his palace. Beside him was seated his daughter, the beautiful witch
maiden, Medea. She looked upon the Greeks and upon Jason, fairest and
noblest of them all, and her spirit leaped forth to meet his. And
knowing what lay before them, "surely," she thought, "it were an evil
thing that men so bold and comely should perish."
When Jason demanded the Golden Fleece, the rage of the King rushed up
like a whirlwind, but he curbed his speech and spake a fair word.
"Choose ye now him who is boldest among you and let him perform the
labours I shall set."
That night Medea stole from the palace to warn the hero of the toils and
dangers that awaited him,--to tame a span of brazen-footed
fire-breathing bulls, with them to plough four acres of unbroken land in
the field of Ares, to sow the tilth with serpents' teeth, to slay its
crop of warriors, to cross a river, and climb a lofty wall, to snatch
the Fleece from a tree round which lay coiled the sleepless dragon. "How
can these things be accomplished and that before the setting of another
sun?" But Jason used flattering words, singing the song of Chiron:
"No river so deep but an arm may swim,
No wall so steep but a foot may climb,
No dragon so dread but a sword may slay,
No fiend so fierce but your charms may stay."
Medea, seeing that he knew not fear, gave him a magic ointment which
should give him the strength of seven men and protect him from fire and
steel.
All the people assembled at sunrise in the field of Ares. When the
fire-breathing bulls saw Jason standing in the middle of the field, fury
shot from their eyes. Fierce was their onset and the multitude waited
breathless to see what the end would be. As the bulls came on with
lowered heads, and tails in air, Jason leaped nimbly to one side, and
the monsters shot past him with bellowings that shook the earth. They
turned and Jason poised for the leap. As they passed a second time, he
grasped the nearest by the horn and lightly vaulted upon its back. The
bull, unused to the burden, sank cowering to the ground. Jason patted
its neck caressing it, and gladly it shared the yoke with its fellow.
When the ground was ploughed and sown with the teeth of the serpent, a
thousand warriors sprang full-armed from the brown earth. Then King
Æetes greatly rejoiced, but Medea, trembling at the sight, laid a spell
upon them that they might not clearly distinguish friend from foe.
One among them came forth and Jason advanced to meet him, walking with a
halt. His adversary laughed aloud, but Jason with a mighty bound sprang
upon the shoulders of his enemy and bore him helmetless to the ground.
The hero quickly replaced the fallen helmet with his own, giving a
golden helmet for a brazen. The other rose and fled back among his
fellows who, thinking it was Jason come among them, fell upon and slew
him and strove with each other for the golden helmet until all were
slain but one who, wounded unto death, rose up from the fray and
shouting "Victory" sank upon knee and elbow never to rise again.
The rest of the task was quickly accomplished, for Medea by her spells
cast a deep sleep upon the dragon. So the Golden Fleece was won and
brought once more to Iolchos with a prize still more precious, for Jason
bore home with him Medea, the beautiful witch maiden, who became his
bride and ruled with him, let us hope, many happy years.
JOHN WAUGH
In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire and clean.
LONGFELLOW
THE MINSTREL-BOY
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
_One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said: "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."
MOORE
Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside.
LOWELL
MARY ELIZABETH
Mary Elizabeth was a little girl with a long name. She was poor, she was
sick, she was ragged, she was dirty, she was cold, she was hungry, she
was frightened. She had no home, she had no mother, she had no father.
She had no supper, she had had no dinner, she had had no breakfast. She
had no place to go and nobody to care where she went.
In fact, Mary Elizabeth had not much of anything but a short pink calico
dress, a little red cotton-and-wool shawl, and her long name. Besides
this, she had a pair of old rubbers, too large for her.
She was walking up Washington Street. It was late in the afternoon of a
bitter January day.
"God made so many people," thought Mary Elizabeth, "He must have made so
many suppers. Seems as if there'd ought to be one for one extry little
girl."
But she thought this in a gentle way. She was a very gentle little girl.
All girls who hadn't anything were not like Mary Elizabeth.
* * * * *
So now she was shuffling up Washington Street, not knowing exactly what
to do next,--peeping into people's faces, timidly looking away from
them, heart-sick (for a very little girl can be very heart-sick),
colder, she thought, every minute, and hungrier each hour than she was
the hour before.
The child left Washington Street at last, where everybody had homes and
suppers without one extra one to spare for a little girl, and turned
into a short, bright, showy street, where stood a great hotel.
Whether the door-keeper was away, or busy, or sick, or careless, or
whether the head-waiter at the dining-room was so tall that he couldn't
see so short a beggar, or whether the clerk at the desk was so noisy
that he couldn't hear so still a beggar, or however it was, Mary
Elizabeth did get in; by the door-keeper, past the head-waiter, under
the shadow of the clerk, over the smooth, slippery marble floor the
child crept on.
She came to the office door and stood still. She looked around her with
wide eyes. She had never seen a place like that. Lights flashed over it,
many and bright. Gentlemen sat in it smoking and reading. They were all
warm. Not one of them looked as if he had had no dinner and no
breakfast and no supper.
"How many extry suppers," thought the little girl, "it must ha' taken to
feed 'em all. I guess maybe there'll be one for me in here."
Mary Elizabeth stood in the middle of it, in her pink calico dress and
red plaid shawl. The shawl was tied over her head and about her neck
with a ragged tippet. Her bare feet showed in the old rubbers. She began
to shuffle about the room, holding out one purple little hand.
One or two of the gentlemen laughed; some frowned; more did nothing at
all; most did not notice, or did not seem to notice, the child. One
said: "What's the matter here?"
Mary Elizabeth shuffled on. She went from one to the other, less
timidly; a kind of desperation had taken possession of her. The odours
from the dining-room came in, of strong, hot coffee, and strange roast
meats. Mary Elizabeth thought of Jo.
It seemed to her she was so hungry that, if she could not get a supper,
she should jump up and run and rush about and snatch something and steal
like Jo. She held out her hand, but only said: "I'm hungry!"
A gentleman called her. He was the gentleman who had asked: "What's the
matter here?" He called her in behind his daily paper which was big
enough to hide three of Mary Elizabeth, and when he saw that nobody was
looking he gave her a five-cent piece in a hurry, as if he had committed
a sin, and said quickly: "There, there, child! go now, go!"
Then he began to read his newspaper quite hard and fast and to look
severe, as one does who never gives anything to beggars, as a matter of
principle.
But nobody else gave anything to Mary Elizabeth. She shuffled from one
to another, hopelessly. Every gentleman shook his head. One called for a
waiter to put her out. This frightened her and she stood still.
Over by a window, in a lonely corner of the great room, a young man was
sitting apart from the others. He sat with his elbows on the table and
his face buried in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, with
brown, curling hair.
Mary Elizabeth wondered why he looked so miserable and why he sat alone.
She thought, perhaps, that if he weren't so happy as the other
gentlemen, he would be more sorry for cold and hungry girls. She
hesitated, then walked along and directly up to him.
One or two gentlemen laid down their papers and watched this; they
smiled and nodded to each other. The child did not see them to wonder
why. She went up and put her hand upon the young man's arm.
He started. The brown, curly head lifted itself from the shelter of his
arms; a young face looked sharply at the beggar girl,--a beautiful young
face it might have been.
It was haggard now and dreadful to look at,--bloated and badly marked
with the unmistakable marks of a wicked week's debauch. He roughly said:
"What do you want?"
"I'm hungry," said Mary Elizabeth.
"I can't help that. Go away."
"I haven't had anything to eat for a whole day--a whole day!" repeated
the child.
Her lip quivered. But she spoke distinctly. Her voice sounded through
the room. One gentleman after another laid down his paper or his pipe.
Several were watching this little scene.
"Go away!" repeated the young man, irritably. "Don't bother me. I
haven't had anything to eat for three days!"
His face went down into his arms again. Mary Elizabeth stood staring at
the brown, curling hair. She stood perfectly still for some moments. She
evidently was greatly puzzled. She walked away a little distance, then
stopped and thought it over.
And now paper after paper and pipe after cigar went down. Every
gentleman in the room began to look on. The young man with the beautiful
brown curls, and dissipated, disgraced, and hidden face was not stiller
than the rest.
The little figure in the pink calico and the red shawl and big rubbers
stood for a moment silent among them all. The waiter came to take her
out but the gentlemen motioned him away.
Mary Elizabeth turned her five-cent piece over and over in her purple
hand. Her hand shook. The tears came. The smell of the dinner from the
dining-room grew savoury and strong. The child put the piece of money to
her lips as if she could have eaten it, then turned and, without further
hesitation, went back.
She touched the young man--on the bright hair this time--with her
trembling little hand.
The room was so still now that what she said rang out to the corridor,
where the waiters stood, with the clerk behind looking over the desk to
see.
"I'm sorry you are so hungry. If you haven't had anything for three
days, you must be hungrier than me. I've got five cents. A gentleman
gave it me. I wish you would take it. I've only gone one day. You can
get some supper with it, and--maybe--I--can get some somewheres! I wish
you'd please to take it!"
Mary Elizabeth stood quite still, holding out her five-cent piece. She
did not understand the stir that went all over the bright room. She did
not see that some of the gentlemen coughed and wiped their spectacles.
She did not know why the brown curls before her came up with such a
start, nor why the young man's wasted face flushed red and hot with a
noble shame.
She did not in the least understand why he flung the five-cent piece
upon the table, and, snatching her in his arms, held her fast and hid
his face on her plaid shawl and sobbed. Nor did she seem to know what
could be the reason that nobody seemed amused to see this gentleman
cry.
The gentleman who had given her the money came up, and some more came
up, and they gathered around, and she in the midst of them, and they all
spoke kindly, and the young man with the bad face that might have been
so beautiful stood up, still clinging to her, and said aloud:
"She's shamed me before you all, and she's shamed me to myself! I'll
learn a lesson from this beggar, so help me God!"
So then he took the child upon his knee, and the gentlemen came up to
listen, and the young man asked her what her name was.
"Mary Elizabeth, sir."
"Names used to mean things--in the Bible--when I was as little as you. I
read the Bible then. Does Mary Elizabeth mean angel of rebuke?"
"Sir?"
"Where do you live, Mary Elizabeth?"
"Nowhere, sir."
"Where do you sleep?"
"In Mrs. O'Flynn's shed, sir. It's too cold for the cows. She's so kind,
she lets us stay."
"Whom do you stay with?"
"Nobody, only Jo."
"Is Jo your brother?"
"No, sir. Jo is a girl. I haven't got only Jo."
"What does Jo do for a living?"
"She--gets it, sir."
"And what do you do?"
"I beg. It's better than to--get it, sir, I think."
"Where's your mother?"
"Dead."
"What did she die of?"
"Drink, sir," said Mary Elizabeth, in her distinct and gentle tone.
"Ah--well. And your father?"
"He is dead. He died in prison."
"What sent him to prison?"
"Drink, sir."
"Oh!"
"I had a brother once," continued Mary Elizabeth, who grew quite
eloquent with so large an audience, "but he died, too."
"I do want my supper," she added, after a pause, speaking in a whisper,
as if to Jo or to herself, "and Jo'll be wondering for me."
"Wait, then," said the young man. "I'll see if I can't beg enough to get
you your supper."
"I thought there must be an extry one among so many folks!" cried Mary
Elizabeth; for now, she thought, she should get back her five cents.
And, truly, the young man put the five cents into his hat, to begin
with. Then he took out his purse, and put in something that made less
noise than the five-cent piece and something more and more and more.
Then he passed around the great room, walking still unsteadily, and the
gentleman who gave the five cents and all the gentlemen put something
into the young man's hat.
So, when he came back to the table, he emptied the hat and counted the
money, and, truly, it was forty dollars.
"Forty dollars!"
Mary Elizabeth looked frightened.
"It's yours," said the young man. "Now come to supper. But see! this
gentleman who gave you the five-cent piece shall take care of the money
for you. You can trust him. He's got a wife, too. But we'll come to
supper now."
* * * * *
So the young man took her by the hand, and the gentleman whose wife knew
all about what to do with orphans took her by the other hand, and one or
two more gentlemen followed, and they all went into the dining-room, and
put Mary Elizabeth in a chair at a clean white table, and asked her
what she wanted for her supper.
Mary Elizabeth said that a little dry toast and a cup of milk would do
nicely. So all the gentlemen laughed. And she wondered why.
And the young man with the brown curls laughed, too, and began to look
quite happy. But he ordered chicken and cranberry sauce and mashed
potatoes and celery and rolls and butter and tomatoes and an ice cream
and a cup of tea and nuts and raisins and cake and custard and apples
and grapes.
And Mary Elizabeth sat in her pink dress and red shawl and ate the
whole; and why it didn't kill her nobody knows; but it didn't.
The young man with the face that might have been beautiful--that might
be yet, one would have thought who had seen him then--stood watching the
little girl.
"She's preached me the best sermon," he said below his breath, "I ever
heard. May God bless her! I wish there were a thousand like her in this
selfish world!"
And when I heard about it I wished so, too.
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
Oh, there is nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
DICKENS
THE FROST
The Frost looked forth, one still clear night,
And whispered: "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way:
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads--and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,
By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things:--there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees:
There were cities with temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silver sheen.
But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare--
"Now just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'Tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."
H. F. GOULD
CORN-FIELDS
When on the breath of Autumn's breeze,
From pastures dry and brown,
Goes floating, like an idle thought,
The fair, white thistle-down,--
Oh, then what joy to walk at will
Upon the golden harvest-hill!
What joy in dreaming ease to lie
Amid a field new shorn;
And see all round, on sunlit slopes,
The piled-up shocks of corn;
And send the fancy wandering o'er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!
I feel the day; I see the field;
The quivering of the leaves;
And good old Jacob, and his house,--
Binding the yellow sheaves!
And at this very hour I seem
To be with Joseph in his dream!
I see the fields of Bethlehem,
And reapers many a one
Bending unto their sickles' stroke,
And Boaz looking on;
And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,
Among the gleaners stooping there!
Again, I see a little child,
His mother's sole delight,--
God's living gift of love unto
The kind, good Shunammite;
To mortal pangs I see him yield,
And the lad bear him from the field.
The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,
The fields of Galilee,
That eighteen hundred years ago
Were full of corn, I see;
And the dear Saviour take his way
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.
Oh, golden fields of bending corn,
How beautiful they seem!
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
To me are like a dream;
The sunshine, and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there!
MARY HOWITT
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQ.
Treasure Valley belonged to three brothers--Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck.
The two elder brothers were rich, cruel, quarrelsome men who never gave
anything in charity. The youngest brother, Gluck, was twelve years old,
and kind to everyone. He had to act as cook and servant to his brothers.
One cold, wet day the brothers went out, telling Gluck to roast a leg of
mutton on the spit, let nobody into the house, and let nothing out.
After a time some one knocked at the door. Gluck went to the window,
opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.
It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman. He had a very
large nose, slightly brass-coloured; very round and very red cheeks;
merry eyes, long hair, and moustaches that curled twice round like a
corkscrew on each side of his mouth. He was four feet six inches high,
and wore a pointed cap as long as himself. It was decorated with a black
feather about three feet long. Around his body was folded an enormous
black, glossy-looking cloak much too long for him. As he knocked again
he caught sight of Gluck.
"Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the
door; I'm wet, let me in."
To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down
between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella;
and from the ends of his moustaches the water was running into his
waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."
"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.
"I can't let you in, sir,--I can't, indeed; my brothers would beat me to
death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"
"Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly, "I want fire and shelter;
and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the
walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm
myself."
Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he
began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and
saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright
tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savoury
smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should
be burning away for nothing. "He does look _very_ wet," said little
Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to
the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, through
the house came a gust of wind that made the old chimneys totter.
"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your
brothers. I'll talk to them."
"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay
till they come; they'd be the death of me."
"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that. How
long may I stay?"
"Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very
brown."
Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on
the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it
was a great deal too high for the roof. "You'll soon dry there, sir,"
said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman
did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders,
and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and began to look very black and
uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a
gutter.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the water
spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter
of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?"
"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.
"Your cap, sir?"
"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.
"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly; "but--really,
sir--you're putting the fire out."
"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor, dryly.
Gluck was very much puzzled by the behaviour of his guest; it was such a
strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string
meditatively for another five minutes.
"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman, at length. "Can't
you give me a little bit?"
"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.
"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat
yesterday, nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the
knuckle!"
He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's
heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give
you that, but not a bit more."
"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.
Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I do
get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of
the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman
jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm.
Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at
exactitude, and ran to open the door.
"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he
walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.
"Ay! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an
educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen.
"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.
"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was
standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible
velocity.
"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to
Gluck with a fierce frown.
"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.
"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.
"My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, "he was so _very_ wet!"
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but at the instant the
old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a
shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very
odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of
Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the
corner at the farther end of the room.