Part 11

But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister’s angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither, “Is my brother come?” And he said, “No.” She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, “O sister, I am here! Take me!” And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the Home he was to go to when his time should come; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister’s angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and whilst he was so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched his tiny form out on the bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels, with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people’s faces. Said his sister’s angel to the leader, “Is my brother come?” And he said, “Not that one, but another.” As the child beheld his brother’s angel in her arms, he cried, “O sister, I am here! Take me!” And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him, and said, “Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son!” Again at night he saw the star, and all the former company. Said his sister’s angel to the leader, “Is my brother come?” And he said, “Thy mother!” A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was reunited to her two children. And he cried, “O mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!” And they answered him, “Not yet,” and the star was shining.

He grew to be a man whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister’s angel to the leader, “Is my brother come?” And he said, “Nay, but his maiden daughter.” And the man who had been the child saw his daughter newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, “My daughter’s head is on my sister’s bosom, and her arm is round my mother’s neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her--God be praised!” And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow, and his back was bent. One night, as he lay upon his bed, his children standing around, he cried, as he had cried so long ago, “I see the star!” They whispered to one another, “He is dying.” And he said, “I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me!” And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.

--CHARLES DICKENS.

EXCELSIOR

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!

“Try not the pass!” the old man said; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

“O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!” A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered with a sigh, Excelsior!

“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!” This was the peasant’s last good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenwards The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell like a falling star, Excelsior!

--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE SENTINEL’S POUCH

Private William Baum, of the Prussian army, as he stood peering into the darkness, was almost wishing that the Austrians and Russians, whose camp-fires he could see along the other side of the valley, would make an attack, and give him something else to do than shiver in the wet. But they did not; and Baum, growing colder and wetter every minute, wished himself back in his snug little apple-orchard at the foot of the Giant Mountains, where he used to be in bed every night before the village clock tolled ten, after a good supper of brown bread and cabbage.

“If the king had to be out in a night of this sort,” he said aloud, “he’d soon be as tired of war as I am.”

“And how do you know he hasn’t?” broke in a sharp voice, close beside him.

At once Baum was himself again. The first sign of a stranger approaching his post recalled him to his duty as a soldier.

His musket was at his shoulder in a moment, and his voice rang out clear and stern,--

“Stand! Who goes there?”

“A friend,” replied the unknown.

“Advance, friend, and give the pass-word.”

“‘The Prussian eagle.’”

“Pass, friend; all’s well.”

But instead of passing on, the stranger came close up to the sentry, who could just make out by a stray gleam of moonlight, that his visitor was wrapped in a horseman’s cloak, and had a hat drawn over his eyes in such a way as to hide his face.

“You seem to have rather damp quarters here, comrade,” said he. “Why don’t you have a smoke to warm yourself a bit?”

“Smoke!” replied the sentry. “Why, where do you come from, brother, not to know that smoking on duty is forbidden?”

“But suppose the king gave you leave to smoke?” said the stranger.

“The king!” answered the soldier, gruffly. “What would my captain say? Long before the king could hear of it, the drummer’s cane would make acquaintance with my back.”

“Pooh! the captain’s not here to see you. Out with your pipe, man. I’ll tell no tales.”

“Look here, you rascal!” cried the soldier, in an angry tone, “I half suspect you’re some fellow who wants to get me into trouble. Now, if that’s so, you had better be off before worse comes of it; for if you say any more, I’ll give you a cuff you won’t like.”

“I’d like to see you try it,” said the other, with a laugh.

The soldier’s only reply was a blow which sent the stranger’s battered old hat flying into the air, while he himself staggered back several paces.

“Very good,” said he, recovering himself, and speaking in quite a different tone. “You’ll hear of this to-morrow, my man, and get what you deserve, never fear. Goodnight to you.”

He stooped as he spoke, and picking up something from the ground, vanished into the darkness.

The sudden change in his unknown visitor’s tone and manner, and his parting threat, caused some uneasiness to Baum. He began to fear that he had insulted an officer of high rank--a colonel at the very least, perhaps even a general.

“However,” thought he, “he doesn’t know my name, that’s one comfort; and he won’t find it very easy to describe the spot where I was posted, seeing that the night is so dark.”

But the next moment he gave a terrible start, for he had just missed his tobacco-pouch, which usually hung at his belt; and he remembered having seen the stranger pick up something as he went off. It must have been the pouch, and his name was upon it in full.

There was not much sleep for poor Baum that night, although he was relieved from guard half an hour later. He tried to keep up his courage by telling himself over and over again that the general could hardly punish him for obeying orders; but even this did not comfort him much, for in those days there were very few things which a general could not do to a private soldier.

The next morning, sure enough, a corporal and four men came to conduct Private William Baum to headquarters; and when he got there, he found all the generals standing around a little, lean, bright-eyed man, in a very shabby dress, whom Baum knew at once to be the king himself--Frederick the Great of Prussia.

“Gentlemen,” said Frederick, and with a sharp glance at the unlucky sentry, “what does a Prussian soldier deserve, who strikes his king?”

“Death,” answered the generals with one voice.

“Good!” said Frederick. “Here is the man.” And he held out a tobacco-pouch marked with the name of “William Baum.”

“Mercy, sire, mercy!” cried Baum, falling on his knees. “I never thought it was Your Majesty with whom I was speaking.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” said the king, clapping him on the shoulder; “and I hope all my soldiers will obey orders as well as you do. I said you should get what you deserve, and so you shall; for I’ll make you a sergeant this very day.”

And the king kept his word.--SELECTED.

* * * * *

He has enough who is content.

THE MILKMAID

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: “Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

“Well then,--stop a bit,--it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

“Well, sixty sound eggs,--no, sound chickens, I mean: Of these some may die,--we’ll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many--say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

“But then there’s their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,-- So that’s a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there’ll be.

“Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six. To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; Now what will that make? Fifty chickens, I said,-- Fifty times three-and-sixpence--I’ll ask Brother Ned.

“O, but stop,--three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell ’em: Well, a pair is a couple,--now then let us tell ’em: A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!) Why, just a score times and five pair will remain.

“Twenty-five pair of fowls--now how tiresome it is That I can’t reckon up so much money as this: Well, there’s no use in trying, so let’s give a guess,-- I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can’t be no less.

“Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys,--eight pigs and a sow; Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, ‘tis clear.”

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, The maid superciliously tossed up her head; When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached,-- “Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.”

--JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

* * * * *

’Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents from shore to shore Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

TOM, THE WATER-BABY

One day Tom had a new adventure. He was sitting on a water-lily leaf, he and his friend the dragon-fly, watching the gnats dance. The dragon-fly had eaten as many as he wanted, and was sitting quite still and sleepy, for it was very hot and bright.

The gnats danced a foot over his head quite happily, and a large black fly settled within an inch of his nose and began washing his own face and combing his hair with his paws. But the dragon-fly never stirred, and kept on chatting to Tom about the times when he lived under the water.

Suddenly Tom heard the strangest noise up the stream. He looked up the water, and there he saw a sight as strange as the noise; a great ball rolling over and over down the stream, seeming one moment of soft brown fur, and the next of shining glass. Yet it was not a ball; for sometimes it broke up and streamed away into pieces, and then it joined again; and all the while the noise came out of it louder and louder.

Tom asked the dragon-fly what it could be; but of course, with his short sight, he could not even see it, though it was not ten yards away. So Tom set off to see for himself; and when he came near, the ball turned out to be four or five beautiful otters, many times larger than Tom, who were swimming about, and rolling and diving, and twisting and scratching in the most charming fashion that ever was seen.

But when the biggest of them saw Tom, she darted out from the rest, and cried in the water-language sharply enough, “Quick, children, here is something to eat, indeed!” and came at poor Tom, showing such a wicked pair of eyes and such a set of sharp teeth in a grinning mouth, that Tom, who had thought her very handsome, said to himself, “Handsome is that handsome does,” and slipped in between the water-lily roots as fast as he could, and then turned around and laughed at her.

“Come out,” said the wicked old otter, “or it will be the worse for you.”

But Tom looked at her from between two thick roots, and shook them with all his might.

“Come away, children,” said the otter. “It is not worth eating, after all. It is only an eft, which nothing eats.”

“I am not an eft!” said Tom. “Efts have tails.”

“You are an eft,” said the otter. “I see your two hands quite plainly, and I know that you have a tail.”

“I tell you I have not,” said Tom. “Look here!” and he turned his pretty little self quite round; and sure enough, he had no more tail than you have.

The otter might have got out of it by saying that Tom was a frog; but, like a great many other people, when she had once said a thing she stood to it, right or wrong.

“I say you are an eft,” said the otter, “and therefore you are, and not fit food for gentlefolk like me and my children; you may stay there till the salmon eat you.” She knew the salmon would not, but she wished to frighten poor Tom.

“What are salmon?” asked Tom.

“Fish, you eft; great fish, nice to eat. They are the lords of the fish, and we are lords of the salmon;” and she laughed again. “They are coming soon, children, coming soon; I can smell the rain coming up off the sea. Then hurrah for fresh salmon and plenty of eating all day long.”

The otter grew so proud that she turned head over heels twice, and then stood upright half out of the water, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“And where do they come from?” asked Tom.

“Out of the sea, eft,--the great wide sea, where they might stay and be safe if they liked.”

Then the otter sailed away down the brook, and Tom saw her no more for that time. And lucky it was for her that she did so; for no sooner was she gone than down the bank came seven little rough terrier dogs, snuffing and yapping, grubbing and splashing, in full cry after the otter.

Tom hid among the water-lilies till they were gone; for he could not guess that they were the water-fairies come to help him. But he could not help thinking of what the otter had said about the great river and the broad sea. As he thought, he longed to go and see them. He could not tell why; but the more he thought, the more he grew discontented with the narrow little stream in which he lived, and with all his companions. He wished to get out into the wide, wide world, and enjoy all the wonderful sights of which he was sure it was full.

Once he set off to go down the stream, but the stream was very low, and when he came to the shallows he could not keep under water, for there was no water left to keep under. So the sun burned his back and made him sick; and he went back again and lay quiet in the pool for a whole week more.

Then on the evening of a very hot day he saw a wonderful sight. He had been very stupid all day, and so had the trout; for they would not move an inch to take a fly, though there were thousands on the water; but lay dozing on the bottom under the shade of the stones. Tom lay dozing too, and was glad to cuddle their smooth, cool sides, for the water was warm and unpleasant.

Towards evening it grew suddenly dark, and Tom looked up and saw a blanket of black clouds lying across the valley above his head. He felt not quite frightened, but sat very still; for everything was still. There was not a whisper of wind nor a chirp of a bird to be heard. Next a few drops of rain fell into the water. One hit Tom on the nose, and made him pop his head down quickly enough. Then the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and cliff to cliff, till the rocks in the stream seemed to shake.

Tom looked up at it through the water, and thought it the finest thing he ever saw in his life. Out of the water he dare not put his head; for the rain came down by bucketsful, and the hail fell like shot on the stream, and churned it into foam. Soon the stream rose and rushed down, higher and higher, full of beetles and sticks and straws. Tom could hardly stand against the stream, and hid behind a rock. But the trout did not hide; for out they rushed from among the stones, and began gobbling the beetles and leeches in the most greedy and quarrelsome way; swimming about with great worms in their mouths, tugging and kicking to get them away from each other.

By the flashes of lightning Tom saw a new sight--all the bottom of the stream alive with great eels, turning and twisting along, all down stream and away. They had been hiding for weeks past in the cracks of the rocks and in burrows in the mud. Tom had hardly ever seen them except now and then at night; but now they were all out, and went hurrying past him so fiercely and wildly that he was quite frightened.

As they hurried past he could hear them say to each other, “We must hurry! We must hurry! What a jolly thunder-storm! Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”

Then the otter came by with all her brood, twining and sweeping along as fast as the eels themselves.

She spied Tom as she came by and said, “Now is your time, eft, if you wish to see the world. Come along, children, never mind those eels; we shall breakfast on salmon to-morrow. Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”

Then came a flash brighter than all the rest, and by the light of it--in the thousandth part of a second they were gone again--but he had seen them, he was certain of it--three beautiful little white girls, with their arms twined round each other’s necks, floating down the torrent, as they sang, “Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”

“Oh, stay! Wait for me!” cried Tom; but they were gone. Yet he could hear their voices clear and sweet through the roar of thunder and water and wind, singing as they died away, “Down to the sea!”

“Down to the sea?” said Tom. “Everything is going to the sea, and I shall go, too. Good-by, trout.”

Now down the rushing stream he went, guided by the bright flashes of the storm; past tall birch-fringed rocks, which shone out one moment as clear as day, and the next were dark as night.

Past dark coves under the banks, from which great trout rushed out on Tom, thinking him to be good to eat, but turned back quickly, for the fairies sent them home again with a scolding for daring to meddle with a water-baby. Along deep reaches, where the white water-lilies tossed and flapped beneath the wind and hail; past sleeping villages; under dark bridges, and away and away to the sea. Tom could not stop, and did not care to stop; he would see the great world below, and the salmon, and the breakers, and the wide, wide sea.--CHARLES KINGSLEY.

AN APRIL DAY

All day the low-hung clouds have dropped Their garnered fulness down; All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped Hill, valley, grove, and town. There has not been a sound to-day To break the calm of nature: Nor motion, I might almost say, Of life, or living creature; Of waving bough, or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing; I could have half-believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing.

I stood to hear--I love it well-- The rain’s continuous sound; Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, Down straight into the ground. For leafy thickness is not yet Earth’s naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn, Those honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs; That lilac’s cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing; Even now, upon my senses first Methinks their sweets are stealing.

Down, down they come,--those fruitful stores! Those earth-rejoicing drops! A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops; And, ere the dimples on the stream Have circled out of sight, Lo! from the west a parting gleam Breaks forth of amber light. But yet behold! abrupt and loud Comes down the glittering rain: The farewell of a passing cloud, The fringes of her train.

--CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

PUSSY WILLOW

The brook is brimmed with melting snow, The maple sap is running, And on the highest elm, a crow His coal-black wings is sunning. A close, green bud the Mayflower lies Upon its mossy pillow; And sweet and low the south wind blows, And through the brown fields calling goes, “Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!”

Soon red will bud the maple trees, The bluebirds will be singing, The yellow tassels in the breeze Be from the poplars swinging. And rosy will the Mayflower be Upon its mossy pillow, But you must come the first of all-- “Come, Pussy!” is the south wind’s call, “Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow! Within your close, brown wrapper stir, Come out and show your silver fur, Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!”

--ANONYMOUS.

LAURA SECORD

In the year 1812 the United States of America declared war against Great Britain. They were eager to conquer Canada and seemed confident of success. The Canadians were filled with dismay at the news, for their country was then in a desperate position. In the whole of Canada there were less than forty-five hundred regular troops. Great Britain was at war with Napoleon and could not lend much aid; but the brave men who responded to the call to arms were determined to repel the invaders and to save their country.

One of the most terrible battles of the war was fought in October, at Queenston Heights on the Niagara River. It resulted in a victory for the Canadians, but the victory was dearly bought. Brave General Brock was killed, and the battle-field was strewn with the bodies of volunteers who had died or been wounded in defence of their homes.