Part 2

When one day her captain appeared suddenly before her and told her that he had brought a cargo of wheat, her pride vanished. She flew into a terrible rage and commanded that every kernel be cast into the sea at once. The captain was shocked at this order and plead with her to allow him to give the wheat to the poor. She repeated her command.

“I will come down to the port myself,” she said, “to make sure that every kernel is cast into the sea.”

The captain made his way sadly back to his vessel. As he did so he met several beggars by the way and told them that a cargo of wheat was to be cast into the sea. By the time the lady reached the dock the poor had gathered there from all parts of the city, hoping to secure some of the grain.

When the lady approached, many imploring hands were extended toward her, but all was in vain. Angry and proud, she made the sailors cast all the wheat into the sea. The captain, powerless to prevent this sinful waste, looked on in quiet rage. When the last kernel had disappeared beneath the water he turned to his haughty mistress.

“As surely as there is a God above us,” he exclaimed, “you will be punished for this sin. The time will come when you, the wealthiest person in Stavoren, will long for a few handfuls of this wasted wheat.”

The lady listened to his words in haughty silence. When he had finished, she took a costly ring from her delicate hand and cast it into the sea.

“When this ring comes back to me,” she said, “I will believe what you say and fear that I may come to want.”

A few hours afterward the lady’s cook was preparing dinner for her. He was opening a large fish which had just been brought from the sea, when to his surprise his eyes fell upon the costly ring. He immediately sent it to his proud mistress. When she recognized it she turned very pale.

Shortly afterward there came a report that one of her counting-houses had been ruined, and another report of disaster came that same evening. All her counting-houses were ruined. Her fleet had been destroyed at sea; her palaces were burning; and her farms were laid waste by storms.

In a few hours everything that she had possessed was stripped from her. The palace in which she lived burned down during the night, and she barely escaped with her life.

Now she was desolate, indeed! The rich people of the city cared nothing for her now that her money was all gone. The poor people whom she had treated with contempt allowed her to die of hunger and cold in a miserable shed.

The city of Stavoren did not profit by the sad end of the haughty lady. The rich people continued to enjoy life and to neglect the poor. It did not matter to them what happened to their wretched fellow creatures. They, like the haughty lady, were truly selfish.

As time went on the sand began to increase in the port, so that it was soon impossible for ships to come to anchor. It grew worse and worse. The waves washed the sand up until a great sand-bar rose above the waters and all further commerce was stopped. It was not very long before the sand bank was covered with little green blades. The people gazed upon it in surprise.

“It is the Lady’s Sand,” they declared. “For it is the wheat that she had cast into the sea that is growing there.”

The wheat grew very rapidly, but bore no fruit. It did not matter to the rich even if traffic had ceased. They did not suffer. The poor, however, were greatly distressed, for they now had nothing to do. They besought help from the rich, but their prayers fell upon deaf ears.

Not long afterward a little leak was discovered in the dyke which protected the city. Through this the sea water crept into the city reservoir, spoiling all the drinking water.

The rich people only laughed, saying that they would drink champagne, since water was not to be had. But what were the poor to do? They crowded around the gates of the rich, imploring a sup of beer, but were rudely driven away.

“It would be a good thing,” said the rich, “if these wretched creatures should actually die. Of what use are they to themselves or to any one else?”

The rich of Stavoren had had their last chance to do good. That very same night when the revelers had returned to sleep, the sea broke down the weakened dykes. Bursting in, it covered up the whole town.

Over the spot where Stavoren once stood the waves now glitter in the bright sun light or plunge and dash when the cold winds come sweeping in from the sea.

Boatmen come rowing up from the desolate little fishing town which now bears the name of the ancient city. When the waters are smooth they rest upon their oars to point out far beneath them the spires and turrets and palaces of Stavoren.

The streets of the old town as it lies beneath the waves, once so populous, are deserted. The market place is empty. No sound is to be heard except when some inquiring fish, swimming through the belfries, strikes one of the bells with his tail. Then there is heard a sad sound which seems to be tolling the knell of the sunken city.

THE BIRD OF PARADISE

There once lived in the monastery at Heisterbach a kindly monk, of great learning and simple manners. He had studied for many years that he might settle some doubts that troubled him.

He had observed that people grow tired of even the best of things. They desire to behold new scenes, to hear new music, and to taste new dishes.

“I wonder if it will be so in Heaven,” he said to himself. “Shall we not grow weary of beauties and joys of Heaven in the endless flow of ages?”

This question perplexed him sorely; but he was unable to answer it to his satisfaction. Wearied with the doubt, he decided to put it away from him if possible. So one beautiful sunny morning in summer he turned his steps toward the woods that stretched away for miles back of the monastery.

It was such a morning as makes one glad to be alive. Silvery clouds were floating like great white ships across the blue sky. The gentle breeze was playing among the branches of the trees. Flowers were blooming and birds were singing happily everywhere.

Earth seemed to breathe forth peace and joy for all mankind. Beauty and blessing were everywhere. Yet, with all this to gladden him, Alfus was not satisfied. His heart was not at ease.

“Alas!” he sighed, “how all is changed! The rapture with which I first looked upon this lovely scene, is gone. The beauty with which it once greeted me is no more. Why must it be so?”

As Alfus was pondering on this thought he wandered on, paying no attention to the path he was following. Hour after hour passed and still he walked on, until finally he became weary and decided to rest. He sat down on a mossy bank and began to look about him.

It was a beautiful spot, and one which he had never visited before, although he thought he was familiar with every place in the forest. The trees were tall and leafy. The branches stretched out forming beautiful arches above him. At his feet were delicate ferns and wild flowers of many different colors. He heard the drowsy hum of the bee and saw a beautiful butterfly flitting about from flower to flower.

His admiration was awakened. It seemed as if he saw a new beauty in the things about him, and he forgot that he was tired. Suddenly there came to him the song of a bird which seemed to be the sweetest he had ever heard. He looked and saw the bird perched upon a tree nearby. It seemed to pour forth its song in one strain of perfect happiness. It seemed so thrilling and so beautiful that Alfus could not think it earthly. With intense delight the monk leaned back against the mossy bank, listening to the strain. The song lasted but a moment and ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Alfus desired to hear it again. He looked for the bird, and waited, but it was gone. Around him all was silence. Even the breeze seemed to have ceased its rustling among the leaves of the trees. The monk slowly rose and began his way back through the woods to the monastery.

But how everything seemed to have changed. Could it be that he was in a part of the woods he had never visited before? He, too, did not seem to be the same. His steps were now halting and slow, and all his body seemed feeble and stiff. As he looked at his beard he saw that it was gray.

He walked on in amazement. The trees seemed to have become much larger since he had entered the forest. Even the bushes had grown into tall trees. He wondered if he were dreaming or if he had lost his mind.

Slowly and painfully he picked his way back through the dense forest, and after several hours of walking came to the open land. Eagerly he looked up to the monastery, but that too had changed. It was older and grayer than before and seemed to have increased in size. A new portion had been added, and the entrance gate was not the same which had stood there when he left in the morning. Everything looked older.

What could have happened? He had been gone but a few hours, yet all the world had changed. It seemed as if he were in another century. Alfus passed his hand across his eyes as if to clear his sight and anxiously walked on. As he passed the fountain at the village he saw some women washing, but they were new to him; yet he had known every man woman and child for miles around. Whence had these strange faces come?

“Look,” cried one of them as the old man passed by. “This ancient monk wears the dress of the order, yet his face is new to me; I have never seen him before. Who can he be?”

To this strange remark Alfus paid no heed. He only hastened on the faster. He was beginning to doubt his senses. He went directly to the gate of the monastery. But this was much larger than it had been when he had left. He rang the bell. The sound was no longer the same. The silvery peal of the bell he had known had given place to the harsh clang of a much larger one.

At length there came a young monk to open the door. Alfus was amazed. It was a stranger--a man whom he had never seen before. He gazed at him speechless.

“What has happened,” he said. “Why are all things so changed? Where is Brother Antony? Why does he not open the door as usual?”

“Brother Antony!” exclaimed the monk. “There is no such person here. I am the porter, and no one but me has opened this door for the last twenty years.”

For a moment poor Alfus stood on the threshold as if petrified. Then he beheld two monks slowly passing along the corridor. They, too, were strangers, but he reached forward and clutched one of them by the gown.

“Brethren,” he cried in agony, “I beseech you speak. Tell me what has happened. Only a few hours ago I left the monastery for a quiet walk in the woods, and now when I come back, behold, all is changed. Where is the Abbot? Where are my companions? Is there no one here who remembers Alfus?”

“Alfus--Alfus,” repeated one of the monks thoughtfully to himself. “There has been no one of that name here for a hundred years. There was once a man by that name in the monastery, but he disappeared long ago. I remember hearing about him when I was a small lad, but whether the story is true or not, I cannot tell.

“He went one morning, as was often his custom, to walk in the forest alone,” the monk went on, “and they never heard from him afterward. The monks sought for him throughout the forest day after day, but no trace of him could be found. He seemed to have vanished from the earth. The Abbot thought that God must have borne him up to Heaven in a chariot of fire like Elijah. He was a very holy man, indeed. But all this happened so long ago, that it may be simply a story.”

At these words a sudden light seemed to shine in the face of poor Alfus. He sank to his knees and clasped his trembling hands as if in prayer.

“Now I understand, O God, that a thousand years are but as a day in thy sight. A whole century passed while I held my breath to listen to the song of the bird--the bird which sings at the gate of Paradise. Forgive my doubts, O Lord, and grant that I may enter into thy rest.”

As the monks looked at Alfus they saw that a great calm had settled upon his face. A radiant smile played about his lips. He sank back gently upon a settle and the wondering monks crowded about him, but to their astonishment he did not move, and when they looked more closely they saw that his pure soul had flown away to his Heavenly mansion, there to enjoy endless ages of unchanging happiness.

THE BELL OF ATRI

In olden times there lived in Italy a kind-hearted king. He was sorry for any trouble that came to his people, and did all he could to make them happy. Because of his goodness the people called him Good King John.

“I wish all of my people to be just,” said the king. “And I wish every one to be treated justly.”

Not all of his people were as good as King John himself. Many did wrongs to their neighbors. And the neighbors complained to the good King.

“I will set up a great bell in the market place,” said the King at last. “If any one is wronged, let him ring the bell. He shall have justice.”

So the King had a large bell set up in the market place, where any one could ring it. Then he appointed a good judge to right the people’s wrongs.

Many people rang the bell in the years that followed. All received justice and went away happy. The bell was used so much that the rope was worn away little by little. At last it became so short that many people could not reach it. Then some one fastened a piece of grape vine to the rope.

Now, there lived in Atri an old Knight. In his younger days he had loved to hunt, and had kept many horses and dogs. Now he could hunt no more, and so sold all his horses except the one he had liked best.

It happened that the old Knight began to think of nothing but money. He wished to be very rich.

“What is the use of keeping this one horse?” he asked himself. “He does nothing but eat and sleep. It costs too much to keep him. I will turn him out to look after himself.”

So the faithful old horse was turned out into the street. It was in the dry, hot summer, and there was little grass to be found. The horse wandered about under the burning sun, getting a bite here and a bite there.

In his wandering he came finally to the market place. He saw the vine hanging to the bell rope.

“These leaves,” he thought, “are better than nothing, though they are withered.”

He began to pull at the withered leaves. The very first pull set the great bell to ringing loudly. The poor horse was so hungry that he paid no attention to the ringing. He kept on eating, and the bell rang louder and louder.

The judge heard the sounds, and wondered who was ringing the bell so loudly. He put on his robe and hurried to the market place.

He was greatly surprised when he saw who had rung the bell. He felt sorry for the poor creature, however.

“Even the dumb beast,” he murmured, “shall have justice. This is the horse of the Knight of Atri.”

A large crowd of people had gathered in a few minutes. They told the judge the story of the old horse. Their stories, however, did not agree. The judge, therefore, decided to call the Knight himself.

The heartless old Knight said that the horse was useless to him, and that he could not take care of him any longer. It cost too much money.

“Did he not always do his duty by you?” asked the judge. “Did he ever refuse to carry you to the hunt, or to bring you safely home?”

The old Knight had to confess that the horse had always been faithful.

“The law decides, then,” cried the judge, “that you shall provide him shelter and food as long as he lives.”

At this decision all the people clapped their hands and shouted loudly.

The old Knight ordered his servant to lead the horse back to the stable. The people followed, cheering, because even a dumb animal could get justice.

The fame of the bell of Atri spread abroad through all Italy.

To-day people know very little about the other things that Good King John did. They simply remember him as the king who set up the bell of justice at Atri.

THE POT OF HOT PORRIDGE

In the beautiful land of Switzerland is a little town named Zurich. Not far from here is the larger city of Strasburg. The people of Zurich had long looked with envy on the larger city and wanted to become a part of it. At last they decided to send an appeal to the magistrates. This they did, but the great magistrate of Strasburg bluntly refused the honor of such a union.

“Zurich is of no importance,” they said, “and besides it is too far away to be of any help in time of need.”

When the councilors of Zurich heard the Strasburger’s answer, they were very angry, indeed. They even talked of challenging the great magistrates.

“No,” said the youngest of the Zurich councilors, “I will make them eat their words. I pledge you my honor that I shall bring you a different answer before long.”

The other councilors were glad to be relieved of the matter, so they agreed and returned leisurely to their dwellings. The youngest councilor went home in a great hurry. He went at once to the kitchen and selected the biggest pot there.

“What are you going to do with that?” asked his wife.

“You will see,” he replied. “Fill it with as much oatmeal as it will contain and cook it as quickly as possible.”

His wife wondered much at this strange command, but she bade her servants build a roaring fire. This they did and soon the great pot of oatmeal was cooking. Then such a time as they had stirring the oatmeal to keep it from burning.

In the meantime, the youngest councilor ran down to the quay and prepared the swiftest vessel. He collected a number of the best oarsmen and when all was ready, bade two of them accompany him home.

He sprang breathless into the kitchen. The oatmeal was ready.

“Come boys,” he cried, “lift the vessel from the fire and run down to the boat with it.”

He followed them closely and saw it placed in the boat. Then, turning to the men, he exclaimed,

“Now, lads, row with all your might. We are bound to prove to those stupid old Strasburgers that we are near enough to serve them a hot supper in case of need.”

Aroused by these words, the youths bent to the oars. The vessel shot down the Simwat, Aar, and Rhine, leaving town, village, and farms in its wake. Never did it stop once till it reached the quay at Strasburg.

The councilor sprang ashore and bade the two youths follow with the huge pot. He strode into the council hall and had them set it before the assembled magistrates.

“Gentlemen, Zurich sends you a warm answer to your cold refusal,” he exclaimed.

With open mouths the Strasburgers gazed at the still steaming pot. When the young Zuricher explained how it got there they laughed heartily. They were so amused with the wit and promptitude of their neighbors that they voted at once to grant their request.

The papers for the alliance were signed and sealed. Then the great magistrates called for spoons and ate every bit of the oatmeal. They called it excellent, and it proved hot enough to burn more than one councilor’s mouth.

Ever since then this huge iron pot has been known as the “pot of alliance.” It has been carefully kept in the town hall of Strasburg, where it can still be seen.

THE SILVER BELL

In the ancient city of Speyer, there were in olden times two great bells. Neither one of these was ever rung by human hands, but it is said that an angel came down from Heaven at night to ring one of these bells whenever a person died.

One of the bells was of iron. It was rung whenever the soul of a sinful person took its flight. The other bell was of pure silver. It had been placed in the tower by a baron. He had erected it with the understanding that it should never be rung until there came a person who really loved his fellow men.

When this bell was erected it was muffled by many bands, so that it could give forth no sound until it had been placed carefully in the tower.

It was agreed also, that if no person who truly loved his fellow men should be found within the space of thirty-three years, the bell should forever remain silent. It was to be a witness against the unkindness of men.

The thirty-three years were now almost completed, and no one had been found in the whole country of whom it could be said that he unselfishly loved his fellows. Many kind deeds had been done; many brave and noble services had been performed; but when examined closely, there always seemed to be some selfish motive behind them.

The people of the valley had looked longingly day after day at this bell, and had hoped and prayed that some one might appear for whom the bell could be rung. All longed to hear its silver sound. It was said to give forth the most enchanting music. But the summers and winters came and went.

The young people who had seen the bell placed in the tower had grown old. They had waited and waited, and hope began to sink in their hearts. They began to think that they should never hear the sound of the silver bell.

An awful pestilence broke out in the land. There was no one who knew how to save the wretched people. Gloom settled down over the whole city. It seemed to be threatened with utter destruction.

Again there were deeds of mercy done; again hearts bled with sympathy for their fellows; again people strove to find out someone who was truly unselfish in his charity. But upon examination it was found that people pitied their friends, and neglected their enemies. They wept for those near them, but were thoughtless of those whom they did not know. Fathers and mothers were brave to protect their own children, but careless about the children of other people. So, though there were many noble deeds done, it was found that they were not the result of a deep love for mankind in general.

During all this time the iron bell rang almost continually. It rang by day, and it rang by night, until hope and cheerfulness were gone, and despair and fear settled down upon every household.

The King of this land was a handsome youth, who had just come to the throne. He had always had everything that his heart could desire; and was not trained to bear hardships or to sympathize with the suffering of others. No one hoped to find comfort in him, or relief from despair.

At night, however, when the city was sunk to its fitful rest, this young king knelt in prayer for the poor and the wretched, and then rose to answer his prayer by his own hand. With food and clothes he loaded his horse and went forth alone through the city, disguised as a peasant.

Night after night he passed through the dark and wretched streets, carrying his treasures to distribute among the poor. From evening until daybreak he labored alone to relieve the suffering of his people. Then as the last shadows fled he returned to his palace gate.

The people at last began to hope that a truly unselfish soul had appeared. They had, however, very little time to think of this matter or of the silver bell because of their wretchedness. The thought, however, that there was some one to care for them was a source of comfort to many. Joy was awakened in their hearts, and joy brought strength to them, until at last people returned to forge and field to perform their usual labors.

The man, however, who had come to them in their need had remained concealed. No one had found out or even suspected who he was. Many thought that an angel had come to them. Many others believed that it was the work of some good soul, and hoped to find out who it was. They began to believe that the silver bell might yet be rung.

At last they went to the king and besought him to issue a proclamation, in order that he might find out the person who had bestowed so many bounties upon them.

“Surely,” they said, “a truly unselfish soul has been among us, although we know not who he is.”

“My good people,” replied the king, “be contented. Should it not be enough that God has sent his servant to you in the hour of your need?”