them of things in the world outside the forest. She praised Carl's
pictures, and showed him how to work in his colors so as to more
effectively bring out the perspective, and tried to educate his taste,
as far as she could, by describing the pictures of the great masters.
She often said afterwards that she could never have lived through
those dark days but for the comfort she found in the children.
Carl saw that she was sorrowful, and he understood that her sadness
was not because of the plain fare and the way of living at the
forester's cottage, which he knew must seem rough indeed to her, but
because of some great grief. What this grief was he could not guess,
for the children had been told nothing about the beautiful lady,
except that her name was Lady Clarice. She never complained, but the
boy's wistful eyes would follow her as she moved among the trees, and
his heart would swell with pity; and how he would long to do something
to prove to her how he loved her!
The forester told Carl that the cavalier was with the army. But he did
not come to the cottage, and there was no way for the Lady Clarice to
hear from him, and she shuddered at the sound of the great guns. And
finally she fell sick. Nurse Heine did what she could for her, but the
lady grew worse. She felt that she should die, and it almost broke
Carl's heart to hear her moaning: "Oh! if I could but see him once
more!" He knew she meant the noble cavalier, but how should he get
word to him? The old forester was just then stiff with rheumatism, and
could scarcely move from his chair.
"I will go myself!" said Carl to himself one day, "or she will die
with grief!"
Without saying a word to anybody about the matter, for fear that he
would not be allowed to go, he stole out of the house in the gray of
the morning, while all were asleep, and, making his way to the open
road, he turned in the direction from whence, at times, had come the
sound of the cannon. As long as he was in the part of the road that he
knew, he kept up a stout heart, but when he left that he began to grow
frightened. The road was so lonely, and strange sounds seemed to come
out of the forest that stretched away, so black and thick, on each
side! He wondered if any fierce beasts were there, or if robbers were
lurking behind the rocks. But he thought of the beautiful lady, his
kind friend, sick and dying, and that thought was more powerful than
his fear. At noon he rested for awhile, and ate a few dry biscuits he
had put in his pockets.
It was near sunset when he saw that the trees stood less closely
together, the road looked more travel-worn, and there came with the
wind a confused and continuous noise. Then Carl was seized with
terror. "I am now near the camp," he thought. "Suppose a battle is
going on, and I am struck with a ball. I shall die, and father and
little Greta will not know what became of me, and the beautiful lady
will never know that I died in her service! Or if I meet a soldier,
and he don't believe my story, maybe he'll run a bayonet through me!"
It was not too late then to turn back and flee swiftly up the forest
road, and Carl paused.
But in a few moments he went on, animated by the noblest kind of
courage--that which feels there is danger, but is determined to face
it in the cause of duty, affection, and humanity.
At last he stepped out of the forest, and there, before him, was
spread out the vast encampment of the army! There was not time to
wonder at the sight before he was challenged by a sentinel. Carl had
made up his mind what to say, and that he would not mention the lady.
So he promptly replied that he wanted to see a noble lord who had a
sick friend at a cottage in the forest.
As the boy could not tell the name or rank of the noble lord, the
sentinel sent him to an officer, and to him Carl told the same story,
but he described the man of whom he was in search so accurately that
the officer sent him at once to the proper person. And Carl found that
he was a very great personage indeed, and held a high command in the
army. He did not recognize Carl, but as soon as the boy told his
errand he became very much agitated.
"I will go at once," he said; "but I cannot leave you here, my brave
boy! Can you ride?"
Now Carl knew how to sit on a horse, and how to hold the bridle, for
he had ridden the wood-cutters' horses sometimes, so he answered that
he thought he could ride. The Duke (for such was his title) ordered
some refreshments set before the boy, and then went out to make his
arrangements, choosing his gentlest horse for Carl.
In half an hour they were in the forest, speeding like the wind. Carl
felt as if he was flying. The horse chose his own gait, and tried to
keep up with the one that the Duke was riding; but finally, finding
this impossible, he slackened his pace, greatly to Carl's relief. But
the Duke was too anxious about his lady to accommodate himself to the
slower speed of the boy, and soon swept out of sight around a bend in
the road. His cloak and the long feathers of his hat streamed on the
night wind for a moment longer. Then they vanished, and Carl was
alone.
Carl was somewhat afraid of the horse, for he was not used to such a
high-mettled steed; but, on the whole, he was glad he was mounted on
it. For if the woods had seemed lonely in the daylight they were ten
times more so in the night. And the noises seemed more fearful than
before. And Carl thought if any furious beast or robber should dart
upon him, he could make the horse carry him swiftly away. As it was he
let the horse do as he pleased, and as Carl sat quietly and did not
worry him in any way, he pleased to go along very smoothly, and
rather slowly, so it was past midnight when they reached home.
[Illustration]
Carl found that the Duke had been there a long time; that the lady was
overjoyed to see him, and Nurse Heine said she began to grow better
from that moment.
The next morning the Duke went away; but before he left he thanked
Carl for the great service he had done him, and gave him a piece of
gold. But Carl was better pleased when the lady called him into her
room, and kissed him, and cried over him, and praised him for a kind,
brave boy, and said he had saved her life.
And when she got well Carl noticed that she was brighter and happier
than she had been before.
In a short time, however, she went away with the Duke, in a grand
coach, with servants and outriders. And Carl and Greta watched them as
they were whirled up the forest road, and then walked home through the
pines with sad hearts.
Then the forester told his children that the Duke had married this
lady secretly, against the king's command, and he had so many bitter
and cruel enemies that he was afraid they would do her some evil while
he was away in the war. She knew of the forester, because his wife had
been a maid of her mother's, so she came to this lonely place for
safety. But now the king was pleased, and it was all right.
The winter came and went. The war was over. And then Lady Clarice,
whom the children never expected to see again, sent for them, and the
forester, and Nurse Heine, to her castle. She provided for them all,
and Greta grew up into a pretty and well-bred young lady.
Lady Clarice had not forgotten the brave act of the boy, and also
remembered what he liked best in the world. So she had him taught to
draw and paint, and in process of time he became a great artist, and
all the world knew of his name and fame.
SCHOOL'S OUT!
[Illustration]
What a welcome and joyful sound! In the winter, when the days are
short, and the sun, near the end of the six school hours, sinks so low
that the light in the room grows dim and gray, with what impatience,
my dear child, do you wait for this signal! But it is in the long
summer days that you find school most tiresome. The air in the room is
hot and drowsy, and outside you can see there is a breeze blowing, for
the trees are gently tossing their green boughs as if to twit you with
having to work out sums in such glorious weather. And there come to
your ears the pleasant sounds of the buzzing of insects and twittering
of birds, and the brook splashing over the stones. Then the four walls
of the school-room look very dreary, and the maps glare at you, and
the black-boards frown darkly, and the benches seem very hard, and the
ink-bespattered desks appear more grimy than ever.
This was the time when the heart of the Dominie would be touched with
pity, and he would say in his bright way: "Now, children, I am going
to read you something!"
Instantly the half-closed eyes would open, the drooping heads would be
raised, the vacant faces would brighten, and the little cramped legs
would be stretched out with a sigh of relief. And then the Dominie
would read them something that was not only instructive, but very
entertaining. Sometimes, instead of reading to them, he would set them
to declaiming or reciting poetry, or they would choose sides and have
a spelling match. They would get so interested that they would forget
all about the birds and sunshine without. They did not even know that
they were learning all this time.
For the Dominie had all sorts of pleasant ways of teaching his
scholars. Not but what they had to work hard too, for nobody can
accomplish anything worth having without putting a good deal of hard
work in it.
You see the Dominie's portrait in the picture. The fringe of hair
around his bald head was as white as snow; his black eyes were bright
and merry; and he had a kindly face. His name was Morris Harvey, but
everybody called him Dominie, and he liked that name best. All the
village people respected and loved the old man; and every child in the
village school that he taught, from the largest boy, whose legs were
so long that he did not know what to do with them, down to Bessie
Gay, who could scarcely reach up to the top of a desk, were very fond
indeed of him.
But even under the Dominie's kindly rule, "School's out!" was always a
welcome sound. What a noise there would be in the school-room for a
minute; and then such a grand rush out into the open air! and such
merry shouts! The Dominie would look after them with a smile. He
wanted them to study, but he was glad that it was natural for them to
love to play.
If little Charlie Lane had known this he would not have had such a cry
the morning he went to school for the first time. He thought his
mother very cruel to make him go, and, I am sorry to say, not only
cried before he started, but all the way to the school-house. The
Dominie took no notice of this, and Charlie soon found that school was
not such a very dreadful place. And there was the nice playtime in the
middle of the day. And, when school was out, the Dominie took him on
his knee and gave him a big apple, and showed him a book full of
bright pictures, and told him a story about every one of them.
You can see the little fellow on the Dominie's lap, looking earnestly
at a picture in the book; and the old man is pleased that the child is
pleased. The Dominie is sitting in his big chair, and his dinner-bag
is hanging on the back of it. On the black-board over his head you see
little Charlie's lesson for that day. It is on the right, and consists
of the letters A, B, C, which the child has been staring at until he
knows them perfectly in any book that is given to him. On the left, is
a sum; and somebody has tried to draw an almanac sun on the lower part
of the board. Across the top the Dominie has written a copy. You can
read it plainly. It was a favorite saying of his; and a very good one
too.
Have we not, all of us, a great deal to make us happy? What pleasure
is it to you to go about with a cross or melancholy face? Try to think
of something pleasant, and call up a smile. Put the ill-natured
feelings out of your heart, and then the brightness will come to your
face without further trouble. If you have a hard task to do, being
cross won't help you along one bit. Go to work at it with a will, and
you will be surprised to find how soon it will be done. Then, with a
clear conscience and a glad heart, you can sit waiting for the welcome
sound, "School's out!"
NEST-BUILDERS.
"Birds in their little nests agree," but they do not at all agree in
their manner of building the said nests.
They have all sorts of ideas on this subject. Nearly every species of
bird has a nest peculiar to itself, and the variety is astonishing.
There are nests like cups, and nests like saucers; nests which are
firmly fixed among the solid rocks, and nests which wave about on the
ends of slender branches; nests which are perched on the very tops of
the tallest trees, and nests which are hidden in the ground. There are
great nests, which will hold a bushel or two of eggs, and little bits
of things, into which you could scarcely put half a dozen peas.
In mentioning some of these nests, it will be needless for us to say
much of those with which we are all familiar. In our rambles together
we must try and see as many novelties as possible, for we may not
always have the chance of wandering freely into any part of the world
to which our fancy may lead us. I remember a little girl who used to
come to our house when I was a boy, and who never cared for anything
at table that was not something of a novelty to her. When offered
potatoes, she would frankly say: "No, thank you; I can get them at
home."
So we will not meddle with hens' nests, robins' nests, and all the
nests, big and little, that we find about our homes, for they are the
"potatoes" of a subject like this, but will try and find some nests
that are a little out of the way, and curious.
But we must stop--just one moment--before we leave home, and look at a
wren's nest.
The Wren, although a very common little bird with us, does not build a
common nest. She makes it round, like a ball, or a woolly orange,
with a little hole at one side for a door. Inside, it is just as soft
and comfortable as anything can be. Being such a little bird herself,
she could not cover and protect her young ones from cold and danger so
well as the larger cat-birds and robins, and her nest is contrived so
that there will not be much covering to do.
[Illustration]
That beautiful bird, the Baltimore Oriole, which may be familiar to
some of you, makes its nest somewhat on the plan of the wren, the
similarity consisting in the fact that the structure is intended to
shelter both parent and young. The oriole, which is a great deal
larger than a wren, builds a much larger nest, forming it like a bag,
with a hole in one end, and hangs it on the branch of a tree.
[Illustration]
It is scarcely possible for any harm to come to the young orioles,
when they are lying snugly at the bottom of the deep nest and their
mother is sitting on a twig near by, ready to protect them at the
hazard of her life.
But, for all the apparent security of this nest, so deep, so warm, so
firmly secured to the twigs and branches, the little orioles are not
entirely safe. Their mother may protect them from rain and cold; from
winged enemies and creeping serpents, but she cannot defend them
against the attacks of boys and men. An oriole's nest is such a
curious structure, and the birds are known to be of such fine form and
gorgeous plumage, that many boys cannot resist the temptation of
climbing up after them and, if there are young ones within, of
carrying the whole affair away in order to try and "raise" the young
birds. Sometimes the nest is put in a cage, where the old bird can
come and feed its young, and in other cases the captor undertakes to
do the feeding himself. I have seen experiments of this kind tried,
but never knew the slightest success to follow them, and the attempt,
generally useless, is always cruel.
But we must positively get away from home and look at some nests to
which few or none of us are accustomed.
There, for instance, is the nest of the Burrowing-Owl, a native of
South America and the regions west of the Rocky Mountains. This little
bird, much smaller than our common owls, likes to live in the ground.
But not having been provided by nature with digging appendages, he
cannot make a hole or burrow for himself, and so he takes up his abode
in the underground holes made by the little prairie-dogs for their own
homes. It is not at all certain that these owls should be called
usurpers or thieves. They may, in some cases, get entire possession of
the holes, but very often they live very sociably with the
prairie-dogs, and may, for all we know, pay for their lodgings by
bringing in grain and seeds, along with the worms and insects which
they reserve for their own table. Any one who does not possess a
habitation of his own, must occasionally expect to be thrown among
strange companions, and this very often happens to the burrowing-owl.
Travellers tell us that not only do the prairie-dogs and owls live
together in these burrows, but that great rattlesnakes sometimes take
up their residence therein--all three families seeming to live
together in peace and unity. I think that it is probable, however,
that the little dogs and owls are not at all pleased with the company
of the snakes. A prairie-dog will not eat an owl, and without the dog
is very young indeed, an owl will not eat him; but a great snake would
just as soon swallow either of them as not, if he happened to be
hungry, which fortunately is not often the case, for a good meal lasts
a snake a long time. But the owls and the prairie-dogs have no way of
ridding themselves of their unwelcome roommates, and, like human
beings, they are obliged to patiently endure the ills they cannot
banish. Perhaps, like human beings again, they become so accustomed to
these ills that they forget how disagreeable they are.
[Illustration]
There is a bird--and it is a Flamingo--which builds a nest which looks
to me as if it must be very unpleasant to sit upon. And yet it suits
the bird very well. In fact, on any other kind of a nest, the
flamingo might not know what to do with its legs.
[Illustration]
It would appear as if there had been a waste of material in making
such a large high nest, when only two or three moderate-sized eggs are
placed in the slight depression at the top; but, when we consider that
the flamingo uses this tall affair as a seat, as well as a nest, we
can easily understand that flamingoes, like most other birds,
understand how to adapt their nests to their own convenience and
peculiarities. Sitting astraddle on one of these tall nests, which
look something like peach-baskets turned upside down, with her head
stuck as far under her wing as she can get it, the flamingo dozes
away, during the long sultry hours of day, as comfortably and happily
as if she was a little wren snugly curled up inside of its cosey nest.
It is not mere situation which makes us happy. Some people enjoy life
in cottages, others in palaces, and some birds sit in a pile of hard
sticks and think themselves quite as cosey as those which repose upon
the softest down.
It is almost impossible to comprehend the different fancies of birds
in regard to their nests. For instance, why should any bird want to
sail about in its nest? Yet there is one--called the Little
Grebe--which builds a water-tight nest, in which she lays her eggs,
and, while she is hatching them, she paddles herself around on the
water.
It seems to me that these birds must have a very pleasant time during
the setting season. To start out some fine morning, after it has had
its breakfast of bugs and things, to gently push its nest from shore;
to jump on board; to sit down comfortably on the eggs, and sticking
out its web-footed legs on each side, to paddle away among the
water-lilies and the beautiful green rushes, in company with other
little grebes, all uniting business and pleasure in the same way, must
be, indeed, quite charming to an appreciative duck.
[Illustration]
If it were to happen to storm, however, when the grebe was at a
distance from shore, her little craft might be upset and her cargo of
eggs go to the bottom. But I expect the grebes are very good sailors,
and know when to look for bad weather.
A nest full of young grebes just hatched, with the mother swimming
behind, pushing them along with her beak, or towing them by the loose
end of a twig, must be a very singular and interesting sight.
[Illustration]
An Ostrich has very different views in regard to a nest from a little
grebe. Instead of wishing to take its nest about with it, wherever it
goes, the ostrich does not care for a great deal of nest-work.
It is, however, a bird of more domestic habits than some writers would
have us believe; for although it does cover up its eggs in the sand,
and then let the sun help hatch them, it is not altogether inattentive
to its nest. The ostrich makes a large nest in the sand, where, it is
said, the eggs of several families are deposited. These eggs are very
carefully arranged in the great hole or basin that has been formed in
the soft sand, and, during the daytime, they are often covered up and
left to be gently heated by the rays of the sun. But the ostrich sits
upon her nest at night, and in many cases the male bird has been known
to sit upon the eggs all day. An ostrich nest is a sort of a wholesale
establishment. There are not only a great many eggs in the nest, but
dozens of them are often found lying about on the sand around it.
This apparent waste is explained by some naturalists by the statement
that these scattered eggs are intended for the food of the young ones
when they are hatched. This may be true; but in that case young
ostriches cannot be very particular about the flavor of the eggs they
eat. A few days in the hot sun of the desert would be very likely to
make eggs of any kind taste rather strongly. But ostrich eggs are so
large, and their shells are so thick, that they may keep better than
the eggs to which we are accustomed.
From nests which are built flat on the ground, let us now go to some
that are placed as high from the earth as their builders can get them.
The nests of the Storks are of this kind.
A pair of storks will select, as a site for their nest, a lofty place
among the rocks; the top of some old ruins; or, when domesticated, as
they often are, the top of a chimney. But when there are a number of
storks living together in a community, they very often settle in a
grove of tall trees and build their nests on the highest branches.
[Illustration: THE NEST OF A STORK.]
In these they lay their eggs, and hatch out their young ones. Soon
after the time when these young storks are able to fly, the whole
community generally starts off on its winter pilgrimage to warm
countries; but the old storks always return in the spring to the same
nest that they left, while the young ones, if they choose to join that
community at all, must make nests for themselves. Although these nests
are nothing but rude structures of sticks and twigs, made apparently
in the roughest manner, each pair of storks evidently thinks that
there is no home like its own.
The stork is a very kind parent, and is, in fact, more careful of the
welfare of its young than most birds; but it never goes to the length
of surrendering its homestead to its children.
The young storks will be carefully nurtured and reared by their
parents; when they grow old enough they will be taught to fly, and
encouraged in the most earnest way to strengthen and develop their
wings by exercise; and, in the annual expedition to the south, they
are not left to themselves, but are conducted to the happy lands where
all good storks spend their winters. But the young storks cannot have
everything. If they wish to live in the nest in which they were born,
they must wait until their parents are dead.
It may be that we have now seen enough of birds' nests, and so I will
not show you any more.
The next nest which we will examine--
"But I thought you were not going to show us any more birds' nests!"
you will say.
That is true. I did say so, and this next one is not a bird's nest but
a fish's nest.
It is probably that very few of you, if any, ever saw a fish's nest;
but there certainly are such things.
[Illustration]