering Wings _Harriet Louise Jerome_ 37
Snowflakes (selection) _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 41
The Snow-Image _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 42
WINTER WOODS
The First Snow-Fall _James Russell Lowell_ 62
The Voice of the Pine Trees
(Japanese legend) _Frank Hadland Davis_ 63
The Pine Tree Maiden (Indian
legend) _Ada M. Skinner_ 68
The Holly _Janet Harvey Kelman_ 73
The Fable of the Three
Elms (poem) _Margaret E. Sangster, Jr._ 79
The Pine and the Willow _Mine Morishima_ 82
Why the Wild Rabbits Are
White in Winter
(Algonquin legend retold) _Eleanor L. Skinner_ 86
The Yew _Janet Harvey Kelman_ 93
How the Pine Tree Did
Some Good _Samuel W. Duffield_ 95
A Wonderful Weaver (poem) _George Cooper_ 105
The Pine and the Flax _Albrekt Segerstedt_ 107
The Fir Tree (poem) _Edith M. Thomas_ 110
Why Bruin Has a Stumpy Tail
(Norwegian legend) _Eleanor L. Skinner_ 111
Pines and Firs _Mrs. Dyson_ 116
Who Loves the Trees Best?
(poem) _Selected_ 131
CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE
A Christmas Song _Phillips Brooks_ 134
The Shepherd Maiden's Gift
(Eastern legend) _Eleanor L. Skinner_ 135
Christmas Gifts _Laura E. Richards_ 141
Silver Bells (poem) _Hamish Hendry_ 146
The Animals' Christmas Tree _John P. Peters_ 147
A Christmas Carol _Christina Rossetti_ 162
Holly _Ada M. Marzials_ 164
The Willow Man (poem) _Juliana Horatia Ewing_ 175
The Ivy Green (selection) _Charles Dickens_ 178
Legend of St. Nicholas _Amy Steedman_ 179
Christmas Bells (selection) _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 197
A Night With Santa Claus _Anna R. Annan_ 198
A Child's Thought About
Santa Claus (poem) _Sydney Dayre_ 208
Charity in a Cottage _Jean Ingelow_ 210
The Waits (poem) _Margaret Deland_ 223
Where Love Is There God
Is Also (adapted) _Leo Tolstoi_ 225
God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen _Dinah Mulock Craik_ 234
THE GLAD NEW YEAR
The Glad New Year (poem) _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 236
The Bad Little Goblin's
New Year _Mary Stewart_ 237
Selection _Robert Herrick_ 248
The Queen of the Year (poem) _Edna Dean Proctor_ 249
The New Year's Bell _Andrea Hofer Proudfoot_ 250
The New Year _Selected_ 256
The Child and the Year (poem) _Celia Thaxter_ 257
A Masque of the Days _Charles Lamb_ 258
Ring Out, Wild Bells (poem) _Alfred Tennyson_ 262
MIDWINTER
The Bells (selection) _Edgar Allen Poe_ 264
A January Thaw _Dallas Lore Sharp_ 265
The Snow Man _Hans Christian Andersen_ 276
The Happy Prince _Oscar Wilde_ 284
The Legend of King Wenceslaus
(adapted) _John Mason Neale_ 303
Midwinter (poem) _John Townsend Trowbridge_ 310
WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET
Old Winter (poem) _Thomas Noel_ 314
The Snowball That Didn't Melt _Jay T. Stocking_ 315
Gau-wi-di-ne and Go-hay
(Iroquois legend retold) _Eleanor L. Skinner_ 330
Naming the Winds (Indian
legend retold) _Ada M. Skinner_ 339
North Wind's Frolic
(translated) _Montgomery Maze_ 343
The Months: A Pageant
(adapted) _Christina Rossetti_ 346
Prince Winter _Carl Ewald_ 366
How Spring and Winter
Met (poem) _Edith M. Thomas_ 376
INTRODUCTION
"Once upon a time," in the winter season suggests happy, young faces
grouped about a blazing fire. A heavy snowstorm promises plenty of
sport for tomorrow, but at present the cosiness indoors is very
attractive, especially now that the evening story hour is at hand. And
while the story-teller is slowly choosing his subjects he hears the
children's impatient whispers of "The Snow Man," "Prince Winter," "The
Legend of Holly," "The Animals' Christmas Tree."
Silence! The story-teller turns his eyes from the glowing fire to the
faces of his eager audience. He is ready to begin.
Each season of the year opens a treasury of suggestion for stories. In
the beauty and wonder of nature are excellent themes for tales which
quicken children's interest in the promise of joyous springtime, in
the rich pageantry of ripening summer, in the blessings of generous
autumn, and in the merry cheer of grim old winter.
The Pearl Story Book is the fourth volume in a series of nature books
each of which emphasizes the interest and beauty characteristic of a
particular season. The central theme of this volume is winter,
"snow-wrapped and holly-decked."
WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS
WINTER
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;
On open wold and hill-top bleak
It had gathered all the cold,
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek.
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him winter-proof;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars:
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight.
James Russell Lowell.
THE ICE KING
(Indian Legend)
Once upon a time there was an Indian village built on the bank of a
wide river. During the spring, summer, and autumn the people were very
happy. There was plenty of fuel and game in the deep woods; the river
afforded excellent fish. But the Indians dreaded the months when the
Ice King reigned.
One winter the weather was terribly cold and the people suffered
severely. The Ice King called forth the keen wind from the northern
sky, and piled the snowdrifts so high in the forests that it was most
difficult to supply the wigwams with game. He covered the river with
ice so thick that the Indians feared it would never melt.
"When will the Ice King leave us?" they asked each other. "We shall
all perish if he continues his cruel reign."
At last signs of spring encouraged the stricken people. The great
snowdrifts in the forests disappeared and the ice on the river broke
into large pieces. All of these floated downstream except one huge
cake which lodged on the bank very near the village. And when the
Indians saw that the spring sunshine did not melt this great mass of
ice they were puzzled and anxious.
"It is the roof of the Ice King's lodge," they said. "We shall never
enjoy warm weather while he dwells near us. Have we no brave who is
willing to do battle with this winter tyrant?"
At last, a courageous young hunter armed himself with a huge club and
went forth to see if he could shatter the glittering frozen mass and
rid the village of the giant who dwelt beneath it. With all his
strength he struck the ice roof blow upon blow, crying out, "Begone, O
cruel Ice King! Your time is past! Begone!"
Finally, there was a deafening noise like the crashing of forest trees
when the lightning strikes, and the huge ice cake split into several
pieces.
"Begone!" cried the young brave, as he struggled with each great lump
of ice until he pushed it from the bank and tumbled it into the river
below.
And when the mighty task was finished the white figure of the Ice King
stood before the Indian brave.
"You have ruined my lodge," said the giant.
"The winter season is past," answered the brave. "Begone!"
"After several moons I shall return to stay," threatened the Ice King.
Then he stalked away toward the North.
The people were very happy when they knew that the young brave had
conquered the giant; but their joy was somewhat dampened when they
heard about the threatened return of the Ice King.
"I shall prepare for his return and do battle with him again,"
declared the Indian conqueror.
This promise comforted the people somewhat, but still they thought of
the coming winter with dread.
During the autumn the hunter built near the river a strong wigwam and
stored therein abundant fuel and dried game. He filled many bags made
of skin, with oil, which he procured from the animals he killed. Also,
he was well supplied with fur rugs, blankets, and warm clothes.
At last the winter season came. The cold north wind blew unceasingly,
the snow piled high around the wigwams; ice several feet thick covered
the river.
"The Ice King has come," said the Indians. "If he keeps his threat to
stay among us we shall surely perish."
One bitter cold day the young Indian who had prepared well for the
severe weather sat in his wigwam near a blazing fire. Suddenly, a
strong gust of wind tore aside the bear skin which protected the
doorway and into the lodge stalked the Ice King. His freezing breath
filled the place and dampened the fire. He took a seat opposite the
Indian brave who said, "Welcome, Ice King."
"I've come to stay," answered the giant.
The Indian shivered with cold at the sudden change of temperature in
his wigwam, but he rose and brought more logs to the fire. Also, he
opened one of his bags of oil and poured the contents on the great
pieces of wood. The flames soon caught the oil-soaked logs and a
roaring fire crackled and blazed in the wigwam. More and more fuel the
young brave piled on his fire until finally the frosty cold air was
changed to summer heat.
The Ice King shifted his seat away from the glowing fire. Farther and
farther away he pushed until he sat with his back against the wall of
the wigwam. As he moved he seemed to grow smaller and weaker. The icy
feathers of his headgear drooped about his forehead and great drops of
sweat covered his face. But still the Indian brave piled fuel on the
blazing fire.
"Spare me, O hunter," cried the Ice King.
But to the words of the giant the young Indian was deaf. He opened
another bag of oil and poured it on the logs.
"Have mercy, I beg you!" pleaded the Ice King. He rose and staggered
toward the door.
"You have conquered me," he said in a weak voice. "I will depart.
Twice you have won a victory over me. I give up my hope of reigning
continually among your people. My season shall last during three
moons, only."
He staggered out of the wigwam and stalked wearily away. Since that
day the giant Ice King has not tried to reign throughout the year.
A SONG OF THE SNOW
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn,
When the air is still and the clouds are gone,
And the snow lies deep on hill and lawn,
And the old clock ticks, "'Tis time! 'Tis time!"
And the household rises with many a yawn
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn!
Sing, Ho!
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky
When the last star closes its icy eye
And deep in the road the snow-drifts lie,
And the old clock ticks, "'Tis late! 'Tis late!"
And the flame on the hearth leaps red--leaps high
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky!
Sing, Ho!
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn
When the snow makes ghostly the wayside thorn,
And hills of pearl are the shocks of corn,
And the old clock ticks, "Tick-tock; tick-tock;"
And the goodman bustles about the barn
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn!
Sing, Ho!
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day,
When ermine capped are the stocks of hay,
And the wood-smoke pillars the air with gray,
And the old clock ticks, "To work! To work!"
And the goodwife sings as she churns away
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day!
Sing, Ho!
Madison Cawein.
KING FROST AND KING WINTER
Margaret T. Canby
King Winter lives in a very strong palace near the cold North Pole; it
is built of great blocks of thick ice, and all around it stand high,
pointed icebergs, and cross, white bears keep guard at the gate. He
has many little fairy servants to do his bidding and they are like
their master, cross and spiteful, and seldom do any kind actions, so
that few are found who love them. King Winter is rich and powerful,
but he keeps all his wealth so tightly locked up that it does no one
any good; and what is worse, he often tries to get the treasures of
other persons, to add to the store in his money chests.
One day when this selfish old king was walking through the woods he
saw the leaves thickly covered with gold and precious stones, which
had been spread upon them by King Frost, to make the trees more
beautiful and give pleasure to all who saw them. But looking at them
did not satisfy King Winter; he wanted to have the gold for his own,
and he made up his mind to get it, somehow. Back he went to his palace
to call his servants home to do this new work. As soon as he reached
the gate, he blew a loud, shrill note on his horn and in a few minutes
his odd little fairies came flying in at the windows and doors and
stood before him quietly waiting their commands. The king ordered some
to go out into the forest, at nightfall, armed with canes and clubs,
and beat off all the gold and ruby leaves; and he told others to take
strong bags, and gather up all the treasure, and bring it to him.
"If that silly King Frost does not think any more of gold and precious
stones than to waste them on trees I shall teach him better," said the
old king.
The fairies promised to obey him, and as soon as night came, off they
rushed to the forest, and a terrible noise they made, flying from one
beautiful tree to another, banging and beating the leaves off.
Branches were cracking and falling on all sides, and leaves were
flying about, while the sound of shouting and laughing and screaming
told all who heard it that the spiteful winter fairies were at some
mischief. The other fairies followed, and gathered up the poor
shattered leaves, cramming them into the great bags they had brought,
and taking them to King Winter's palace as fast as they were filled.
This work was kept up nearly all night and when morning came, the
magic forest of many-colored leaves was changed into a dreary place.
Bare trees stretched their long brown branches around and seemed to
shiver in the cold wind and to sigh for the beautiful dress of shining
leaves so rudely torn from them.
King Winter was very much pleased, as one great sack after another was
tugged in by the fairies and when morning came he called his servants
together and said, "You have all worked well, my fairies, and have
saved much treasure from being wasted; I will now open these bags and
show you the gold. Each of you shall have a share."
The king took up the sack nearest to him, their surprise, when out
rushed a great heap of brown leaves, which flew all over the floor and
half choked them with dust! When the king saw this he growled with
rage and looked at the fairies with a dark frown on his face. They
begged him to look at the next sack, but when he did so, it, too, was
full of brown leaves, instead of gold and precious stones. This was
too much for King Winter's patience. He tossed the bags one by one out
of the palace window, and would have tossed the unlucky fairies after
them, had not some of the bravest ones knelt down and asked for mercy,
telling him they had obeyed his orders, and, if King Frost had taken
back his treasure, they were not to blame.
This turned their master's anger against King Frost, and very angry
and fierce he was. He gnashed his great teeth with rage and rushed up
and down in his palace, until it shook again. At last he made up his
mind to go out that night, break down King Frost's beautiful palace,
and take away all his riches.
When night came, he started out with all his fairies. Some were armed
with the clubs they had beaten off the leaves with, and others had
lumps of ice to throw at their enemy; but the king had been so angry
all day that he had not told them what to do; also, he had left their
sharp spears locked up. He wrapped himself in his great white cloak of
swan's down in order that he might look very grand, and so they went
on their way.
King Frost lived on the other side of the wood, and he had heard all
the noise made by the winter fairies in spoiling the trees and had
seen the next morning the mischief they had done. It made him very
sorry to find the beautiful leaves all knocked off and taken away, and
he determined to punish King Winter by going to attack _his_ palace
that night. He spent the day making ready and dressing himself and his
servants in shining coats of ice-armour and giving each one several
spears and darts of ice tipped with sharp diamond points. They looked
like brave little soldiers.
The two groups of fairies met in the midst of the great wood. After
some words between the kings, their servants fell to blows and a
great battle they had. The winter fairies fought with their clubs and
threw lumps of ice at the frost fairies; but their clubs were weak
from being used so roughly the night before and soon broke; and when
their ice-balls were all thrown away they could find no more. But King
Frost had armed his servants well, and they threw their icy darts
among the winter fairies. The trees, too, seemed to fight on the Frost
King's side. The bare twigs pulled their hair and the branches ripped
their ice clothes wherever they could. So the winter fairies had the
worst of it and at last started off at full speed and rushed through
the woods, never stopping till they reached the palace, and shut
themselves in--leaving their king, who was too proud to run, all alone
with King Frost and his fairies. You may be sure they were not very
merciful to him. They began to pull his cloak, calling out, "Give us
your cloak to keep our trees warm. You stole their pretty leaves; you
must give us your cloak."
Now this was a magic cloak and had been given to King Winter by the
Queen of the fairies, so when he felt them pulling at it, he wrapped
it tightly about him, and began to run. After him flew the frost
fairies, pulling and plucking at his great white cloak, snatching out
a bit here and a bit there and laughing and shouting while King Winter
howled and roared and rushed along, not knowing where he went. On they
flew up and down the wood in and out among the trees,--their way
marked by the scattered bits of white down from King Winter's cloak.
When day began King Winter found himself near his own palace. He
dashed his tattered cloak to the ground and rushed through the gate,
shaking his fist at King Frost.
He and his fairies took the cloak. As they went home through the woods
they hung beautiful wreaths of white down on all the trees and also
trimmed the branches with their broken spears and darts, which shone
like silver in the sunlight, and made the woods look as bright almost,
as before it had been robbed of its golden and ruby leaves. Even the
ground was covered with shining darts and white feathers. Every one
thought it very beautiful, and no one could tell how it happened.
(_Adapted._)
THE SNOWSTORM
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, and river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end,
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come, see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Mauger the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone--
Built in an age, the mad wind's night work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
THE FIRST WINTER
(Iroquois Legend)
There was a time when the days were always of the same length, and it
was always summer. The red men lived continually in the smile of the
Great Spirit and were happy. But there arose a chief who was so
powerful that he at last declared himself mightier than the Great
Spirit, and taught his brothers to go forth to the plain and mock him.
They would call upon the Great Spirit to come and fight with them or
would challenge him to take away the crop of growing corn or drive the
game from the woods. They would say he was an unkind father to keep
himself and their dead brothers in the Happy Hunting Grounds, where
the red men could hunt forever without weariness.
They laughed at their old men who had feared for so many moons to
reproach the Great Spirit for his unfair treatment of the Indians who
were compelled to hunt and fish for game for their wives and children,
while their own women had to plant the corn and harvest it.
"In the Happy Hunting Grounds," they said, "the Great Spirit feeds our
brothers and their wives and does not let any foes or dangers come
upon them, but here he lets us go hungry many times. If he is as great
as you have said, why does he not take care of his children here?"
Then the Great Spirit told them he would turn his smiling face away
from them, so that they should have no more light and warmth and they
must build fires in the forest if they would see.
But the red men laughed and taunted him, telling him that he had
followed one trail so long that he could not get out of it, but would
have to come every day and give them light and heat as usual. Then
they would dance and make faces at him and taunt him with his
helplessness.
In a few days the quick eyes of some of the red men saw in the morning
the face of the Great Spirit appear where it was not wont to appear,
but they were silent, fearing the jibes of their brothers. Finally,
duller eyes noticed the change, and alarm and consternation spread
among the people. Each day brought less and less of the Great Spirit's
smile and his countenance was often hidden by dark clouds, while
terrible storms beat upon the frightened faces turned in appeal toward
the heavens. The strong braves and warriors became as women; the old
men covered their heads with skins and starved in the forests; while
the women in their lodges crooned the low, mournful wail of the death
song. Frosts and snows came upon an unsheltered and stricken race, and
many of them perished.
Then the Great Spirit, who had almost removed his face from the sight
of men, had pity and told them he would come back. Day after day the
few that remained alive watched with joy the return of the sun. They
sang in praise of the approaching summer and once more hailed with
thankfulness the first blades of growing corn as it burst from the
ground. The Great Spirit told his children that every year, as a
punishment for the insults they had given their Father, they should
feel for a season the might of the power they had mocked; and they
murmured not, but bowed their heads in meekness.
SNOW SONG
Over valley, over hill,
Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,
Driving all the white flock forth,
From the far folds of the north.
Blow, wind, blow,
Weird melodies you play,
Following your flocks that go
Across the world today.
Hither, thither, up and down,
Every highway of the town,
Huddling close the white flocks all
Gather at the shepherd's call.
Blow, wind, blow,
Upon your pipes of joy,
All your sheep the flakes of snow
And you their shepherd boy.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
THE SNOW MAIDEN
(Russian Legend)
Once upon a time there lived a peasant named Ivan and his wife, Marie.
They were very sad because they had no children. One cold winter day
the peasant and his wife sat near a window in their cottage and
watched the village children playing in the snow. The little ones were
busily at work making a beautiful snow maiden.
Ivan turned to his wife and said, "What a good time the children are
having. See, they are making a beautiful snow maiden. Come, let us go
into the garden and amuse ourselves in the same way. We will make a
pretty little snow image."
They went into the garden which lay back of their cottage.
"My husband," said Marie, "we have no children, what do you say to
our making for ourselves a child of snow?"
"A very good idea!" said the husband. And he at once began to mold the
form of a little body, with tiny feet and hands. His wife made a small
head and set it upon the shoulders of the snow image.
A man who passed by the garden stopped for a moment and looked at the
peasants who were so strangely occupied. After a moment's silence he
said to them, "May God help you."
"Thank you," said Ivan.
"God's blessing, indeed, is always good," nodded Marie.
"What are you making?" asked the stranger.
Ivan looked up and said, "We are making a little snow maiden." Then he
went on with his work, forming the nose, chin, and eyes.
In a few moments the snow child was finished, and Ivan looked at her
in great admiration. Suddenly, he noticed that the mouth and eyes
opened, the cheeks and lips took on a rosy hue, and in a few moments
the astonished peasant saw standing before him a living child.
"Who are you?" he asked, filled with wonder at seeing a little girl
instead of a snow image.
"I am Snow White, your little daughter," said the child. Then she
threw her arms lovingly around the man and his wife, who both began to
cry for joy.
The delighted parents took Snow White into the cottage, and before
long the news ran through the village that a little daughter had come
to live with Ivan and Marie.
Of course the village children came to play with Snow White. She was
such a charming little girl, with a very white skin, eyes as blue as
the sky, and lovely golden hair. To be sure, her cheeks were not so
rosy as those of her companions, but she was so bright and gentle that
everyone loved her very much indeed.
The winter passed very quickly and Snow White grew so fast that by the
time the trees were veiled in the green buds of spring she was as tall
as a girl of twelve or thirteen years.
During the winter months the snow maiden had been very joyous and
happy, but when the mild, warm days of spring came she seemed sad and
low-spirited. Her mother, Marie, noticed the change and said to her,
"My dear little girl, why are you sad? Tell me, are you ill?"
"No, mother, dear, I am not ill," said Snow White. But she no longer
seemed to enjoy playing out of doors with the other children; she
stayed very quietly in the cottage.
One lovely spring day the village children came to the cottage and
called out, "Come, Snow White! Come! We are going into the woods to
gather wild flowers. Come with us."
"Yes, do go, my dear!" said mother Marie. "Go with your little friends
and gather spring flowers. I'm sure you'll enjoy the outing."
Away went the happy children to the woods. They gathered the lovely
wild flowers and made them into bouquets and coronets, and when the
afternoon sun began to sink in the western sky they built a big
bonfire. Gayly they sang little songs, merrily dancing around the
bright, crackling blaze.
"Let each one dance alone," called out one of the little girls.
"Snow White, watch us for a little while, and then you, too, will
know how to dance alone."
Away whirled the happy little children, dancing freely round and round
the bonfire. In a little while Snow White joined them.
When the gay little people were out of breath and the dancing grew
slower and slower, some one called out, "Where is Snow White?"
"Snow White, where are you?" shouted the other children, but nowhere
could they find their little companion.
They ran home and told Ivan and Marie that Snow White had disappeared
while dancing round the bonfire. The villagers made a thorough search
for the little maiden, but they never found her, for while she was
dancing around the bonfire she had slowly changed into a little white
vapour and had flown away toward the sky, where she changed into a
delicate snowflake.
THE FROST KING
Oho! have you seen the Frost King,
A-marching up the hill?
His hoary face is stern and pale,
His touch is icy chill.
He sends the birdlings to the South,
He bids the brooks be still;
Yet not in wrath or cruelty
He marches up the hill.
He will often rest at noontime,
To see the sunbeams play;
And flash his spears of icicles,
Or let them melt away.
He'll toss the snowflakes in the air,
Nor let them go nor stay;
Then hold his breath while swift they fall,
That coasting boys may play.
He'll touch the brooks and rivers wide,
That skating crowds may shout;
He'll make the people far and near
Remember he's about.
He'll send his nimble, frosty Jack--
Without a shade of doubt--
To do all kinds of merry pranks,
And call the children out;
He'll sit upon the whitened fields,
And reach his icy hand
O'er houses where the sudden cold
Folks cannot understand.
The very moon, that ventures forth
From clouds so soft and grand,
Will stare to see the stiffened look
That settles o'er the land.
And so the Frost King o'er the hills,
And o'er the startled plain,
Will come and go from year to year
Till Earth grows young again--
Till Time himself shall cease to be,
Till gone are hill and plain:
Whenever Winter comes to stay,
The hoary King shall reign.
Mary Mapes Dodge.
KING WINTER'S HARVEST
King Winter sat upon his iceberg throne, and waving his scepter, a
huge icicle, called for all the Snow Fairies and Frost Fairies to draw
near, as he wished to see them.
"Tell me, Snow Fairies," said King Winter, "what have you been doing
of late; have you made anybody happy by your work?"
"Oh, yes," they all said at once, "we had the jolliest time last night
putting white dresses on the trees, white spreads over the grasses,
white caps on all the fence posts, and making things look so strange
that when the children came out in the morning they just shouted and
laughed, and soon threw so much snow over each other that they were
dressed in white, too, and seemed Snow Fairies like ourselves. They,
too, wanted to make curious canes, castles, and other things with the
snow as we had done. Sleds were brought out and when the sleighbells
commenced their music it seemed that everybody was made glad by our
work."
"Well done," said King Winter, "now away to your work again."
In a twinkling the Snow Fairies were up in a purple cloud-boat
throwing a shower of snowflake kisses down to King Winter to thank him
for giving them work to do.
"Now, Frost Fairies," said King Winter, turning to a glittering band
who wore some of his own jewels, "what have you done to make anybody
glad?"
"We have made pictures upon the windows and hung your jewels upon the
trees for the people to look at, and covered the skating ponds," said
Jack Frost, the leader.
"That is good," said King Winter. "You and the Snow Fairies seem to be
making the world glad now, but pretty soon we must leave the work, and
the good sunbeams will put our things away; they will hide the
snowballs, and crack the skating ponds so that the ice may float
downstream. Now I would like to make something that will keep long
after we are gone away. Queen Summer is gone but her harvest of hay
and grain is in the barns. Queen Autumn is gone but her harvest of
apples and potatoes is in the cellars; now I want to leave a harvest,
too."
"But the sunbeams are away most of the time now," said Jack Frost.
"Can anything grow without them?"
"My harvest will grow best without them," said King Winter, "and I'll
just hang up a thick cloud curtain and ask them to play upon the other
side while my harvest grows. Mr. North Wind will help, and if all you
Frost Fairies do your liveliest work my harvest will soon be ready."
North Wind soon came with bags of cold air which he scattered hither
and thither, while the Frost Fairies carried it into every track and
corner, wondering all the while what the harvest would be. But after
two days' work they found out; for horses were hitched to sleds and
men started for the lakes and rivers, saying, "The ice has frozen so
thick that it is a fine time to fill the ice-houses." Saws and poles
were carried along, and soon huge blocks of ice were finding places
upon the sleds ready for a ride to some ice-house where they would be
packed so securely in sawdust that King Winter's harvest would keep
through the very hottest weather.
"Then the ice-men can play that they are we," said a Frost Fairy,
"scattering cold all about to make people glad."
OLD KING WINTER
Old King Winter's on his throne
In robes of ermine white;
The crown of jewels on his head
Now glitters bright with light.
The little flakes of snow and hail,
And tiny pearls of sleet,
Are with the wild winds dancing
All round his magic feet.
His beard is white, his cheeks are red,
His heart is filled with cheer;
His season's best some people say;
The _best_ of all the year.
Anna E. Skinner.
SHELTERING WINGS
Harriet Louise Jerome
It was intensely cold. Heavy sleds creaked as they scraped over the
jeweled sounding board of dry, unyielding snow; the signs above shop
doors shrieked and groaned as they swung helplessly to and fro; and
the clear, keen air seemed frozen into sharp little crystalline
needles that stabbed every living thing that must be out in it. The
streets were almost forsaken in mid-afternoon. Business men hurried
from shelter to shelter; every dog remained at home; not a bird was to
be seen or heard. The sparrows had been forced to hide themselves in
crevices and holes; the doves found protected corners and huddled
together as best they could; many birds were frozen to death.
A dozen or more doves were gathered close under the cornice of the
piazza of a certain house, trying with little success to keep warm.
Some small sparrows, disturbed and driven from the cozy place they had
chosen, saw the doves and came flying across the piazza.
"Dear doves," chirped the sparrows, "won't you let us nestle near you?
Your bodies look so large and warm."
"But your coats are frosted with cold. We cannot let you come near us,
for we are almost frozen now," murmured the doves sadly.
"But we are perishing."
"So are we."
"It looks so warm near your broad wings, gentle doves. Oh, let us
come! We are so little, and so very, very cold!"
"Come," cooed a dove at last, and a trembling little sparrow fluttered
close and nestled under the broad white wing.
"Come," cooed another dove, and another little sparrow found comfort.
"Come! Come!" echoed another warm-hearted bird, and another, until at
last more than half the doves were sheltering small, shivering
sparrows beneath their own half-frozen wings.
"My sisters, you are very foolish," said the other doves. "You mean
well, but why do you risk your own beautiful lives to give life to
worthless sparrows?"
"Ah! they were so small, and so very, very cold," murmured the doves.
"Many of us will perish this cruel night; while we have life let us
share its meager warmth with those in bitter need."
Colder and colder grew the day. The sun went down behind the clouds
suffused with soft and radiant beauty, but more fiercely and
relentlessly swept the wind around the house where the doves and
sparrows waited for death.
An hour after sunset a man came up to the house and strode across the
piazza. As the door of the house closed heavily behind him, a little
child watching from the window saw something jarred from the cornice
fall heavily to the piazza floor.
"Oh, papa," she cried in surprise, "a poor frozen dove has fallen on
our porch!"
When he stepped out to pick up the fallen dove the father saw the
others under the cornice. They were no longer able to move or to
utter a cry, so he brought them in and placed them in a room where
they might slowly revive. Soon more than half of the doves could coo
gratefully, and raise their stiffened wings. Then out from beneath the
wing of each revived dove fluttered a living sparrow.
"Look, papa!" cried the child. "Each dove that has come to life was
holding a poor little sparrow close to her heart."
They gently raised the wings of the doves that could not be revived.
Not one had a sparrow beneath it.
Colder and fiercer swept the wind without, cutting and more piercing
grew the frozen, crystalline needles of air, but each dove that had
sheltered a frost-coated sparrow beneath her own shivering wings lived
to rejoice in the glowing gladsome sunshine of the days to come.
SNOWFLAKES
Out of the Bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow,
Descends the snow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE SNOW-IMAGE
Nathaniel Hawthorne
One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth with
chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of
their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow.
The elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender
and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her
parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used to call
Violet.
But her brother was known by the title of Peony, on account of the
ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody
think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers.
"Yes, Violet--yes, my little Peony," said their kind mother; "you may
go out and play in the new snow."
Forth sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that
carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence
Violet emerged like a snow bunting, while little Peony floundered out
with his round face in full bloom.
Then what a merry time they had! To look at them, frolicking in the
wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm
had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for
Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had been created, as the
snowbirds were, to take delight only in the tempest and in the white
mantle which it spread over the earth.
At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of
snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony's figure, was
struck with a new idea.
"You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony," said she, "if your cheeks
were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of
snow--an image of a little girl--and it shall be our sister, and shall
run about and play with us all winter long. Won't it be nice?"
"Oh, yes!" cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but
a little boy. "That will be nice! And mamma shall see it."
"Yes," answered Violet; "mamma shall see the new little girl. But she
must not make her come into the warm parlour, for, you know, our
little snow-sister will not love the warmth."
And forthwith the children began this great business of making a
snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was knitting
at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling
at the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to
imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live
little girl out of the snow.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight--those bright little
souls at their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how
knowingly and skillfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the
chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with her own
delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of the
snow-figure.
It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by the children, as to
grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about
it. Their mother was quite surprised at this, and the longer she
looked, the more and more surprised she grew.
Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest but indistinct
hum of the two children's voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together
with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit,
while Peony acted rather as a labourer and brought her the snow from
far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper
understanding of the matter, too.
"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet; for her brother was at the other side of
the garden. "Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on
the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the
snow-drift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make
some ringlets for our snow-sister's head!"
"Here they are, Violet!" answered the little boy. "Take care you do
not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!"
"Does she not look sweet?" said Violet, with a very satisfied tone;
"and now we must have some little shining bits of ice to make the
brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how
very beautiful she is; but papa will say, 'Tush! nonsense! come in out
of the cold!'"
"Let us call mamma to look out," said Peony; and then he shouted,
"Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out and see what a nice 'ittle girl we
are making!"
"What a nice playmate she will be for us all winter long!" said
Violet. "I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold!
Sha'n't you love her dearly, Peony?"
"Oh, yes!" cried Peony. "And I will hug her and she shall sit down
close by me and drink some of my warm milk."
"Oh, no, Peony!" answered Violet, with grave wisdom. "That will not do
at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister.
Little snow-people like her eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we
must not give her anything warm to drink!"
There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs
were never weary, had gone again to the other side of the garden. All
of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully, "Look here, Peony!
Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that
rose-coloured cloud! And the colour does not go away! Is not that
beautiful?"
"Yes, it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony, pronouncing the three
syllables with deliberate accuracy. "O Violet, only look at her hair!
It is all like gold!"
"Oh, certainly," said Violet, as if it were very much a matter of
course. "That colour, you know, comes from the golden clouds that we
see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips must
be made very red, redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make
them red if we both kiss them!"
Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her
children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this
did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed
that the snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony's scarlet cheek.
"Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!" cried Peony.
"There! she has kissed you," added Violet, "and now her lips are very
red. And she blushed a little, too!"
"Oh, what a cold kiss!" cried Peony.
Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west wind sweeping through
the garden and rattling the parlour-windows. It sounded so wintry
cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her
thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried
out to her with one voice:
"Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is
running about the garden with us!"
"What imaginative little beings my children are!" thought the mother,
putting the last few stitches into Peony's frock. "And it is strange,
too, that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are!
I can hardly help believing now that the snow-image has really come to
life!"
"Dear mamma!" cried Violet, "pray look out and see what a sweet
playmate we have!"
The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth
from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving,
however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and
golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent.
But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window
or on the snow; so that the good lady could look all over the garden,
and see everything and everybody in it. And what do you think she saw
there? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children.
Ah, but whom or what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me,
there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with
rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the
garden with the two children!
A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms
with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been
playmates during the whole of their little lives. The mother thought
to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the
neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child
had run across the street to play with them.
So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little
runaway into her comfortable parlour; for, now that the sunshine was
withdrawn, the atmosphere out of doors was already growing very cold.
But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the
threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in,
or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted
whether it were a real child, after all, or only a light wreath of the
new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the
intensely cold west wind.
There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the
little stranger. Among all the children of the neighbourhood the lady
could remember no such face, with its pure white and delicate
rose-colour, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and
cheeks.
And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in
the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little
girl when sending her out to play in the depth of winter. It made this
kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with
nothing in the world on them except a very thin pair of white
slippers.
Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the
slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the
snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface;
while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony's short legs
compelled him to lag behind.
All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a
little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a
snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.
She called Violet and whispered to her.