Part 2

All the Danes, however, were not like these under Guthrum. After some years, more of them came over in the old plundering, burning way. Among them was a fierce pirate named Hastings, who had the boldness to sail up the Thames with eighty ships. For three years there was war with these Danes; and there was a famine in the country, too, and a plague, upon both human creatures and beasts. But King Alfred, whose mighty heart never failed him, built large ships, with which to pursue the pirates on the sea. He encouraged his soldiers, by his brave example, to fight valiantly against them on the shore. At last he drove them all away; and then there was repose in England.

As great and good in peace as he was great and good in war, King Alfred never rested from his labors to improve his people. He loved to talk with clever men, and with travellers from foreign countries, and to write down what they told him for his people to read. He had studied Latin, after learning to read English. And now one of his labors was to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue, that his people might be improved by reading them.

He made just laws that his people might live more happily and freely. He turned away all partial judges that no wrong might be done. He punished robbers so severely that it was a common thing to say that under the great King Alfred, garlands of golden chains and jewels might have hung across the streets and no man would have touched them. He founded schools. He patiently heard causes himself in his court of justice. The great desires of his heart were to do right to all his subjects, and to leave England better, wiser, and happier in all ways than he had found it.

His industry was astonishing. Every day he divided into portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit. That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax torches, or candles, made, all of the same size and notched across at regular distances. These candles were always kept burning, and as they burned down he divided the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide it into hours upon the clock. But it was found that the wind and draughts of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and windows, caused the candles to burn unequally. To prevent this the king had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. And these were the first lanterns ever made in England.

King Alfred died in the year 901; but as long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour.--CHARLES DICKENS.

A SONG

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, There is ever a something sings alway: There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, The swallows are twittering carelessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair; There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-- There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the midnight black or the midday blue: The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirrups the whole night through; The buds may blow and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere: But whether the sun or the rain or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. --JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

_By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Copyright, 1898._

BETTER THAN GOLD

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and title a thousand fold, Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that always please; A heart that can feel for a neighbor’s woe, And share his joys with a genial glow; With sympathies large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold.

Better than gold is a thinking mind, That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore:-- The sage’s lore and the poet’s lay, The glories of empires passed away. The world’s great dream will thus unfold And yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home, Where all the fireside charities come,-- The shrine of love and the haven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. However humble the home may be, Or tried with sorrow by Heaven’s decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold And centre there, are better than gold. --MRS. J. M. WINTON.

THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL

Once upon a time a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.

By chance a poor Brahman came by. “Let me out of this cage, O pious one!” cried the tiger.

“Nay, nay, my friend,” replied the Brahman, mildly. “You would probably eat me up if I did.”

“Not at all!” declared the tiger, with many vows; “on the contrary, I should be forever grateful, and would serve you as a slave!”

Now, when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept, the pious Brahman’s heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. At once, out sprang the tiger, and seizing the poor man, cried:--

“What a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now? After being cooped up so long I am terribly hungry.”

In vain the Brahman pleaded for his life. All that he could gain was a promise from the tiger to abide by the decision of the first three things that he chose to question concerning the tiger’s action.

So the Brahman first asked a tree what it thought of the matter, but the tree replied coldly:--

“What have you to complain about? Don’t I give shade and shelter to all who pass by, and don’t they in return tear down my branches and pull off my leaves to feed their cattle? Don’t complain, but be a man!”

Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a buffalo turning a water-wheel. He laid his case before it, but he got no comfort, for the buffalo answered:--

“You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! Do you not see how hard I work? While I was young and strong they fed me on the best of food, but now when I am old and feeble they yoke me here, and give me only the coarsest fodder to eat!”

The Brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion of the tiger’s conduct.

“My dear sir,” said the road, “how foolish you are to expect anything else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes and the husks of their grain!”

On hearing this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully. On his way he met a jackal, who called out:--

“Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as miserable as a fish out of water!”

Then the Brahman told him all that had occurred.

“How very confusing!” said the jackal, when the recital was ended; “will you tell it over again, for everything has got mixed up in my mind?”

The Brahman told his story all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.

“It’s very odd,” said he, sadly, “but it all seems to go in at one ear and out the other! Take me to the place where it all happened, and then, perhaps, I shall be able to understand it.”

So the cunning jackal and the poor Brahman returned to the cage, and there was the tiger waiting for his victim, and sharpening his teeth and claws.

“You’ve been away a long time!” growled the savage beast, “but now let us begin our dinner.”

“_Our_ dinner!” thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked together with fright; “what a delicate way he has of putting it!”

“Give me five minutes, my lord!” he pleaded, “in order that I may explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits.”

The tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again, not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.

“Oh, my poor brain! Oh, my poor brain!” cried the jackal, wringing its paws and scratching its head. “Let me see, how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by--”?

“Pooh! Not at all!” interrupted the tiger. “What a fool you are! _I_ was in the cage.”

“Yes, of course!” cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright. “Yes! I was in the cage--no, I wasn’t--dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me see--the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by. No, no, that’s not it, either! Well, don’t mind me, but begin your dinner, my lord, for I shall never understand it!”

“Yes, you _shall_!” returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal’s stupidity; “I’ll _make_ you understand! Look here. I am the tiger--”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the Brahman--”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the cage--”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And I was in the cage--do you understand?”

“Yes, but please, my lord, how did you get in?”

“How did I get in! Why, in the usual way, of course!” cried the tiger, impatiently.

“O dear me! my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don’t be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?”

At this the tiger lost all patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, “This way! Now do you understand how it was?”

“Perfectly!” grinned the jackal, as he instantly shut the door; “and if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were!”--JOSEPH JACOBS.

_From “Indian Fairy Tales,” by permission of the author._

A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl! But when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!

Utawas’ tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayers; Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past! --THOMAS MOORE.

* * * * *

Attempt the end and never stand in doubt; Nothing’s so hard but search will find it out.

THE SONG SPARROW

There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Beside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird, His gentle, joyful song I heard. Now see if you can tell, my dear, What bird it is, that every year, Sings “Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer.”

He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his head with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade, and every day Repeats his sweet, contented lay; As if to say we need not fear The seasons’ change, if love is here, With “Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer.”

He does not wear a Joseph’s coat Of many colors, smart and gay; His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat. And yet of all the well-dressed throng, Not one can sing so brave a song. It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing to hear His “Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer.”

A lofty place he does not love, But sits by choice, and well at ease, In hedges, and in little trees That stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings; And so he tells in every ear, That lowly homes to heaven are near In “Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer.”

I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, This is the one I’d choose, my dear, Because he’d bless me, every year, With “Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer.” --HENRY VAN DYKE.

_From “The Builders and Other Poems.” Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons._

* * * * *

The only way to have a friend is to be one.

THE CHILD OF URBINO

Many, many years ago, in old Urbino, in the pleasant land of Italy, a little boy stood looking out of a high window into the calm, sunshiny day. He was a pretty boy with hazel eyes and fair hair cut straight above his brows. He wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery about the neck of it, and in his hand he carried a little round cap of the same color.

He was a very happy little boy here in this stately, yet kindly, Urbino. He had a dear old grandfather and a loving mother; and he had a father who was very tender to him, and who was full of such true love of art that the child breathed it with every breath he drew. He often said to himself, “I mean to become a painter, too.” And the child understood that to be a painter was to be the greatest thing in the world; for this child was Raphael, the seven-year-old son of Giovanni Sanzio.

At this time Urbino was growing into fame for its pottery work, and when its duke wished to send a bridal gift or a present on other festal occasions, he often chose some of his own Urbino ware. Jars and bowls and platters and vases were all made and painted at Urbino, whilst Raphael Sanzio was running about on rosy, infantine feet.

There was a master potter in that day, one Benedetto, who did things rare and fine in the Urbino ware. He lived within a stone’s throw of Giovanni Sanzio, and had a beautiful daughter, by name Pacifica. The house of Benedetto was a long, stone building with a porch at the back all overclimbed by hardy rose trees, and looking on a garden in which grew abundantly pear trees, plum trees, and strawberries. The little son of neighbor Sanzio ran in and out of this bigger house and wider garden of Benedetto at his pleasure, for the maiden Pacifica was always glad to see him, and even the master potter would show the child how to lay the color on the tremulous unbaked clay. Raphael loved Pacifica, as he loved everything that was beautiful, and every one that was kind.

Master Benedetto had four apprentices or pupils at that time, but the one that Raphael and Pacifica liked best was one Luca, a youth with a noble, dark beauty of his own. For love of Pacifica he had come down from his mountain home, and had bound himself to her father’s service. Now he spent his days trying in vain to make designs fair enough to find favor in the eyes of his master.

One day, as Raphael was standing by his favorite window in the potter’s house, his friend, the handsome Luca, who was also standing there, sighed so deeply that the child was startled from his dreams. “Good Luca, what ails you?” he queried, winding his arms about the young man’s knees.

“Oh, ‘Faello!” sighed the apprentice, wofully, “here is a chance to win the hand of Pacifica if only I had talent. If the good Lord had only gifted me with a master’s skill, instead of all the strength of this great body of mine, I might win Pacifica.”

“What chance is it?” asked Raphael.

“Dear one,” answered Luca, with a tremendous sigh, “you must know that a new order has come in this very forenoon from the Duke. He wishes a dish and a jar of the very finest majolica to be painted with the story of Esther, and made ready in three months from this date. The master has said that whoever makes a dish and a jar beautiful enough for the great Duke shall become his partner and the husband of Pacifica. Now you see, ‘Faello mine, why I am so bitterly sad of heart; for at the painting of clay I am but a tyro. Even your good father told me that, though I had a heart of gold, yet I would never be able to decorate anything more than a barber’s basin. Alas! what shall I do? They will all beat me;” and tears rolled down the poor youth’s face.

Raphael heard all this in silence, leaning his elbows on his friend’s knee, and his chin on the palms of his own hands. He knew that the other pupils were better painters by far than his Luca; though not one of them was such a good-hearted youth, and for none of them did the maiden Pacifica care.

Raphael was very pensive for a while; then he raised his head and said, “Listen! I have thought of something, Luca. But I do not know whether you will let me try it.”

“You angel child! What would your old Luca deny to you? But as for helping me, put that out of your little mind forever, for no one can help me.”

“Let me try!” said the child a hundred times.

Luca could hardly restrain his shouts of mirth at the audacious fancy. Baby Raphael, only seven years old, to paint a majolica dish and vase for the Duke! But the sight of the serious face of Raphael, looking up with serene confidence, kept the good fellow grave. So utterly in earnest was the child, and so intense was Luca’s despair, that the young man gave way to Raphael’s entreaties.

“Never can I do aught,” he said bitterly. “And sometimes by the help of cherubs the saints work miracles.”

“It shall be no miracle,” replied Raphael; “it shall be myself, and what the dear God has put into me.”

From that hour Luca let him do what he would, and through all the lovely summer days the child shut himself in the garret and studied, and thought, and worked. For three months Raphael passed the most anxious hours of all his sunny young life. He would not allow Luca even to look at what he did. The swallows came in and out of the open window and fluttered all around him; the morning sunbeams came in, too, and made a halo about his golden head. He was only seven years old, but he labored as earnestly as if he were a man grown, his little rosy fingers grasping that pencil which was to make him, in

life and death, more famous than all the kings of the earth.

One afternoon Raphael took Luca by the hand and said to him, “Come.” He led the young man up to the table beneath the window where he had passed so many days of the spring and summer. Luca gave a great cry, and then fell on his knees, clasping the little feet of the child.

“Dear Luca,” he said softly, “do not do that. If it be indeed good, let us thank God.”

What Luca saw was the great oval dish and the great jar or vase with all manner of graceful symbols and classic designs wrought upon them. Their borders were garlanded with cherubs and flowers, and the landscapes were the beautiful landscapes round about Urbino; and amidst the figures there was one white-robed, golden-crowned Esther, to whom the child painter had given the face of Pacifica.

“Oh, wondrous boy!” sighed the poor apprentice as he gazed, and his heart was so full that he burst into tears. At last he said timidly: “But, Raphael, I do not see how your marvellous creation can help me! Even if you would allow it to pass as mine, I could not accept such a thing,--not even to win Pacifica. It would be a fraud, a shame.”

“Wait just a little longer, my good friend, and trust me,” said Raphael.

The next morning was a midsummer day. Now, the pottery was all to be placed on a long table, and the Duke was then to come and make his choice from amidst them. A few privileged persons had been invited, among them the father of Raphael, who came with his little son clinging to his hand.

The young Duke and his court came riding down the street, and paused before the old stone house of the master potter. Bowing to the ground, Master Benedetto led the way, and the others followed into the workshop. In all there were ten competitors. The dishes and jars were arranged with a number attached to each--no name to any.

The Duke, doffing his plumed cap, walked down the long room and examined each production in its turn. With fair words he complimented Signor Benedetto on the brave show, and only before the work of poor Luca was he entirely silent. At last, before a vase and a dish that stood at the farthest end of the table, the Duke gave a sudden cry of wonder and delight.

“This is beyond all comparison,” said he, taking the great oval dish in his hands. “It is worth its weight in gold. I pray you, quick, name the artist.”

“It is marked number eleven, my lord,” answered the master potter, trembling with pleasure and surprise. “Ho, you who reply to that number, stand out and give your name.”

But no one moved. The young men looked at one another. Where was this nameless rival? There were but ten of themselves.

“Ho, there!” cried the master, becoming angry. “Can you not find a tongue? Who has wrought this wondrous work?”

Then the child loosened his little hand from his father’s hold and stepped forward, and stood before the master potter.

“I painted it,” he said, with a pleased smile; “I, Raphael.”

Can you not fancy the wonder, the rapture, the questions, the praise, that followed on the discovery of the child artist? The Duke felt his eyes wet, and his heart swell. He took a gold chain from his own neck and threw it over Raphael’s shoulders.

“There is your first reward,” he said. “You shall have many, O wondrous child, and you shall live when we who stand here are dust!”

Raphael, with winning grace, kissed the Duke’s hand, and then turned to his own father.

“Is it true that I have won the prize?”

“Quite true, my child,” said Sanzio, with tremulous voice.

Raphael looked up at Master Benedetto and gently said, “Then I claim the hand of Pacifica.”

“Dear and marvellous child,” murmured Benedetto, “you are only jesting, I know; but tell me in truth what you would have. I can deny you nothing; you are my master.”

“I am your pupil,” said Raphael, with sweet simplicity. “Had you not taught me the secret of your colors, I could have done nothing. Now, dear Master, and you, my lord Duke, I pray you hear me. By the terms of this contest I have won the hand of Pacifica and a partnership with Master Benedetto. I take these rights, and I give them over to my dear friend, Luca, who is the truest man in all the world, and who loves Pacifica as no other can do.”

Signor Benedetto stood mute and agitated. Luca, pale as ashes, had sprung forward and dropped on his knees.

“Listen to the voice of an angel, my good Benedetto,” said the Duke.

The master burst into tears. “I can refuse him nothing,” he said, with a sob.

“And call the fair Pacifica,” cried the sovereign, “and I shall give her myself, as a dower, as many gold pieces as we can cram into this famous vase. Young man, rise up, and be happy!”

But Luca heard not; he was still kneeling at the feet of Raphael.--LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE.

_By permission of the publishers, Chatto & Windus, London._

* * * * *

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. --SHAKESPEARE.

DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB’S ARMY

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold, And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.