nipping air; for he would feel with the poor that he might feel for
them. On his shoulders he bore a heap of logs for the swineherd's
fire. He stepped briskly on while Otto followed with the provisions.
He had imitated his master and had gone out in his common garments. On
the two trudged together, over the crisp snow, across fields, by lanes
where the hedge trees were heavy with their white burden, past the
pool, over the stile where the rime clustered thick by the wood, and
on out upon the moor where the snow lay yet more unbroken and where
the wind seemed to nip one's very heart.
Still King Wenceslaus went on and still Otto followed. The king
thought it but little to go forth into the frost and snow, remembering
Him who came into the cold night of this world of ours; he disdained
not, a king, to go to the beggar, for had not the King of King's
visited slaves? He grudged not, a king, to carry logs on his
shoulders, for had not the Kings of Kings borne heavier burdens for
his sake?
But at each step Otto's courage and zeal failed. He tried to hold out
with a good heart. For very shame he did not wish to do less than his
master. How could he turn back, while the king held on his way? But
when they came forth on the white, bleak moor, he cried out with a
faint heart:
"My liege, I cannot go on. The wind freezes my very blood. Pray you,
let us return."
"Seems it so much?" asked the king. "Follow me on still. Only tread in
my footsteps and you will proceed more easily."
The servant knew that his master spoke not at random. He carefully
looked for the footsteps of the king. He set his own feet in the print
of his master's.
"In the master's steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed."
And so great was the fire of love that kindled in the heart of the
king that, as the servant trod in his steps, he gained life and heat.
Otto felt not the wind; he heeded not the frost; for the master's
footprints glowed as with holy fire and zealously he followed the king
on his errand of mercy.
MIDWINTER
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains grey and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.
I watch the snowflakes as they fall
On bank and briar and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem, its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.
The hooded beehive small and low,
Stands like a maiden in the snow;
And the old door-slab is half hid
Under an alabaster lid.
All day it snows; the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
As snowflakes on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruised part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
John Townsend Trowbridge.
WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET
OLD WINTER
Old Winter sad, in snow yclad
Is making a doleful din;
But let him howl till he crack his jowl,
We will not let him in.
Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift
His hoary, haggard form,
And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand
Outstretching to the storm.
And let his weird and sleety beard
Stream loose upon the blast,
And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime
From his bald head falling fast.
Let his baleful breath shed blight and death
On herb and flower and tree;
And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds
Bind fast, but what care we?
Thomas Noel.
THE SNOWBALL THAT DIDN'T MELT
Jay T. Stocking
"Biff!
Flick!
Swat!
Smack!
Biff, biff!
Flick, flick!
Swat, swat!
Smack, smack!"
It was a fine day in midwinter. The sun was just warm and bright
enough to make the snow pack easily. The boys in the neighbourhood
were having the liveliest kind of a snowball fight. So that is why
there was this--
"Biff!
Flick!
Swat!
Smack!"
And this--
"Biff, biff!
Flick, flick!
Swat, swat!
Smack, smack!"
Everything ends some time. So this snowball fight did. One side or the
other won,--I have forgotten which. The boys at the little
brown-shingled house, where the fight took place, became very busy
making balls for the next day's battle. You could hear the "pat--pat,
pat--pat," as they rounded and packed the snowballs in their cold, red
hands.
When they became quite satisfied that they had enough on hand for a
lively battle they piled the balls up in a neat pyramid just under the
edge of the veranda and went off to look for something new to do.
Then the snowballs fell to talking,--_if it is true_ that snowballs
talk.
"I wonder what they are going to do with us," said the top one. "I
know what I'd _like_ to do. I'd like to hit the nose of that rough,
freckle-faced boy who hit the nose of the boy who made me."
"I know what I'd like," said the second. "I'd like to go right through
the window of Old Grampy's house. Wouldn't he sputter!"
"Oh! What's the fun in teasing a poor old man?" said another. "I'll
tell you what _I'd_ like. _I'd_ like to hit the minister right in the
middle of the back and see what he would do."
"Hit the minister in the back!" said a lively-looking chap down in the
middle of the pile. "Be a sport! I'd like to knock the policeman's hat
off and see him chase the boy that threw me. That would be fun."
It was, you see, a very bold and mischievous lot of balls, if one may
judge from their big talk. And so it was probably well for the peace
of the neighbourhood that the evening had scarcely fallen when,
through a sudden change in the weather, snow, too, began to fall. All
night long the snow fell, thicker and faster, thicker and faster. The
wind rose and piled it in stacks. The house was banked to the
windows, the veranda was heaped up high. The snowballs were buried
deep,--so deep that the boys forgot them. It was spring before the
thick covering of snow was melted enough so that they could see the
light of day.
It was a long time after this, when there came a day which meant much
for at least one of that heap of snowballs.
The sun was bright and hot; the grass was beginning to show green. The
snow had all gone except in a few places on the cold side of the
houses and under veranda edges. The snowballs were still piled neatly
in the pyramid but they looked as if they might tumble down almost any
minute. Although it was cool in their shady spot, every one of them
was perspiring and several of them looked thin and pale. I fancy they
had felt the heat, for all their lives they had been accustomed to a
cooler climate.
As they were busy mopping their brows and sighing for cooler weather
they heard a sound, between a sigh and a faint moan. They heard it
again and again. It was above their heads, out on the lawn, and not
far away. It seemed to be in or around a shrub or bush, with a tall
slender stem and a branching top.
"What's that?" asked several of the balls at once.
They stopped talking, and sighing, and listened. And as they did so,
they could hear words very distinctly, though they were not nearly so
loud as a whisper.
"Snowball, Snowball, come up here!
My head is hot, my throat feels queer:
I'm going to faint, I surely fear.
Won't some cool snowball come up here?"
"Who are you?" asked Snowball Number One, who sat at the tiptop of the
pile. "Where are you and what is your name?"
"I'm Life-of-the-Bush,
In the bush I dwell;
I know not my name,
And so I can't tell."
"I can't see you," said Number One, as he looked intently up at the
branches.
"You can't?" said the Bush,
"Then you must be blind.
I'm right up here,--
But never mind."
The voice trailed off weakly; then they heard it again:
"I'm going to faint, I really fear.
Won't some kind snowball come up here?"
"But you are up so high. How can one get there? We have neither a
ladder nor wings and we do not know how to climb." Number One did most
of the talking; he was nearest the bush.
"I'll tell you how," said Life-of-the-Bush, stopping his rhyme and
talking plainly and simply and sensibly. "Just roll down the slope on
the lawn to the foot of this bush. Make yourself as small as small can
be, creep down into the ground, and take an elevator, which is always
running, and you will come directly up to me." The talking ceased, and
the snowballs began to look at each other rather uneasily.
"I can't go," said Number Two, who was in the second row from the
top. "I always tan terribly in the sun. It's a long way down to the
foot of the bush, and I should be brown as a berry before I got half
way."
"I can't go, either," said Number Three, by his side. "I don't tan,
but I freckle, and freckles look dreadful on my fair complexion."
"I'm sorry I can't go," said Number Four, from his place in the corner
of the third row. "But I feel the heat terribly. My clothes are all
sticking to me now."
"It's simply out of the question for me," said a big fat snowball down
near the ground. "I know I'd melt before I got there. There isn't much
left of me now."
Number One was one of the fairest snowballs of the bunch, but he was
not afraid of freckles or tan. He was also one of the smallest of the
lot. He looked down to the foot of the bush. It seemed a long way. The
sun was certainly burning hot. He was not at all sure that he would
live long enough in that sun to reach the bush. But some one should
keep Life-of-the-Bush from fainting and he would try.
He turned a quick somersault off the pile down to the ground.
At just that moment something disturbed the whole pile and every ball
in it tumbled down and out into the sun.
As soon as Number One touched the ground, he began to roll over, and
over, and over, as fast as ever he could. It didn't take him more than
a minute to reach the foot of the bush. He remembered what
Life-of-the-Bush had said, made himself just as small as small could
be, crept down into the ground close to the stem and took the
elevator, which seemed to be running all the time.
It took quite a while to go up, but finally the elevator paused just
long enough for him to get out. He found himself in a cool, rambling
house, that seemed to be almost all long, narrow halls. They ran this
way and that way and every--which--way. At one end of each hall, where
the buds were opening, there were windows with green shades.
Everything was very clean and sweet. Right in the middle of the house
he found Life-of-the-Bush. He gave her a drink of water, which he had
carried in his water-proof pocket and not only kept her from fainting
but made her as lively and well and happy as ever.
Life-of-the-Bush thanked the snowball a thousand times and gave him
the freedom of her beautiful house.
"Now that you are here," she said, "perhaps you will stay a while and
help me build my house a little bigger. I must build leaves, and buds
and branches and bark. I need your help."
The snowball stayed and helped. He found it very exciting work. He
worked all day and all night, ran here and there, and never stopped
for meals. He packed buds and unfolded them; he pushed out the leaves
and built out the ends of branches; he made bark, pressed it till it
was hard and coloured it grey.
Day after day he worked at his tasks as if they gave him the greatest
joy in the world. But now and then Life-of-the-Bush saw him gazing out
of the window, as if he were a bit homesick, to get out of doors
again.
"Stay with me a little longer," she said, "to help me build my
blossoms, and then I will send you out of doors on a beautiful errand
to stay as long as your heart desires."
So Snowball stayed and helped Life-of-the-Bush build her blossoms.
Basket after basket of white stuff, as white as snowflakes but ever so
much smaller, he carried out to the ends of the branches. Jar after
jar of perfume he carried, too, until the blossoms were quite
complete.
Then one evening--it was the last of May, or early
June--Life-of-the-Bush called him.
"To-morrow," she said, "there is to be a great Garden Festival. A
prize is to be given for the most original and beautiful blossom. All
the flowers of the season will be here in the garden. You have been a
good friend and a faithful helper. For reward, you may go to the
Festival and stay as long as your heart desires."
"But how shall I go?" queried the snowball.
"Right out through the end of one of my branches," said
Life-of-the-Bush.
"But I shall fall off," said the snowball.
"I'll tie you on with a stout string, so that not even the wind can
blow you off."
"But it's hot outside. I shall melt."
"O, no. I've changed you so the hottest sun cannot melt you."
"But how can I get out through the end of the branch?" asked the
snowball, who could not get it through his head that he could really
get out to the end of a branch and stay there all day and not fall off
or melt.
"Make yourself very small, just as small as when you came up to me and
you can go out as easily as you run along these halls," said
Life-of-the-Bush.
The snowball became quite excited. The Festival was to begin very
early in the morning. Besides he wanted to see, if he could, what had
become of the other snowballs. So he decided that he would go out on
the branch that night, while it was dark, and be there for the whole
day's fun.
So he made himself very small, ran along the hall, crept out through
a tiny green door and found himself tied securely to a swaying branch.
The air was cool and sweet. He didn't melt, as he half-feared he
might, and he didn't fall off. He looked around. Yes, this was the
very bush he had seen before, but it was greener now. Morning came and
the great Festival. The garden was full of flowers and folks.
There were lilacs and lilies of shades manifold
There were daisies, and daffodils, yellow as gold.
There were pansies, and peonies, red, white and pink,
And every such flower of which you can think.
You ought to have heard the "Ah's!" and the "Oh's!"
Of all the fine people in all their fine clothes.
You ought to have seen that wonderful sight,
For no rhyme of mine can describe it half right.
People went from bush to bush and from flower to flower. They could
not for the life of them tell which blossom they thought most
beautiful and original.
The judges wandered about uncertainly with the ribbons in their
pockets not knowing to what plant or bush to tie them.
The snowball grew very much interested, not to say excited, to see
what blossom would finally win the prize.
He noticed that groups of people continually stopped before the bush
on which he hung. Apparently they admired it. He soon discovered that
they were looking at him and was quite embarrassed.
"Look!" he kept hearing them say. "See this snowball,--and it doesn't
melt! Why, it's growing on the bush; it's a blossom!" That was the
first that _he_ knew that Life-of-the-Bush had changed him from a
snowball into a flower snowball. Of course he became very happy and
twice as excited.
Indeed, he could hardly breathe from excitement, when the judges came
over, in a group, to where he grew. They looked at him and at the
bush. Apparently they had never seen blossoms of this kind before.
"I never saw such a big, round, white blossom before," he heard one
of them say, as he drew a blue ribbon from his pocket and tied it to
the stem on which he hung. He knew and soon, of course, everybody knew
that the "Snowball Bush" had won the prize. His heart beat so fast
that he thought he was growing red in the face. _Perhaps he was
melting!_ But he wasn't, for he heard a girl say just then, as she
passed, "How white and cool it looks!"
Snowball Number One had often wondered what had happened to his
friends, the other snowballs. One reason why he had been anxious to
get out of the bush was to find out, if he could, what had become of
them all. But the doings of the day had driven all thought of them out
of his busy head.
Now, as the people began to leave the garden, and excitement grew
less, he remembered and looked about him. Here was the yard in which
the boys made him. There was the very place under the edge of the
veranda where he had spent the winter and where they had all stood
that spring morning when Life-of-the-Bush called to them. There was
the place, almost under him, where he knew they had all tumbled down
the moment he left them. But not a trace of a snowball could be seen.
Of course not! They had all disappeared long ago, the very day,
indeed, in which they tumbled down. Before noon the hot sun had melted
them, every one, and carried them away, tan and freckles and all, and
no one ever heard of them again.
Number One, who ran right out into the sun, was the only snowball that
didn't melt.
GAU-WI-DI-NE AND GO-HAY, WINTER AND SPRING
(Iroquois Legend)
The snow mountain lifted its head close to the sky; the clouds wrapped
around it their floating drifts which held the winter's hail and
snowfalls, and with scorn it defied the sunlight which crept over its
height, slow and shivering on its way to the valleys.
Close at the foot of the mountain, an old man had built him a lodge
"for a time," said he, as he packed it around with great blocks of
ice. Within he stored piles of wood and corn and dried meat and fish.
No person, animal, nor bird could enter this lodge, only North Wind,
the only friend the old man had. Whenever strong and lusty North Wind
passed the lodge he would scream "ugh-e-e-e, ugh-e-e-e," as with a
blast of his blusterings he passed over the earth.
But North Wind came only seldom to the lodge. He was too busy
searching the corners of the earth and driving the snow and the hail,
but when he had wandered far and was in need of advice, he would visit
the lodge to smoke and counsel with the old man about the next
snowfall, before journeying to his home in the north sky; and they
would sit by the fire which blazed and glowed yet could not warm them.
The old man's bushy whiskers were heavy with the icicles which clung
to them, and when the blazing fire flared its lights, illuminating
them with the warm hues of the summer sunset, he would rave as he
struck them down, and glare with rage as they fell snapping and
crackling at his feet.
One night, as together they sat smoking and dozing before the fire, a
strange feeling of fear came over them, the air seemed growing warmer
and the ice began to melt. Said North Wind:
"I wonder what warm thing is coming, the snow seems vanishing and
sinking lower in the earth." But the old man cared not, and was
silent. He knew his lodge was strong, and he chuckled with scorn as he
bade North Wind abandon his fears and depart for his home. But North
Wind went drifting the fast-falling snow higher on the mountain until
it groaned under its heavy burden, and scolding and blasting, his
voice gradually died away. Still the old man remained silent and moved
not, but, lost in thought, sat looking into the fire, when there came
a loud knock at his door. "Some foolish breath of North Wind is
wandering," thought he, and he heeded it not.
Again came the rapping, but swifter and louder, and a pleading voice
begged to come in.
Still the old man remained silent, and, drawing nearer to the fire,
quieted himself for sleep; but the rapping continued, louder, fiercer,
and increased his anger. "Who dares approach the door of my lodge?" he
shrieked. "You are not North Wind, who alone can enter here. Begone!
no refuge here for trifling winds; go back to your home in the sky."
But, as he spoke, the strong bar securing the door fell from its
fastening, the door swung open and a stalwart young warrior stood
before him shaking the snow from his shoulders as he noiselessly
closed the door.
Safe within the lodge, the warrior heeded not the old man's anger, but
with a cheerful greeting drew close to the fire, extending his hands
to its ruddy blaze, when a glow as of summer illumined the lodge. But
the kindly greeting and the glowing light served only to incense the
old man, and rising in rage, he ordered the warrior to depart.
"Go!" he exclaimed. "I know you not. You have entered my lodge and you
bring a strange light. Why have you forced my lodge door? You are
young, and youth has no need of my fire. When I enter my lodge, all
the earth sleeps. You are strong, with the glow of sunshine on your
face. Long ago I buried the sunshine beneath the snowdrifts. Go! you
have no place here.
"Your eyes bear the gleam of the summer stars. North Wind blew out the
summer star-lights moons ago. Your eyes dazzle my lodge, your breath
does not smoke in chill vapour, but comes from your lips soft and
warm; it will melt my lodge. You have no place here.
"Your hair so soft and fine, streaming back like the night shades,
will weave my lodge into tangles. You have no place here.
"Your shoulders are bare and white as the snowdrifts. You have no furs
to cover them; depart from my lodge. See, as you sit by my fire, how
it draws away from you. Depart, I say, from my lodge!"
But the young warrior only smiled, and asked that he might remain to
fill his pipe; and they sat down by the fire. Then the old man became
garrulous and began to boast of his great powers.
"I am powerful and strong," said he. "I send North Wind to blow all
over the earth and its waters stop to listen to his voice as he
freezes them fast asleep. When I touch the sky the snow hurries down
and the hunters hide by their lodge fires; the birds fly scared, and
the animals creep to their caves. When I lay my hand on the land, I
harden it still as the rocks; nothing can forbid me nor loosen my
fetters. You, young warrior, though you shine like the Sun, you have
no power. Go! I give you a chance to escape me, but I could blow my
breath and fold around you a mist which would turn you to ice forever!
"I am not a friend to the Sun, who grows pale and cold and flees to
the Southland when I come; yet I see his glance in your face, where no
winter shadows hide. My North Wind will soon return; he hates the
summer and will bind fast its hands. You fear me not, and smile
because you know me not. Young man, listen. I am Gau-wi-di-ne, Winter!
Now fear me and depart. Pass from my lodge and go out to the wind."
But the young warrior moved not; he only smiled as he refilled the
pipe for the trembling old man, saying, "Here, take your pipe; it will
soothe you and make you stronger for a little while longer;" and he
packed the o-yan-kwa[A] deep and hard in the pipe.
[A] Indian tobacco.
Said the warrior, "Now you must smoke for me, smoke for Youth and
Spring! I fear not your boasting; you are aged and slow while I am
young and strong. I hear the voice of South Wind. Your North Wind
hears, and Spirit of the Winds is hurrying him back to his home. Wrap
you up warm while yet the snowdrifts cover the earth path, and flee to
your lodge in the north sky. I am here now, and you shall know me. I,
too, am powerful!
"When I lift my hand, the sky opens wide and I waken the sleeping Sun,
which follows me warm and glad. I touch the earth and it grows soft
and gentle, and breathes strong and swift as my South Wind ploughs
under the snows to loosen your grasp. The trees in the forest welcome
my voice and send out their buds to my hand. When my breezes blow my
long hair to the clouds, they send down gentle showers that whisper to
the grasses to grow.
"I came not to tarry long in my peace talk with you, but to smoke with
you and warn you that the sun is waiting for me to open its door. You
and the North Wind have built your lodge strong, but each wind, the
North and the East, and the West, and the South, has its time for the
earth. Now South Wind is calling me; return you to your big lodge in
the sky. Travel quick on your way that you may not fall in the path
of the Sun. See! It is now sending down its arrows broad and strong!"
The old man saw and trembled. He seemed fading smaller, and grown too
weak to speak, could only whisper, "Young warrior, who are you?"
In a voice that breathed soft as the breath of wild blossoms, he
answered: "I am Go-hay, Spring! I have come to rule, and my lodge now
covers the earth! I have talked to your mountain and it has heard; I
have called the South Wind and it is near; the Sun is awake from its
winter sleep and summons me quick and loud. Your North Wind has fled
to his north sky; you are late in following. You have lingered too
long over your peace pipe and its smoke now floats far away. Haste
while yet there is time that you may lose not your trail."