highlands. They knew that the army had gone, and that away on the eastern
island perhaps the fighting had begun. But what of the fate of the
Venetian hosts, and what of the son and brother who had sailed under the
standard of the Lion? As to that they could only hope and wonder.
Slowly, slowly dragged the days, but no word came back.
One morning, while Leonardo and his mother prayed and waited in the
mountain cabin, down in Venice in the splendid Palace of the Doges,
the Council of Ten sat and pondered. They talked much about the absent
army, wondering if victory or defeat had been its share, and while they
wondered there came a fluttering of soft gray wings.
“Pigeons!” some one called. “See, they are carriers!”
The dignified assemblage broke up in excitement, for they knew the tiny
birds were messengers, and the men hurried to read the missives fastened
to their crimson feet.
“They come from Dandolo,” said one of the nobles, “bringing news of the
war.”
“From Candia!” another exclaimed. “It cannot be that they have flown so
far!”
But it was true, for upon reading they learned that the Venetian army had
been victorious and the soldiers would soon sail home in triumph. The
tiny birds had flown all the long leagues across the sea to carry the
glad news to the waiting people.
Up in the hut in the Italian highlands Leonardo and his mother still
watched and wondered, when one evening a few days later Armando, the
village weaver, came by on his way home from the city. He was greatly
excited and called to them as he stopped at the door.
“Rejoice,” he said, “for the war is over!”
“How do you know?” the mother asked. “Are the soldiers back?”
“No. But the pigeons brought the word, and every one is glad.”
“Pigeons!” exclaimed Leonardo. “My pigeons! Then after all I did
something for Venice.”
And he spoke the truth. So much did the message mean to the anxious
people, that the lawmakers said they would always keep the birds, they
and their young and their children’s young. And although hundreds of
years have passed since then, still the gray-winged creatures fly about
St. Mark’s Square, and the people love and feed them. For they know
they are descended from the pair sent to the Doge by a mountain boy,
Leonardo’s pigeons, that long ago flew across the wide seas, bringing
word of the victory of the Venetian hosts.
THE COMING OF THE WONDER TREE
RETOLD FROM AN ARABIAN LEGEND
(_Geography—Nature Study_)
Abi Ben Ahmed was a chief of Araby, and there was no sweeter child in the
land than his little daughter Zuleika. She was fair to look upon, with
eyes slender as an almond and soft as a gazelle’s, and the goodness of
her heart was known to every one in the tribe. Lowly slave and mighty
sheik alike loved her, and when she was with her father he forgot all his
trouble.
One evening when the sun was dropping low over the desert, Zuleika sat
in front of the tent waiting for a chance to have her supper. Her father
was eating just then, for by the laws of Arabian politeness women and
children must wait for meals until their lords and masters have finished.
She was hungry, yet she did not mind the delay, because she knew nothing
else, and when you think all the world does things as you do, your way
does not seem hard. So she watched the color flame across the western
sky, hummed snatches of song, and made pictures in the sand with her
fingers.
Suddenly, away to the south, a yellow cloud seemed to rise out of the
desert. It moved nearer, and as Zuleika watched it her dark eyes began to
sparkle. She knew what it meant and it made her glad.
“Father,” she called, “some one is riding this way.”
Abi Ben Ahmed left his supper and came from the tent to see. The Arab is
fond of his food and very loth to leave it, but when strangers almost
never come by it is worth going without a meal to see them.
“Yes,” he agreed, as his piercing eyes scanned the southern horizon,
“some one is traveling across the desert.”
Zuleika danced with delight. Only once or twice since she could remember
had any one come to the camp, for it was in the very heart of El Nedjed,
and there was little traveling in those far-off days. Long before, when
she was a tiny girl, a traveler had come that way, and while he lingered
at camp, told of the blue Persian Gulf beyond the Oman shore, and of the
music of its plashing waves. No word has such a magical sound to the Arab
as “water,” and to hear of lakes and rivers of it is like some exquisite
fairy tale.
“It is a desert of water more beautiful than the land,” he said in the
soft, sweet tongue of the East. “Houris dwell there, and often when the
moon is shining they come out and sport upon the sands.”
The tale fascinated her at the time, and had always stayed in her memory.
That is why she was happy to see a stranger approaching. She thought he
might tell her of the lovely realm beyond.
As the cloud rolled nearer they saw a rider on a milk-white steed. Abi
Ben Ahmed called to his men to come and welcome the stranger, for an Arab
who lets even one slave stay away when a guest arrives, is lacking in
courtesy. So they advanced, stalwart, dark-skinned men, whose turbaned
heads were bowed almost to the ground as they gave the low salaam of the
East, while the chief spoke words of welcome to his camp.
Very swarthy was the rider, and of proud demeanor that proclaimed him a
person of much consequence, and as he returned Ben Abi’s salute he spoke
with dignity befitting his bearing.
“I bring greeting from the sheik Ben Nedi,” he announced. “He rides this
way tomorrow.”
The chief replied, “Mighty is Ben Nedi, and a man of high esteem among
his people. He shall have welcome and all that Arab hospitality can
offer.”
Then, leading the way, Ben Ahmed took the stranger to the tent, where
camel’s milk and dried goat’s flesh were set before him.
Zuleika, on the sand without, could hear their words, but the joyous
light was no longer in her eyes. Her face was drawn in wrinkles, and
her lip quivered as if she were about to cry. She knew that the man
expected on the morrow was not only a powerful chieftain, but a teacher
and prophet as well, and that according to the Arab custom every person
in camp, even to the lowliest slave, would lay gifts before him. For
it is believed by the desert people that to do so brings a blessing.
But Zuleika, although she was a chieftain’s daughter, had nothing to
offer, for the wealth of Arab rulers is in their flocks and lands, and
the poorest child of the West has more treasures than had this little
princess of the desert.
“If I had my baby camel I could give that,” she thought as she listened
to the murmurs in the women’s tent and knew that all was excitement there
over the coming of the stranger.
But the camel she had loved and petted had died a few weeks before, and
she had nothing else.
“Do not grieve,” her mother said when she saw tears in the big almond
eyes and asked the reason they were there. “The law of giving does not
apply to children, and the sheik Ben Nedi, who is as wise as he is
powerful, knows that sometimes empty hands give most of all. The blessing
comes of having the great desire, not through the treasure that is
offered.”
But Zuleika did grieve, and the world seemed very dark. And after she
went to bed she thought about it until she grew so restless she could not
lie quietly. So she crept outside and sat on the ground.
It was midnight, and Abi Ben Ahmed and the stranger slept in the tent.
The slaves, both men and women, were sleeping too, and nothing broke the
stillness of the desert night save an occasional breeze that shifted the
loose sand, or a stirring among the animals just beyond. She sat there
for a minute, then stole out across the waste. Past the camel keep she
went, hurrying through the silver of the moonlight until she came to a
rock that rose out of the desert like a grizzled head facing westward. It
was her favorite spot, for her mother had told her that a lovely houri
(fairy) once made her haunt there, and she hoped she might come back and
do wonderful things for her as she was said to have done in the long ago.
So she climbed up and looked across the desert.
Away to the west, glowing more brightly than any other in the sky, was
the star that according to Arab teaching shines always over Mecca, the
city of the Prophet. The sight of it made her grieve more than ever over
the thought of her empty hands, and she began to cry.
Then, with a sound of wonderful music, a white creature rose out of the
sands. Her beauty was more radiant than any of which Zuleika had ever
dreamed, and jewels of many colors glistened in her hair. Her smile was
wonderfully sweet, and the girl knew it must be the good fairy returned
to her old haunt.
“Why do you weep?” she asked.
Zuleika answered with a low salaam, “The prophet comes tomorrow, and I
have nothing to offer him because the baby camel I would have given is
dead.”
“But you have a gift more precious than the others,” the fairy spoke.
The little girl was amazed.
“I!” she exclaimed. “Why, I have nothing!”
“Ah, but you have,” came the low reply. “The desire in the heart. That is
the only thing worth giving, and that you have. But you shall have still
another. Come here in the morning at sunrise, and you will find it on the
sands.”
The radiant creature glided away in the light, that dimmed as she went,
and in a moment Zuleika could see only the desert and her father’s camp
beyond the rock.
Creeping down, she went back to the tent to bed. But the beauty of the
shining creature was in her eyes and brain, and she could not sleep.
Eagerly she waited for the coming of morning, and as soon as she heard a
stirring beyond the tents, and knew that Hassan, the camel keeper, was
looking after the animals, she bounded out of bed and down to the place
of rock. Her mother saw her go, but thought nothing about it, for it was
the time of gray dawn when every Arab looks in prayer toward Mecca, and
she was probably going to the fairy rock for her devotions. But Zuleika
thought of something besides her prayers.
When she came to the spot she stared around, wondering if it could be
the place she had visited in the night. Then only a glittering waste
stretched far as the eye could reach. Now there was a tree, straight and
branchless almost to the crown, where from beneath wide-spreading leaves
hung bunches of pulpy fruit. Nothing like it had been seen on the desert
before.
Wild with delight, she rushed back to camp and told of the wonder.
“A tree on the desert!” her father exclaimed. “It cannot be.”
Nor could she make him believe so strange a thing had happened until she
led him to the spot. But there it stood, with head held high like an Arab
sheik, and when he tasted of the fruit he found it good.
In the late afternoon of the following day the caravan of the sheik
Ben Nedi came to the camp of Abi Ben Ahmed. The women within the tents
received him with singing, and the men with low salaams. Then the gifts
were brought: the finest camels of the herd, turban cloth enough for all
the men of his train, and silk, a portion of her mother’s marriage dower
worth the price of many camels. It had been brought by ship across the
sea and by caravan over the desert, and was rainbow-hued and fine, such
as is woven only in the Vale of Cashmere. The great man received them
with gratitude, and spoke words of praise for the tribe of Ben Ahmed.
“Surely nothing more splendid can be set before a sheik,” he said.
But the chief smiled and answered, “Not so, O mighty prophet! Zuleika’s
gift, the finest of all, is yonder on the desert.”
Then he led the way to the place of rock and pointed to the wonder tree
that had sprung up in the night. Ben Nedi found the fruit cooling and
sweet, and as he listened to the story, he stood with dewy eyes.
“The gift of a child’s tears!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that is most precious
of all. The Arab will bless the day it came to be.”
And the prophecy was fulfilled. It still grows in the depths of the
desert, the wonder tree of the East that men call the date palm, and the
Arab blesses it whenever he rides that way. He knows that for a thousand
years and more it has been the salvation of the solitary wanderer across
the wastes, and that as long as it lifts its stately head above the sands
he will have food from its fruit, clothing from its fiber, and shelter
from the noonday heat.
THE GIFT OF THE GNOMES
THE SWISS LEGEND OF THE ALP HORN
(_Geography—Ethics_)
In the days of long ago a chamois hunter, caught in a storm on the
mountains, took refuge in a deserted hut. The floor was so wet and cold
that to stay there was almost as bad as being out in the rain and hail,
and so he climbed into the loft and lay down on a pile of straw.
Just how long he slept he did not know, but after a while he was awakened
by the tinkle of bells and the lowing of many cattle. That seemed very
strange, for it was almost winter, and Swiss herdsmen drive their flocks
to the valley early in the autumn. Yet as he looked out through the
tiny window he saw herds on every alp, herds hundreds strong, cropping
luxuriant grass that grew out of the snow.
Then he heard a noise below in the hut, and peeping down through a knot
hole, saw three strange-looking little men. They were warming themselves
beside a fire that blazed on the hearth, and by their long green cloaks
and red caps he knew that they were gnomes of the Alps.
They were bustling about and seemed to be making cheese. One of them
stirred the milk in a big silver kettle, one scurried in and out of the
hut bringing fresh milk to add to that which was already cooking, and one
fed the fire with moss and dry branches, which piled up out of the earth.
After a while one of the gnomes poured something into the kettle, the
second one brought out three golden bowls, and the third blew a blast on
a horn that was seven times as large as himself.
Then the hunter heard the sound of cattle lowing nearer and nearer, as
if they were drawn by the music of the horn, and a moment later a voice
called out, “Come down from the loft, Moni, and taste of the good things
in the bowls.”
This amazed him, for he was sure they had not seen him, and how could
they know his name? But he crept down from his straw pile, as he was bid,
and into the room.
“Choose whichever you please,” the little man said, “and besides the
drink in the bowl you will receive a gift that goes with the liquid of
your choice.”
The golden bowls stood side by side on the floor, and each one contained
a different-colored liquid. One was red, like the wine of Geneva, one
yellow as the honey of Zurich, and the third was white like goat’s milk.
Moni looked from one to the other, deciding which to take. He was hungry
from his long tramp over the crags in the storm and needed milk far more
than honey or wine, so he chose that bowl and drank greedily.
Then the little gnomes began to dance.
“Ah,” the cheese maker shouted, “you have won the Alp horn!”
“Yes,” another exclaimed, “and it is a precious gift. You can make other
horns like it, and teach the people how to call their herds, which will
not stray away and be lost as happens now. Thus the herdsmen will become
very prosperous.”
“But remember, if you wish to be happy, you must give up chamois hunting,
and never again kill a harmless wild creature.”
The gnomes disappeared, and with them went the cattle, the kettle, and
the shining bowls. But the horn lay where the little man had dropped it,
and as the hunter looked at it he found it was pure silver. Catching it
up, he ran down the mountain side to the hut where his sweetheart lived.
He told her the story and showed her the Alp horn, and she was very
happy; for she never had wanted him to be a chamois hunter, as the life
was full of danger, and she loved the poor little animals that he killed.
Now he would tend flocks as she did, and they would be happy in the life
of herding.
At first the hunter thought he could not change his ways, for he loved
to roam over the mountains and bound from crag to crag in pursuit of the
fleet-footed creatures, but the promise of the gnomes and the pleas of
Heidi persuaded him, and he gathered a herd and tended it all summer.
He made an Alp horn like the one he had received in the hut and gave it
to the maiden, and sometimes as they tended their cattle on different
sides of the valley, they would call across to each other, and they were
happy and contented—until, one evening, he forgot the warning of the
gnomes and shot a chamois.
Then he raised his horn to call good night to his sweetheart. But she did
not answer. He blew blast after blast, but only the echoes came back,
instead of the sound of the voice he knew and loved. Darkness fell and
stars flashed like diamonds above the snowy Jungfrau, and still he called
and sought her, but found no trace. The next morning, as he moved with
his herd, a boy told him of a strange happening.
“Last night at sunset time I was watching my goats,” he said, “and saw a
girl standing on the mountain side above her cattle. She smiled as the
wine color of the Alpine glow crept down toward Chamounix, and throwing
back her head, sang one of our herd songs. Suddenly she disappeared, but
she could not have fallen, and just then an arrow whizzed through the air
and fell on the spot where she had been standing.”
He took the arrow out of his peasant blouse and showed it to the hunter,
who recognized it as his own, the one he had shot at the chamois.
Then Moni remembered the words of the gnomes, and knew that because he
had forgotten their warning he had lost Heidi. He burned his arrows and
sorrowfully went back to herding, never again to shoot a wild creature of
the hills. By day he followed the cattle, and by night made Alp horns,
always thinking of his sweetheart. But he never saw her again. Some of
the herdsmen say that she fled in grief because he broke his word to her,
and some declare that the gnomes carried her away to an ice palace in a
crevasse. But nobody knows. They know only that from that time forth he
tended flocks and made Alp horns, until every herdsman in the mountains
had one, and because they could keep the cattle from straying and getting
lost, they became more prosperous than they had ever dreamed of being.
Since then every peak and valley in Switzerland has resounded to the
notes of the Alp horn. Throughout the summer time they are heard around
the lakes of Zug and Geneva, and the cattle follow them as the children
of Hamelin town followed the music of the piper. They echo along the
Jungfrau as the shepherds behind Interlaken call their flocks together,
and their weird sweet blasts mingle with the songs of herd girls as they
yodel to each other across the ravines. Travelers from every land smile
at the sound of them, for one of the charms of going to Switzerland is
in hearing the Alp horns; but very few of these strangers know that the
mountain people say the reason the sound is so magical to the cattle is
because in the beginning the horn came from the gnomes.
THE DUTY THAT WASN’T PAID
(_Biography—Music—Ethics_)
More than a hundred years ago a man and his two children were journeying
from their home in Salzburg to Vienna. They traveled by the Danube boat,
and Marianne, the sister, stood by the rail tossing pebbles into the
water and watching the turbulent river swallow them up. Her dress was
worn almost threadbare, but her face was so sweet and her eyes were so
large and bright that she looked pretty for all her shabbiness.
Just behind her on the deck her father and brother were talking. “If we
make some money in the city you’ll buy sister a new dress, won’t you,
Father?” little Wolfgang asked.
Marianne whirled and started toward him. She knew that was sure to make
her father sad, and she called, “Don’t coax, Wolfgang. My dress will do
very well until we can afford to buy another, and a new one will seem all
the nicer because of my having worn this one so long.”
Her brother turned his big, earnest eyes upon her, and answered, “But,
Marianne, I know you want one. I heard you wish for it by the evening
star, and last night you put it in your prayer.”
Father Mozart turned from them with a sad look on his face, and walked
up and down the deck, wishing very much he could do what Wolfgang asked.
But he was just a poor orchestra conductor with an income so small he had
to stretch it hard to provide food and shelter for his family. Marianne
must wear the shabby frock until better times began, which he hoped would
be soon. They were to give some concerts in the Austrian capital, and
maybe in that rich, music-loving city would earn enough to make them more
comfortable than they had been before. But until then they must not spend
a penny save what was needed for food and shelter, because the customs
fee on the harp they carried must be paid, and that would reduce their
little fund to a very small amount.
Wolfgang, too, thought about it as the boat crept in and out between the
hills, and wondered much if there was no way in which Marianne might
have the dress before they played in Vienna. His old teacher in Salzburg
had often told him that there is a way out of every difficulty if one is
clever enough to think of it, and there must be out of this. But although
he tried and tried he could not find one. His own suit was bright and
new, for his birthday was just past and it had been his uncle’s gift. But
Marianne was a very shabby little girl, and he knew she was unhappy even
though she was brave and sweet about it.
They were gliding past the ruins of the castle that once, men said, had
been the prison of Richard the First, England’s Lion-Hearted King, when
his enemies took him captive on his return from the holy wars. Wolfgang
thought of the many brave things that soldier ruler had done during the
Crusades, for often in the twilight time at Salzburg, as they waited for
the father to come from his work, the mother told his tale, and of how
the faithful servant Blondel found him at last by singing a song he knew
the master loved.
“He was very brave and wise, too,” the boy thought as he looked at the
crumbling pile. “He would have found a way for Marianne to have a new
dress if she had been his sister.”
Was it the prayer being answered, or just the fulfillment of the wish
made by the evening star? For while he thought, an idea came into his
head. It was a good idea, it seemed to him, so good that it made him
smile. If it worked out, and he believed it would, Marianne might have
the dress she wanted so much, because then his father would have more
money to spend.
Just to the south they could see the great spire of St. Stephens, a tall,
gray finger against the sky, which told that Vienna was not far away. As
it grew nearer and nearer, looming up bigger and plainer before them,
Wolfgang thought more and more of his idea, until when they reached the
mooring his eyes were dancing and his cheeks were aflame. His father
believed the thought of seeing the great capital had excited him, but
that was not it at all. He had a secret plan and could hardly wait until
he knew whether or not it would work out.
The journey was ended and the people were going ashore. “Please loosen
the cover, Father,” he said as Leopold Mozart carried the harp toward the
customs gate.
“Ah, you are proud of it!” the man answered with a smile.
Wolfgang did not reply, thinking what a poor guesser his father was.
He watched him as he set the instrument down and undid the wrapping,
bringing the polished frame and glistening strings into full view. Then
he went over and took his place beside the harp as the customs officer
drew near, and Marianne came and stood beside him. She had forgotten all
about her shabby dress in her eagerness to find out how much duty they
would have to pay.
“What have you to declare?” the man asked.
“Only a harp,” Leopold Mozart answered, as he laid his hand on their one
treasure.
“It is a beautiful instrument and valuable,” the official said as he
looked at it, and named as the price of the duty an amount so big as to
cut their little hoard almost in half.
Father Mozart’s face grew very serious, and the merriment went out of
Marianne’s eyes. But Wolfgang did not worry at all. He still had that
idea in his mind, and believed it would work out.