Part 2

“I shall go to-night,” he said. “And none will know save you. My splendour will linger in the valley for a while. And by-the-by, when I am far away and my reign is forgotten, the memory of me will revive once more with the sun and the pleasant days.”

Then he strode away in the night. But from the high tree-top came the stork on his long wings; and the cuckoo fluttered out of the tall woods; and the nightingale flew from the thicket with her full-grown young.

The air was filled with the soft murmurings of wings.

Autumn’s dominion had indeed begun on the night when Summer went away, with a yellow leaf here and a brown leaf there, but none had noticed it. Now it went at a quicker pace; and as time wore on, there came even more colours and greater splendour.

The lime trees turned bright yellow and the beech bronze, but the elder-tree even blacker than it had been. The bell-flower rang with white bells, where it used to ring with blue, and the chestnut tree blessed all the world with its five yellow fingers. The mountain ash shed its leaves that all might admire its pretty berries; the wild rose nodded with a hundred hips; the Virginia creeper broke over the hedge in blazing flames.

Then Autumn put his horn to his mouth and blew:

The loveliest things of Autumn’s pack In his motley coffers lay; Red mountain-berries Hips sweet as cherries, Sloes blue and black He hung upon every spray.

And blackbird and thrush chattered blithely in the copsewood, which gleamed with berries, and a thousand sparrows kept them company. The wind ran from one to the other and puffed and panted to add to the fun. High up in the sky, the sun looked gently down upon it all.

And the Prince of Autumn nodded contentedly and let his motley cloak flap in the wind.

“I am the least important of the four seasons and am scarcely lord in my own land,” he said. “I serve two jealous masters and have to please them both. But my power extends so far that I can give you a few glad days.”

Then he put his horn to his mouth and blew:

To the valley revellers hie! They are clad in autumnal fancy dresses, They are weary of green and faded tresses, Summer has vanished, Winter is nigh---- Hey fol--de--rol--day for Autumn!

But, the night after this happened, there was tremendous disturbance up on the mountain peaks, where the eternal snows had lain both in Spring’s time and Summer’s. It sounded like a storm approaching. The trees grew frightened, the crows were silent, the wind held its breath. Prince Autumn bent forward and listened:

“Is that the worst you can do?” shouted a hoarse voice through the darkness.

Autumn raised his head and looked straight into Winter’s great, cold eyes!

“Have you forgotten the bargain?” asked Winter.

“No,” replied Autumn. “I have not forgotten it.”

“Have a care,” shouted Winter.

The whole night through, it rumbled and tumbled in the mountains. It turned so bitterly cold that the starling thought seriously of packing up and even the red creeper turned pale.

The distant peaks glittered with new snow.

And the Prince of Autumn laughed no more. He looked out earnestly over the land and the wrinkles in his forehead grew deeper.

“It must be so then!” he said.

Then he blew his horn.

Autumn’s horn blew a lusty chime; For the second time, for the second time! Heed well the call, complying. Fling seed to earth! Fill sack’s full girth! Plump back and side! Pad belt and hide! Hold all wings close for flying!

Then suddenly a terrible bustle arose in the land, for now they all understood.

“Quick,” said Autumn.

The poppy and the bell-flower and the pink stood thin and dry as sticks with their heads full of seed. The dandelion had presented each one of his seeds with a sweet little parachute.

“Come, dear Wind, and shake us!” said the poppy.

“Fly away with my seeds, Wind,” said the dandelion.

And the wind hastened to do as they asked.

But the beech cunningly dropped his shaggy fruit on to the hare’s fur; and the fox got one also on his red coat.

“Quick, now,” said Autumn. “There’s no time here to waste.”

The little brown mice filled their parlors from floor to ceiling with nuts and beech-mast and acorns. The hedgehog had already eaten himself so fat that he could hardly lower his quills. The hare and fox and stag put on clean white woollen things, under their coats. The starling and the thrush and the blackbird saw to their downy clothing and exercised their wings for the long journey.

The sun hid himself behind the clouds and did not appear for many days.

It began to rain. The wind quickened its pace: it dashed the rain over the meadow, whipped the river into foam and whistled through the trunks in the forest.

“Now the song is finished!” said the Prince of Autumn.

Then he put his horn to his mouth and blew.

Autumn’s horn blew a lusty chime, For the last time, for the last time! Ways close when need is sorest: Land-birds, fly clear! Plunge, frogs, in mere! Bee, lock your lair! Take shelter, bear! Fall, last leaf in the forest!

And then it was over.

The birds flew from the land in flocks. The starling and the lapwing, the thrush and the blackbird all migrated to the south.

Every morning before the sun rose the wind tore through the forest, and pulled the last leaves off the trees. Every day the wind blew stronger, snapped great branches, swept the withered leaves together into heaps, scattered them again and, at last, laid them like a soft, thick carpet over the whole floor of the forest.

The hedgehog crawled so far into a hole under a heap of stones that he remained caught between two of them and could move neither forwards nor backwards. The sparrow took lodgings in a deserted swallow’s nest; the frogs went to the bottom of the pond for good, settled in the mud, with the tips of their noses up in the water and prepared for whatever might come.

The Prince of Autumn stood and gazed over the land to see if it was bare and waste so that Winter’s storms might come buffeting at will and the snow lie wherever it pleased.

Then he stopped before the old oak and looked at the ivy that clambered right up to the top and spread her green leaves as if Winter had no existence at all. And while he looked at it the ivy-flowers blossomed! They sat right at the top and rocked in the wind!

“Now I’m coming,” roared Winter from the mountains. “My clouds are bursting with snow; and my storms are breaking loose. I can restrain them no longer.”

The Prince of Autumn bent his head and listened. He could hear the storm come rushing down over the mountains. A snowflake fell upon his motley cloak ... and another ... and yet another....

For the last time he put his horn to his mouth and blew:

Thou greenest plant and tardiest, Thou fairest, rarest, hardiest, Bright through unending hours! Round Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring, Thy vigorous embraces cling. Look! Ivy mine, ’tis _I_ who sing, ’Tis _Autumn_ wins thy flowers!

Then he went away in the storm.

THE SCARF OF THE LADY

(A French Harvest Legend)

Translated by Hermine de Nagy

The Field of the Lady was the name which the peasants gave to a large tract of land belonging to a rich estate. The lord of the castle had given these fertile acres to his daughter and had told her to do as she pleased with the grain which the field produced. Each year at harvest time she invited the poor peasants of the neighbourhood to come and glean in her field, and take home with them as much grain as they needed for winter use.

Sometimes when the gleaners were busily at work one of them would cry out joyfully, “Ah, there comes the lady of the castle.” They could see her coming in the distance, for she always wore a simple dress of white wool, and over her head was thrown a scarf of white silk striped with many colours. She loved to come into the field while the people were at work and speak words of encouragement and cheer to them.

One sultry afternoon there were many peasants gleaning in the field. The lady of the castle had been with them for several hours. Suddenly she looked up into the threatening sky and said, “My friends, see what large clouds are gathering. I’m afraid we shall have a storm before long. Let us stop gleaning for to-day and seek shelter.” The peasants hastened away and the lady started toward the castle.

As she drew near the green hedge which bordered the field she saw coming toward her a beautiful young woman and a fair child whose hand she held. The little boy’s golden hair fell in waves over his white tunic.

“You came to glean,” said the lady of the castle in her sweet voice, full of welcome. “Come then, we’ll work together for a little while before the rain falls.”

“Thank you,” said the young woman.

The three began to pick up the ripe ears and pile them in small heaps. They had worked but a little while, however, when a gust of wind swept over the field and great raindrops began to fall. The thunder rumbled in the distance and streaks of lightning rent the sky.

“Come, my friends,” said the lady of the castle. “We must seek shelter. See, there near the wood is a great oak, thick with foliage. Let us hasten to it and stand there until the storm is over.”

In a short time they reached the tree and stood together under the shelter of its great branches.

With his chubby hand the child took hold of the end of his mother’s veil and tried to cover his curly head with it.

“You shall have my scarf,” said the lady of the castle, smiling.

She slipped it off, wrapped it tenderly around the dear child’s head and shoulders, and kissed his fair young brow.

Suddenly the great clouds seemed to roll away. The lady of the castle stepped out from the shelter of the tree to look at the sky. The storm had ceased and the birds were beginning to twitter in the trees. She stood still, looking at the wonderful golden light which flooded the harvest field. And in the calm silence there came floating through the air the sweetest music she had ever heard. At first it seemed far, far away. Then it came nearer and nearer until the air was filled with harmonious voices chanting tenderly in the purest angelic tones. She turned toward her companions and lo! they had disappeared.

In the distance there was a sound like the light fluttering of wings. The lady of the castle looked toward the hedge where she had first seen her mysterious companions. There she saw them again--the lovely woman and the golden-haired child. They were rising softly, softly upon fleecy clouds. Around them and mounting with them was a band of angels chanting a joyful Hosanna!

The marvelous vision rose slowly into the clear blue of the heavens. Then on the wet ears of grain in the harvest field the lady of the castle knelt in silent adoration, for she knew she had seen the Virgin and the Holy Child. While she worshipped in breathless silence the heavenly choir halted and in clear, ringing tones the angels sang out:

“Blessed be thou!”

“Blessed be the good lady who is ever ready to help the poor and unfortunate! Blessed be this Field of Alms.”

The Virgin stretched forth her hands to bless the lady and the harvest field. At the same time the Holy Child took from his head and shoulders the silk scarf which the lady of the castle had wrapped about him, and gave it to two rosy-winged cherubim. Away they flew--one to the right, the other to the left, each holding an end of the scarf which stretched as they flew into a marvelous rainbow arch across the blue vault of the sky. The Virgin and the Holy Child, followed by the angelic choir, rose slowly, slowly into the sky.

Softly and gently as wood breezes the heavenly music died away and the vision disappeared.

The lady of the castle rose to her feet. A marvelous thing had happened. The small heaps of grain gathered by the gleaners had changed into a harvest richer than the field had ever produced before. Over all in the sky still shone the lovely rainbow arch--the arch of promise across the Field of Alms.

(Adapted.)

THE SICKLE MOON

(Tyrolean Harvest Legend)

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

When of the crescent moon aware Hung silver in the sky, “See, Saint Nothburga’s sickle there!” The Tyrol children cry.

It is a quaint and pretty tale Six hundred summers old, When in the green Tyrolean vale, The peasant folk is told.

The town of Eben nestled here Is little known to fame, Save as the legends make it dear, In Saint Nothburga’s name.

For in this quiet country place, Where a white church spire reared, Nothburga dwelt, a maid of grace Who loved the Lord and feared.

She was a serving little lass, Bound to a farmer stern, Who to and fro all day must pass Her coarse black bread to earn.

She spun and knit the fleecy wool, She bleached the linen white, She drew the water-buckets full, And milked the herd at night.

And more than this, when harvest-tide Turned golden all the plain, She took her sickle, curving wide, And reaped the ripened grain.

All people yielded to the charm Of this meek-serving maid, Save the stern master of the farm, Of whom all stood afraid.

For he was hard to humble folk, And cruel to the poor, A godless man, who evil spoke, A miser of his store.

Now it was on a Saturday Near to the Sabbath time, Which in those ages far away Began at sunset-chime.

Nothburga in the harvest gold Was reaping busily, Although the day was grown so old That dimly could she see.

Close by her cruel master stood, And fearsome was his eye; He glowered at the maiden good, He glowered at the sky.

For many rows lacked reaping, yet The dark was falling fast, And soon the round sun would be set And working time be past.

“Cling--clang!” The sunset-chime pealed out, And Sunday had begun; Nothburga sighed and turned about---- The reaping was not done.

She laid her curving sickle by, And said her evening hymn, Wide-gazing on the starless sky, Where all was dark and dim.

But hark! A hasty summons came To drown her whispered words, An angry voice called out her name, And scared the nestling birds.

“What ho, Nothburga, lazy one! Bend to your task again, And do not think the day is done Till you have reaped this grain.”

“But master,” spoke Nothburga low, “It’s the Sabbath time; We must keep holy hours now, After the sunset-chime.”

And then in rage the master cried: “The day belongs to me! I’m lord of all the country side, And hold the time in fee!”

“No Sunday-thought shall spoil the gain That comes a hundred fold From reaping of my golden grain, Which shall be turned to gold.”

“Nay, Master, give me gracious leave The Lord’s will I must keep; Upon the holy Sabbath day My sickle shall not reap!”

The master raised his heavy hand To deal the maid a blow; “Thou shalt!” he cried his fierce command, And would have struck, when lo!

Nothburga whirled her sickle bright And tossed it in the sky! A flash, a gleam of silver light, As it went circling by,

And there, beside a little star Which had peeped out to see, The sickle hung itself afar, As swiftly as could be!

The master stared up, wondering; Forgetting all his rage, To see so strange and quaint a thing---- The marvel of the age.

And she, the maid so brave and good, Thenceforth had naught to fear, But kept the Sabbath as she would, And lived a life of cheer.

So when among the stars you see The silver sickle flame, Think how the wonder came to be, And bless Nothburga’s name.

WINTER’S HERALD

JANE ANDREWS

In the days of chivalry, mail-clad knights, armed with shield and spear, rode through the land to defend the right and to punish the wrong. Whenever they were to meet each other in battle at the great tournaments, a herald was first sent to announce the fight and give fair warning to the opponents, that each might be in all things prepared to meet the other, and defend or attack wisely and upon his guard.

So, dear children, you must know that Winter, who is coming clad in his icy armour, with his spear, the keen sleet, sends before him a herald, that we may not be all unprepared for his approach.

It is an autumn night when this herald comes; all the warm September noons have slipped away, and the red October sunsets are almost gone; still the afternoon light, shining through the two maples, casts a crimson and yellow glow on the white wall of my little room, and on the paths is a delicate carpet of spotted leaves over the brown groundwork.

It is past midnight when the herald is called; and although his knight is so fierce, loud, and blustering, he moves noiselessly forth and carries his warning to all the country round. Through the little birch wood he comes, and whispers a single word to the golden leaves that are hanging so slightly on the slender boughs; one little shiver goes through them, sends them fluttering all to the ground, and the next morning their brown, shriveled edges tell a sad story.

Through the birch wood he hurries and on to the bank of the brook that runs through the long valley; for the muskrat, who has his home under the shelving bank, must hear the news and make haste to arrange his hole with winter comforts before the brook is frozen. While he crosses the meadow the field mouse and the mole hear his warning and lay their heads together to see what is best to be done. Indeed, the mole, who himself can scarcely see at all, is always of opinion that two heads are better than one in such cases.

Beyond the brook is Farmer Thompson’s field of squashes. “I will not hurt you to-night,” says the herald as he creeps among them; “only a little nip here and a bite there, that the farmer may see to-morrow morning that it is time to take you into the barn.” The turnips stand only on the other side of the fence and cannot fail to know also that the herald has come.

But up in Lucy’s flower garden are the heliotropes and fuchsias, tea roses and geraniums,--delicate, sensitive things, who cannot bear a cold word, it must have been really quite terrible what he said there; for before sunrise the beautiful plants hung black and withered and no care from their mistress, no smiles or kind words, could make them look up again. The ivy had borne it bravely, and only showed on his lower leaves, which lay among the grass, a frosty fringe, where the dew used to hang.

My two maples heard the summons and threw off their gay dresses, which withered and faded as they fell in heaps on the sidewalk. The next morning, children going to school scuffed ankle-deep among them and laughed with delight. And the maples bravely answered the herald: “Now let him come, your knight of the north wind and the storm and the sleet; we have dropped the gay leaves which he might have torn from us. Let him come; we have nothing to lose. His snows will only keep our roots the warmer, and his winds cannot blow away the tiny new buds which we cherish, thickly wrapped from the cold, to make new leaves in the spring.” And the elm and the linden and horse-chestnut sent also a like brave answer back by the herald.

Over the whole village green went the whisperer, leaving behind him a white network upon the grass; and before the sun was up to tangle his beams in its meshes and pull it all to pieces, old widow Blake has seen it from her cottage window and said to herself: “Well, winter is coming; I must set up some warm socks for the boys to-day, and begin little Tommy’s mittens before the week is out.”

And Farmer Thompson stands at his great barn door, while yet the eastern sky is red, and tells Jake and Ben that the squashes and pumpkins and turnips must all be housed in cellar and barn before night; for a frost like this is warning enough to any man to begin to prepare for winter.

Mr. Winslow, the gardener, is working all day with matting and straw, tying up and packing warmly his tender shrubs and trees; and the climbing rose that is trained against the west end of the piazza must be made safe from the cold winds that will soon be creeping round there.

What will your mother do when she sees the white message that the herald has left in his frosty writing all over the lawn? Will she put away the muslin frocks and little pink or blue calicoes and ginghams, the straw hats, and Frank’s white trousers and summer jackets, just as the trees threw aside their summer leaves?

Not quite like the trees; for your clothes can’t be made new every spring out of little brown buds, but must be put away in the great drawers and trunks of the clothes-press, to wait for you through the winter.

And see how your mother will bring out the woolen stockings, warm hoods and caps, mittens, cloaks and plaided dresses; and try on and make over, that all things may be ready. For it is with such things as these that she arms her little boys and girls to meet the knight who is coming with north wind and storm.

Old Margaret, who lives in the little brown house down at the corner, although she cannot read a word from a book, reads the herald’s message as well as your mother can. But here are her five boys, barefooted and ragged, ever in summer clothes, and her husband lies back with a fever.

She can’t send back so brave an answer as your mother does. But your mother, and Cousin George’s mother, and Uncle James can help her to make a good, brave answer; for here is Frank’s last winter’s jacket, quite too small for him, just right for little Jim; and father’s old overcoat will make warm little ones for two of the other boys. And here are stout new shoes and woolen socks, and comfortable bedclothes for the sick man. Margaret sends a brave answer now, although this morning she was half ready to cry when she saw the message that Winter had sent.

Look about you, children, when the herald comes, and see what answers the people are giving him; I have told you a few. You can tell me many, if you will, before another year goes by.

JACK FROST

The door was shut as doors should be Before you went to bed last night; Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, And left your windows silver white.

He must have waited till you slept, And not a single word he spoke, But penciled o’er the panes and crept Away before you woke.

And now you can not see the trees Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane But there are fairer things than these His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high; Hills and dales and streams and fields, And knights in armour riding by, With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there Big ships with sails spread to the breeze, And yonder, palm trees waving fair And islands set in silver seas.

And butterflies with gauzy wings; And herds of cows and flocks of sheep; And fruit and flowers and all the things You see when you are sound asleep.

For creeping softly underneath The door when all the lights are out, Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe And knows the things you think about.

He paints them on the window pane In fairy lines with frozen steam; And when you wake, you see again The lovely things you saw in dream. GABRIEL SETOUN.

THE PUMPKIN GIANT

MARY WILKINS FREEMAN

A very long time ago, before our grandmother’s time, or our great-grandmother’s, or our grandmothers’ with a very long string of greats prefixed, there were no pumpkins; people had never eaten a pumpkin-pie, or even stewed pumpkin; and that was the time when the Pumpkin Giant flourished.