Part 9

So when the girl came into his room that night she found the prince wide awake, and then she told him how she had come there. "You have just come in time," said the prince, "for to-morrow I was to be married to the princess; but I won't have that Long-nose, and you are the only one that can save me. I will say that I want to see what my bride can do, and if she is fit to be my wife; then I will ask her to wash the shirt with the three tallow stains on it. She will try, for she does not know that it is you who dropped the tallow on the shirt; but that can only be done by Christian folks, and not by a pack of trolls like we have in this place; and so I will say that I will not have anybody else for a bride except the one who can wash the shirt clean, and I know you can do that." And they felt very glad and happy, and they went on talking all night about the joyful time in store for them.

The next day, when the wedding was to take place, the prince said: "I think I must see first what my bride can do!"--"Yes, quite so!" said the stepmother.

"I have got a very fine shirt, which I am going to use for my wedding shirt; but there are three tallow stains on it which I want washed out; and I have made a vow that I will not take any other woman for a wife than the one who is able to do that; if she cannot do that, she is not worth having," said the prince.

"Well, that was easy enough," said the stepmother and agreed to this trial. Well, the princess with the long nose set to washing the best she could, but the more she washed the bigger grew the stains. "Why, you cannot wash," said the old witch, her stepmother; "let me try!"--but no sooner did she take the shirt than it got still worse, and the more she washed and rubbed the bigger and blacker the stains grew.

So did the other trolls try their hands at washing, but the longer they worked at it the dirtier the shirt grew, till at last it looked as if it had been up the chimney. "Ah, you are not worth anything, the whole lot of you!" said the prince; "there's a poor girl under the window just outside here, and I am sure she can wash much better than any of you. Come in, my girl!" he shouted out to her.--Yes, she would come in.--"Can you wash this shirt clean?" asked the prince.--"Well, I don't know," she said, "but I will try."

And no sooner had she taken the shirt and dipped it in the water, than it was as white as the driven snow, if not whiter. "Yes, you shall be my wife," said the prince. But the old witch flew into such a rage that she burst; and the princess with the long nose and all the trolls must have burst also, for I never heard of them since. The prince and his bride then set free all the people who had been carried off and imprisoned there, and so they took as much gold and silver with them as they could carry, and moved far away from the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon.

* * * * *

Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever; _Do_ noble things, not _dream_ them all day long, And so make life, death, and that _vast forever_, One grand, sweet song.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE BABY IN THE HOME.

GEO. MAC DONALD.

Where did you come from, baby, dear? Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get the eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose? I saw something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pretty ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherub's wings.

How did they all come just to be you? God thought of me and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, my dear? God thought about you, and so I am here."

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

N. P. WILLIS.

I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice; And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for four score years, And they say that I am old-- That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true--it is very true-- I am old, and I "bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go-- For the world, at best, is a dreary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay.

THE KING OF THE NIGHT.

BARNEY CORNWALL.

In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he's abroad and well; Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him, All mock him outright by day; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away; O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl.

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveths the woods deep gloom;

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill; O, when the moon shines and the dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!

Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight; The owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, He is lord in the dark green wood; Nor lonely the bird nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside; So, when the night falls and dogs do howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl.

We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.

A 'RITHMETIC LESSON.

PHILLIP BAILEY.

Oh, ho, hum! my sakes alive! Where is my old 'rithmetic? Here 'tis: five times one are five. This most makes a fellow sick! Let me see: well, four times eight, Guess I'll have to take a look; I'm _so sick_ of this old slate. Wish the scamp that made this book Had to sleep on stacks of rules, Covered up with multiplication! Don't see who invented schools-- Meanest things in all creation!

It must be done before I go! To-morrow's lesson's harder still.-- What's that! the boys are balling snow. Oh, dear! I wonder if I ever will, Think out this sum, in time for tea!

Press on! surmount the rocky steeps; Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps; He wins who dares the hero's march.

Be thou a hero! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And through the ebon walls of night, Hew down a passage unto day.

FAIRIES--OR FIRE-FLIES.

MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.

Let's see. We believe in wings, We believe in the grass and dew, We believe in the moon--and other things, That may be true.

But are there any? Talk low. (Look! What is that eery spark?) If there _are_ any--why, there they go, Out in the dark.

Nay, speak no ill, but lenient be To others' failings as your own; If you're the first a fault to see, Be not the first to make it known; For life is but a passing day, No lip may tell how brief its span; Then, oh! the little time we stay, Let's speak of all the best we can.

THE AMBITIOUS TWIG.

AN ALLEGORY.

LUCIE COBBE.

Many years ago, two little branches grew in a hedgerow; they were brothers, but their tastes were different. The younger one was lazy, and liked to stay in the shade; but the elder one kept pushing steadily upwards, and making all the haste to grow that he could.

He had seven leaves each side, but his brother had only three.

"Why can't you stay where you are?" said the younger one; "you are well in the middle of the hedge."

"I want to get higher," sighed the elder twig; "there is plenty to be seen outside."

And he kept growing taller and taller.

"You are going beyond us," cried his sister twigs, "bend down a little, brother."

"If I bent my back I should stop growing," said the twig; and he listened to catch their voices.

"Conceited fellow! he is trying to grow the tallest!" said some of the twigs; and a murmuring swept through the hedge.

One day more of pushing and striving, and he was nearly at the top of the hedge. He could no longer see his brother, but he called to him down through the branches.

"Brother, where are you?" he cried, "and what do you see down there?"

"I am wrapped up in softness," said the fair younger brother; "the green boughs are round me, the wind does not touch me--all round me is nothing but green. Just down below me grows a round, white daisy--oh, such a beautiful daisy! All the day long I am looking at her."

The first brother felt a little lonely when he heard all this, but the sun still drew him upward. The next day he was quite at the top of the hedge, and a head and shoulders taller than any of his brothers. The voice of his younger brother came up to him, but it sounded very faint and far away.

"Are you happy, brother, and what can you see up there?"

"I see the sky," said the elder twig; "there is blue all round me instead of green. I see trees that are taller than our hedge a great deal, and hills that are higher than all. I see white clouds like pillows, and birds that are lost in the clouds. Ah, I have longed for this! I feel a great joy and rapture to the end of my smallest leaf!"

"We don't know what you mean," said the younger one, "and there can't be anything higher than this hedge. And why do you speak so softly? We cannot hear half that you say."

"Insolent fellow! he is taller than any of us!" cried some of the twigs; but by this time he was too far off to hear their voices at all.

"I shall have a prize," said the twig to himself, "because I have grown so tall. What will it be? I will ask the swallow. Swallow, shall I have a gold crown?"

"No, not a crown," said the swallow, but something as good, I dare say. Far away down in the country I know of a twig like you. He grew far away from his fellows--so tall, and so strong, and so fair. He saw the world and all that was passing. He stretched right over the stile, and shaded those who sat there. He was painted by an artist, because he was so lovely. And last of all a fair wild rose came and rested on his bosom."

"I shall get my reward," said the little twig; "my white rose will come at last."

Just then there came walking around the garden, the gardener with his great long shears.

"The hedge is growing uneven," he said; "here's a twig much longer than the rest."

Clip, clip, clip, went the great big shears, and the tallest twig lay broken in the dust!

"They are all of one size now, I am glad to see," said the gardener, and he went away contented to his work.

* * * * *

That very law which moulds the tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves this world a sphere, And guides the planets in their course!

SAMUEL ROGERS: "TO A TEAR."

THE TURK AND THE FIDDLER.

GRIMM.

There was once a rich farmer who had a faithful and diligent servant named Fritz. He was always the first up in the morning and last in bed at night, and whenever there was any hard work that others were averse to, he was always willing to do it. He was a good-natured fellow, but was content with everything, and was always cheerful.

At the end of the first year his master gave him no wages, thinking to himself that thus he would not only save something, but would also retain the man in his service. To this Fritz never said a word, but stayed another year with him, working as hard as he had the first; and when at the close of the second twelve-month he still received no wages, he submitted to that too, and continued to serve on.

At the end of the third year his master bethought himself, and put his hand into his pocket as if to give him something, but took out nothing. Then Fritz said, "Master, I have worked hard for you these three years; pray give me now what is right for my trouble; I want to go out into the wide world, and look about me," The miser answered, "Yes, my good man, you have served me honestly and faithfully, and for this I will now reward you generously."

He then put his hand into his pocket, and took out three farthings, which he gave him, saying, "Here is a farthing for each year; this is a great and generous reward, such as you would not have got from any other master." The simple-hearted fellow, who knew very little about money, put the sum into his pocket, thinking to himself, "Now that my pocket is full of money, why should I plague myself with hard work any longer?"

So he set out, and roamed over hill and dale, singing and dancing with joy. One day, when passing by a bush, a dwarf popped out of it, and accosted him, saying, "Whither away my merry fellow? I see your load of cares is not heavy to bear."

"Why should I be melancholy?" answered Fritz; "I have plenty of money; I have my three years' earnings safe in my pocket."

"How much may your treasure be?" said the dwarf. "How much? Three whole farthings," replied Fritz. "I wish you would give them to me," said the other; "I am very poor and needy, and can earn nothing; but you are young, and can easily work for your bread."

Then Fritz, who was very kind-hearted, took pity on the dwarf, and gave him his three farthings, saying, "Take them, I shall not be the worse off for the want of them," The dwarf then said, "As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes, one for each farthing; so choose whatever you like."

"My first wish," said Fritz, "is to have a fowling-piece that will bring down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set everyone dancing that hears me play on it; and thirdly, I should like to be able to make everyone grant me whatever I ask."

"All your wishes shall be fulfilled," said the dwarf. He thrust his hand into the bush, and only think! there lay the fiddle and the fowling-piece ready, as if they had been put there on purpose. So he gave them to Fritz, adding, "And whatever you ask for, nobody in the world shall ever refuse you."

"What else can my heart wish for?" said Fritz to himself; "I now have everything that I can desire;" and so he journeyed merrily on his way. He had not gone far before he met an old Turk, bearded like a goat, who was standing near a tree, listening to the sprightly song of a bird perched on its topmost branch.

"Oh, what a wonderful bird!" exclaimed the Turk; "how can such a little creature have such a powerful voice? Oh, if he were only mine! If one could but put salt on his tail and catch him!"

"If that's all," said Fritz, "I will soon bring him down."

So he took up his fowling-piece, and fired, when down came the bird into the thorn bushes that grew at the foot of the tree. "I will pick it up and keep it for myself, as you have hit it," said the Turk; and, laying himself down upon the ground, he began to work his way into the bush. But as soon as he had got into the middle of it, a fit of wanton playfulness seizing Fritz, he took up his fiddle, and gave him a tune, and the Turk began to dance and spring about; and the more lively the fiddler scraped, the more lively grew the dance.

The thorns soon began to tear the Turk's shabby clothes, comb his goat's beard, and scratch and wound him all over. "Oh, dear!" cried he, "mercy, mercy, master! pray stop your fiddling! I do not want to dance." But Fritz paid no heed, and only struck up another tune, thereby making the Turk cut and caper higher than ever, so that pieces torn out of his clothes, hung about the thorn.

"Oh, mercy!" cried the Turk, "do stop your fiddling, master! I will give you whatever you ask, a bagfull of gold, if you only will!"

"Ah! if you are as generous as that," said the man, "I will put up my fiddle; but I must say you are a capital dancer." He then took the offered purse, put up his fiddle, and traveled onward.

The Turk stood still looking after his tormentor for some time, and when he was almost out of sight, began to cry as loud as he could, "You miserable fiddler! you ale-house scraper! take care, if I get hold of you I will make you take to your heels; you beggarly knave! you ragamuffin!" And he went on loading him with all manner of abuse.

After having thus given vent to his feelings, he went to the judge, saying, "See, your honor, how I have been robbed and ill-used by a rascal on the highway! the very stones might pity me. Do but look at the deplorable state I am in. My clothes are torn, my body is wounded and scratched; the little money I had is gone, purse and all! nothing but ducats, one piece finer than the other. For Heaven's sake, do have the fellow caught and imprisoned!"

The judge then asked him whether it was a soldier who had put him in that plight with his sword. "By no means," said the Turk; "he had no sword, but he had a fowling-piece hanging on his back, and a fiddle round his neck. The fellow may easily be recognized."

So the judge sent out his bailiffs in search of the man. They met the honest fellow walking slowly and carelessly on, and, on searching him, found the money-bag in question.

When he was taken before the judge he said, "I have not touched the Turk, nor have I taken away his money; he offered it me of his own free will, if I would but leave off playing the fiddle, as he could not bear my music."

"Not a word of truth in it!" cried the Turk, "those are bare-faced lies." And the judge not believing it either, said, "That is a very poor excuse;" and sentenced the poor man to the gallows for highway robbery.

As he was being taken away, the Turk cried after him, "You lubber! you shall now get your well-deserved punishment!" The poor man ascended the ladder very composedly, accompanied by the executioner; but when he had got up to the top of it, he turned round and addressed the judge, saying, "May it please your honor to grant me but one last request before I die!"

"Anything but your life," replied the other.

"I do not ask my life," said Fritz; "only let me play one tune upon my fiddle for the last time."

The Turk cried out, "Oh, no, no! for pity's sake don't let him! don't let him!" But the judge said, "Why should I not grant him this last request? He shall do so." The fact was, he _could not_ say no, because the dwarf's third gift enabled Fritz to make everyone grant whatever he asked. Then the Turk said, "Bind me fast, bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake!" But the condemned man seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune; and at the first note, judge, clerks, and jailor were set agoing; at the second note, all began capering and the hangman let his prisoner go, and prepared to dance; at the third note all were dancing and springing together, and the judge and the Turk took the lead and sprang the highest.

In a little while all the market people who were looking on, old and young, stout and lean, were dancing together; even the very dogs that had come along with them were up on their hind legs, and were leaping along with the rest. And the longer the fiddler played, the higher the dancers capered, so that they knocked their heads together and began to cry out piteously.

At last the judge exclaimed, quite out of breath, "I grant you your life; do but give over playing." Then Fritz suffered himself to be persuaded, stopped playing, and, hanging his fiddle round his neck, came down the ladder. Then, stepping up to the Turk, who was lying breathless on the ground, he said, "You scoundrel! now confess where you got that money from, or I will take my fiddle down and make you dance to another tune." "I stole it, I stole it!" cried he; "but it is you who have won it fairly." The judge then had the Turk taken to the gallows and hung as a thief.

* * * * *

The sober second thought is always essential, and seldom wrong.

MARTIN VAN BUREN.

LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

Mamma's in Heaven! and so, you see, My sister Bet's mamma to me.

Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say, I love her well the whole bright _day_; For Sis is kind as kind can be, Until, indeed, we've finished tea-- Then (why _did_ God make ugly night?) She never, _never_ treats me right. But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head, 'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"

Just when the others, Fred and Fay, Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,-- Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks, Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box--

I must (it's that bad gas, I think, That makes me, somehow, _seem_ to wink!) _Must_ leave them all, to seek the gloom Of sister Bet's close-curtained room, Put on that long, stiff gown I hate, And go to bed--oh, dear! at eight!

Now, is it fair that I who stand Taller than Dolly by a hand, (I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told, That Cousin Doll is ten years old!) And just because I'm only seven, Should be so teazed, yes, almost _driven_, Soon as I've supped my milk and bread, To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?

I've lain between the dusky posts, And shivered when I thought of ghosts; Or else have grown so mad, you know, To hear those laughing romps below, While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!) With one dim lamp for company. I've longed for courage, just to dare Dress softly--then trip down the stair, And in the parlor pop my head With "_No, I will not stay a-bed!_"

I'll do it yet, all quick and bold, No matter how our Bet may scold, For oh! I'm sure it can't be right To keep me here each dismal night, Half scared by shadows grimly tall That dance along the cheerless wall Or by the wind, with fingers chill, Shaking the worn-out window sill-- One might as well be sick, or dead, As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed!

THERE IS NO DEATH.

LORD LYTTON.

There is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some fairer shore; And bright in Heaven's jeweled crown They shine forevermore.

There is no death! The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellowed fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize, And feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest leaves drink daily life, From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall, And flowers may fade and pass away; They only wait through wintry hours, The coming of the May.

There is no death! An angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; He bears our best loved things away; And then we call them "dead."