live near us?"
"Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laughing to think that her
mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, "this is our
little snow-sister whom we have just been making!"
"Yes, dear mamma," cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up
simply into her face. "This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice 'ittle
child?"
"Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, "tell me the truth,
without any jest. Who is this little girl?"
"My darling mamma," answered Violet, looking seriously into her
mother's face, surprised that she should need any further explanation,
"I have told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image which
Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well as I."
"Yes, mamma," declared Peony, with much gravity in his crimson little
phiz, "this is 'ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But, mamma,
her hand is, oh, so very cold!"
While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the
street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony
appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down
over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands.
Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look
in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all
day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes
brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could
not help uttering a word or two of surprise at finding the whole
family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset, too.
He soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in
the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath and the flock of snowbirds
fluttering about her head.
"Pray, what little girl may this be?" inquired this very sensible man.
"Surely her mother must be crazy, to let her go out in such bitter
weather as it has been today, with only that flimsy white gown and
those thin slippers!"
"My dear husband," said his wife, "I know no more about the little
thing than you do. Some neighbour's child, I suppose. Our Violet and
Peony," she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a
story, "insist that she is nothing but a snow-image which they have
been busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon."
As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where
the children's snow-image had been made. What was her surprise on
perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much
labour!--no image at all!--no piled-up heap of snow!--nothing
whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space!
"This is very strange!" said she.
"What is strange, dear mother?" asked Violet. "Dear father, do not you
see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made,
because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?"
"Yes, papa," said crimson Peony. "This is our 'ittle snow-sister. Is
she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!"
"Pooh, nonsense, children!" cried their good honest father, who had a
plain, sensible way of looking at matters. "Do not tell me of making
live figures out of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not
stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into the
parlour; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and
make her as comfortable as you can."
So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the
little damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and
Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him
not to make her come in.
"Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father,
half-vexed, half-laughing. "Run into the house, this moment! It is too
late to play any longer now. I must take care of this little girl
immediately, or she will catch her death of cold."
And so, with a most benevolent smile, this very well-meaning gentleman
took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house.
She followed him, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and
sparkle were gone out of her figure; and, whereas just before she had
resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam
on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw.
As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony
looked into his face, their eyes full of tears which froze before they
could run down their cheeks, and again entreated him not to bring
their snow-image into the house.
"Not bring her in!" exclaimed the kind-hearted man. "Why, you are
crazy, my little Violet!--quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold
already that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick
gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?"
His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long,
earnest gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it
was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the
delicate print of Violet's fingers on the child's neck. It looked just
as if, while Violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a
gentle pat with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression
quite away.
"After all, husband," said the mother, "after all, she does look
strangely like a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!"
A puff of the west wind blew against the snow-child, and again she
sparkled like a star.
"Snow!" repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over
his hospitable threshold. "No wonder she looks like snow. She is half
frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to
rights."
This common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug,
right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.
"Now she will be comfortable!" cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands
and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. "Make
yourself at home, my child."
Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden as she stood on
the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her
like a pestilence. Once she threw a glance toward the window, and
caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs
and the stars glimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of
the cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window-panes as if it were
summoning her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping,
before the hot stove!
But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.
"Come, wife," said he, "let her have a pair of thick stockings and a
woolen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm
supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your
little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a
strange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbours and
find out where she belongs."
The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings.
Without heeding the remonstrance of his two children, who still kept
murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good
Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlour door carefully
behind him.
Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the
house, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he was recalled by
the screams of Violet and Peony and the rapping of a thimbled finger
against the parlour window.
"Husband! husband!" cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face
through the window panes. "There is no need of going for the child's
parents!"
"We told you so, father!" screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-entered
the parlour. "You would bring her in; and now our poor--dear--beau-ti-ful
little snow-sister is thawed!"
And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so
that their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in
this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children
might be going to thaw too. In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an
explanation of his wife. She could only reply that, being summoned to
the parlour by cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the
little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap of snow,
which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the
hearth-rug.
"And there you see all that is left of it!" added she, pointing to a
pool of water, in front of the stove.
"Yes, father," said Violet, looking reproachfully at him through her
tears, "there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!"
"Naughty father!" cried Peony, stamping his foot, and--I shudder to
say--shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. "We told you
how it would be! What for did you bring her in?"
And the stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at
good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief
which it had done! (_Abridged._)
WINTER WOODS
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
James Russell Lowell.
THE VOICE OF THE PINE TREES
(Japanese Legend)
"And all the while
The voice of the breeze
As it blows through the firs
That grow old together
Will yield us delight."
In ancient days there lived a fisherman and his wife, and little
daughter Matsue. There was nothing that Matsue loved to do more than
to sit under the great pine tree. She was particularly fond of the
pine needles that never seemed tired of falling to the ground. With
these she fashioned a beautiful dress and sash, saying, "I will not
wear these pine clothes until my wedding day."
One day while Matsue was sitting under the pine tree, she sang the
following song:
"No one so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o'er his head the withered cherry flowers
Come fluttering down. Who knows?--the spring's soft showers
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."
While thus she sang Teogo stood on the steep shore of Sumiyoshi
watching the flight of a heron. Up, up, it went into the blue sky, and
Teogo saw it fly over the village where the fishfolk and their
daughter lived.
Now Teogo was a youth who dearly loved adventure and he thought it
would be very delightful to swim across the sea and discover the land
over which the heron had flown. So one morning he dived into the sea
and swam so hard and so long that the poor fellow found the waves
spinning and dancing and saw the great sky bend down and try to touch
him. Then he lay unconscious on the water; but the waves were kind to
him after all, for they pressed him on and on till he was washed up at
the very place where Matsue sat under the pine tree.
Matsue carefully dragged Teogo underneath its sheltering branches,
and then set him down upon a couch of pine needles, where he soon
regained consciousness and warmly thanked Matsue for her kindness.
Teogo did not go back to his own country, for, after a few happy
months had gone by, he married Matsue and on her wedding morn she wore
her dress and sash of pine needles.
When Matsue's parents died her loss only seemed to make her love for
Teogo the more. The older they grew the more they loved each other.
Every night when the moon shone, they went hand in hand to the pine
tree and with their little rake they made a couch for the morrow.
One night the great silver face of the moon peered through the
branches of the pine tree and looked in vain for the two sitting
together on a couch of pine needles. Their little rakes lay side by
side and still the moon waited for the slow steps of these pine tree
lovers. But that night they did not come. They had gone home to an
everlasting place on the River of Souls.
They had loved so well and so splendidly, in old age as well as in
youth, that their souls were allowed to come back again and wander
round the pine tree that had listened to their love for so many years.
When the moon is full they whisper and laugh and sing and draw the
pine needles together, while the sea sings softly upon the shore:
"The dawn is near
And the hoar-frost falls
On the fir tree twigs;
But its leaves dark green
Suffer no change.
Morning and evening
Beneath its shade
The leaves are swept away,
Yet they never fail.
True it is
That these fir trees
Shed not all their leaves;
Their verdure remains fresh
For ages long,
As the Masaka's trailing vine;
Even amongst evergreen trees--
The emblem of unchangeableness--
Exalted is their fame
As a symbol to the end of time.
The fame of the fir trees that
Have grown old together."
THE PINE TREE MAIDEN
(Indian Legend)
In an Indian village which stood near the Big Sea Water lived a
beautiful little girl whose name was Leelinau. Her chief delight was
to wander among the pine trees of a sacred grove which bordered the
great waters. Here she passed many hours watching the sunlight dance
on the stems of the tall trees and listening to the soft music of the
wind as it came up from the sea and played in the forest.
The child's desire to spend so much of her time alone in the grove
made her little companions regard her with awe, and they sometimes
whispered together about the meaning of her strange journeys to the
deep woods.
"Leelinau goes to the forest to play with the Puckwudjinies. She
dances with the fairy folk and talks to them in their own language,"
said the Indian children when they saw the little girl's figure
hurrying toward the grove of pine trees.
Leelinau's parents took little notice of her strange attraction for
the lonely forest. They thought it was a childish fancy which would
vanish in a few years. But the little girl grew into a beautiful
slender maiden and still she visited her retreat with increasing
delight.
"When Leelinau goes to the forest the air is filled with the sweetest
perfume and the trees nod their feathery plumes in welcome to her,"
whispered the youths and maidens of the village. "Some say she calls
the pine trees by name and they answer her in a strange language which
she understands."
One day it happened that an Indian hunter, who was a mighty chief,
passed through the sacred grove. There, leaning against her favourite
tree, a stately pine, he saw Leelinau, a dark-haired maiden
marvellously beautiful. In a few days the chief sought her parents and
laid before them rich gifts, saying that he wished to make the forest
maiden his bride.
To the surprise of all the people in the village Leelinau took no joy
in her approaching marriage to the great chief. To be sure, she made
no complaint, for she was an obedient daughter. But each day, when she
returned from her accustomed journey to the forest, she was sad and
thoughtful. Sometimes she stood before her father's tepee and looked
with wistful eyes toward her beloved grove.
At last the day arrived on which the great chief would claim her for
his bride. The forest maiden dressed herself in her beautiful wedding
robe and took her usual walk into the forest. Her parents were not
surprised that she should wish to take a farewell look at the grove
where she had spent so many happy hours, and which she was about to
leave, for the great chief lived many miles away.
When she reached the forest she hastened to her beautiful pine tree.
Clinging to the trunk she wept bitterly and whispered the story of her
coming marriage to a war chief from whom her heart shrank in fear.
When she had finished there was a soft rustling in the branches
overhead and a voice said: "Leelinau! Leelinau! thou art my beloved!
Wilt thou stay in the forest and be my bride?"
And she answered, "I will never leave my pine tree lover."
The sun stood high above the sacred grove and Leelinau had not
returned to her father's lodge. Friends were sent to bring her to the
village but they came back with the report that the maiden was not in
the forest. The great chief and his warriors searched far and wide for
the lost maiden. She had disappeared so completely that the
keenest-eyed Indians could discover no trace of her. The chief
departed without his bride and for a year no tidings of Leelinau came
to the village.
It happened one calm evening when the sun was sinking into the Big Sea
Water, that an Indian youth in a birch bark canoe was swiftly skimming
along toward the shore bordered by the sacred grove. There, standing
near the deep forest, was a familiar figure. It was Leelinau, the lost
maiden. In his surprise and joy the youth shouted to her and she
waved her hand to him in recognition. Then he noticed that she was
not alone. By her side stood a handsome brave with a green plume
standing high on his head. With all his might the young Indian
quickened the speed of his canoe and in a few moments he sprang
ashore. But where were Leelinau and the young brave! They had
disappeared and not a trace of them was to be found on the lonely
shore or in the forest.
The youth returned to the village and told his story. Reverently the
people bowed their heads and whispered, "Leelinau will never come back
to us. She is the bride of her favourite pine tree."
THE HOLLY
Janet Harvey Kelman
The Holly is our most important evergreen, and is so well known that
it scarcely needs any description. It has flourished in this country
as long as the Oak, and is often found growing under tall trees in the
crowded forests, as well as in the open glades, where lawns of fine
grass are to be found.
People say that the Holly, or Holm tree, as it is often called, is the
greenwood tree spoken of by Shakespeare, and that under its bushy
shelter Robin Hood and his merry men held their meetings in the open
glades of Sherwood Forest. Sometimes it is called the Holly tree,
because from the oldest time of which we have any record its boughs
have been used to deck our shrines and churches, and in some parts of
England the country people in December speak of gathering Christmas,
which is the name they give to the Holly, or Holy tree. It is this
evergreen which we oftenest use at Christmas-tide to decorate our
churches, and very lovely the dark green sprays, with their coral
berries, look when twined round the grey stone pillars.
The Holly is looked upon as a second-rate forest tree. It is never
very large, and it usually appears as a thick, tall bush, with many
branches reaching almost to the ground. Sometimes you find it with a
slender, bare trunk, clothed with pale grey bark, and if you look
closely at this bark you will see that it is covered with curious
black markings, as if some strange writing had been traced on it with
a heavy black pen.
This writing is the work of a tiny plant which makes its home on the
Holly stem and spreads in this strange way.
The bark of the young Holly shoots and boughs is pale green and quite
smooth.
The tree requires little sunshine, and it seems to keep all it gets as
every leaf is highly polished and reflects the light like a mirror.
These leaves grow closely on every branch; they are placed
alternately on each side of the twigs, and are oval, with the edges so
much waved that the leaves will not lie flat, but curl on each side of
the centre rib.
The prickly leaves which grow low down on the tree have sharp spines
along the waved edges, and a very sharp spine always grows at the
point of the leaf. But the upper branches are clothed with blunt
leaves which have no spines along the edges; instead there is a pale
yellow line round each leaf, and there is a single blunt spine at the
point.
Sheep and deer are very fond of eating the tough, leathery leaves of
the Holly, and it is believed that the tree clothes its lower branches
in prickly leaves to protect itself from these greedy enemies.
Country people tell you that if branches of smooth Holly are the first
to be brought into the house at Christmas-time, then the wife will be
head of the house all the next year, but if the prickly boughs enter
first, then the husband will be ruler.
The Holly leaves hang on the tree several years, and after they fall
they lie a long time on the ground before the damp soaks through
their leathery skin and makes them decay. You will find Holly leaves
from which all the green part of the leaf has disappeared, leaving a
beautiful skeleton leaf of grey fibre, which is still perfect in every
vein and rib.
The flowers of the Holly bloom in May. They appear in small crowded
clusters between the leaf stalk and the twig, and each flower is a
delicate pale pink on the outside, but is pure white within. There is
a calyx cup edged with four green points, and inside this cup stands a
long white tube, with four white petals at the top. There are four
yellow-headed stamens, and a tiny seed-vessel is hidden inside the
flower tube. Sometimes all these parts will be found complete in a
single flower; sometimes there will be flowers on the same branch
which have stamens and no seed-vessel, and others which have
seed-vessels and no stamens. Perhaps you will find a whole tree on
which not a single seed flower grows. This tree may be laden with
lovely white flowers in spring, but it will bear no berries in winter.
You must have both stamen flowers and seed flowers if the tree is to
produce any fruit.
As summer passes, the seed-vessels, which have had stamen dust
scattered over them, become small green berries and these berries turn
yellow and then change into a deep red, the colour of coral or sealing
wax. The berries cluster round the green stalk, and most beautiful
they are among the glossy dark leaves. Inside each berry there are
four little fruit stones containing seeds, and the birds love to eat
these red berries, which are full of mealy pulp; but remember that
children must never eat the Holly berries, as they are poisonous
except for the birds.
You will find that if the Holly tree has a good crop of berries this
winter there will not be many the following year; the tree seems to
require a year's rest before it can produce a second large crop.
There are some Holly trees with leaves which are shaded with pale yellow
or white-variegated Hollies, we call them. These are greatly prized for
planting in gardens, where the bushes with different-coloured leaves
lend much beauty when all the trees are bare in winter.
The wood of the Holly is too small to be of much use. It is white and
very hard, and when stained black it is largely used instead of ebony,
which is scarce and expensive. The black handles of many of our silver
teapots are made of stained Holly wood, and the slender branches are
good for making walking-sticks and coachmen's whips.
THE FABLE OF THE THREE ELMS
The North Wind spoke to three sturdy elms,
And, "Now you are dead!" said he;
"I have blown a blast till the snow whirled past,
And withered your leaves, and see:
You are brown and old and your boughs are cold!"
And he sneered at the elm trees three.
The first elm spoke in a hollow tone
(For the snow lay deep and white,)
"You think we are dead, North Wind?" he said,
"Why we sleep--as you sleep at night.
Beneath the snow lie my sturdy roots,
They grip on the friendly earth,
And I rest--till another year!" said he,
And he shook with a noisy mirth.
The second elm laughed a hearty laugh,
And, "North Wind," he cried in glee,
"Beneath my bark glows a living spark,
The sap of a healthy tree;
My boughs are bare and my leaves are gone,
But--what have I to fear?
For the winter time is my time of rest
And I sleep till another year!"
The third elm spoke and his voice was sweet,
And kind as the summery sea;
"Oh, Wind!" he said, "we are far from spring--
The God in whose hand we be
Looks down, with love, from the winter sky,
And sends us His sun to cheer;
If we had no snow there would be no spring--
We rest till another year!"
The three elms rocked in the stinging blast,
And under the heavy snow
Their roots were warm from the raging storm,
And safe from the winds that blow.
They smiled in their hearts and their leafless boughs
Spread over the frosty way;
For they knew that the God of forest trees
Would watch through each winter day.
The North Wind uttered a frosty sigh,
As the snow blew far and free;
And his weary eyes sought the winter skies,
And, "Mighty is God!" said he.
"To die or live are His gifts to give!"
And he smiled at the elm trees three.
Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.
THE PINE AND THE WILLOW
(Japanese Tale)
Mine Morishima
In a beautiful large garden, among many kinds of trees and shrubs,
there stood a tall fine Pine tree, and near to him, and almost as
tall, a graceful Willow.