Part 2

“By and by we became tall stalks of golden wheat, and the farmer was glad to look at us. When we were fully ripe, the great reaping-machine drawn by a number of horses came along and cut us down. Then we were picked up and sent whirling through the buzzing jaws of the thrasher. Our grains of wheat were screened from the chaff and straw, and fell into sacks. Then we were put on trains and transported to the mammoth granaries to be stored away until the flour-mills wanted us.

“At last we reached the mills. There we were turned into beautiful white flour and shipped to the market. So in time we, as flour, reached the housewife’s or baker’s well-stocked kitchen, where we were put into trays, and, being mixed with a little salt, yeast, and some water, were kneaded into loaves of bread and baked. This is the story of my life from a little grain of wheat until I became the crust of bread that you are eating.”

The sun was sinking in the west, the birds were winging their flight homewards, and night was fast coming on. The dog yawned, and, stretching himself out, was ready for another romp with his master. The boy awoke from his dream and hurried home to help with the evening meal, and to do his share of the world’s work.--SELECTED.

_From “The New Education Readers,” by permission of the American Book Company._

TWO SURPRISES

A workman plied his clumsy spade As the sun was going down; The German king with his cavalcade Was coming into town.

The king stopped short when he saw the man-- “My worthy friend,” said he, “Why not cease work at eventide, When the laborer should be free?”

“I do not slave,” the old man said, “And I am always free; Though I work from the time I leave my bed Till I can hardly see.”

“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?” “Eight groschen,” the man replied. “And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”-- “Like a king,” he said with pride.

“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend, And two for a debt I owe; Two groschen to lend and two to spend For those who can’t labor, you know.”

“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea, To my mother with age oppressed, Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day, And now hath need of rest.”

“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?” “To my three boys at school. You see, When I am too feeble to toil any more, They will care for their mother and me.”

“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said. “My sisters are old and lame; I give them two groschen for raiment and bread, All in the Father’s name.”

Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes-- “Thou knowest me not,” said he; “As thou hast given me one surprise, Here is another for thee.

“I am thy king; give me thy hand”-- And he heaped it high with gold-- “When more thou needest, I command That I at once be told.

“For I would bless with rich reward The man who can proudly say, That eight souls he doth keep and guard On eight poor groschen a day.”

--ANONYMOUS.

THE RICH MAN AND THE COBBLER

In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his hammer or his needle.

Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was--so rich that he could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had, and if it were quite safe.

Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that wakened him this time--it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.

The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man, and told him of a plan.

Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the cobbler’s door.

“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”

But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give, not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a present of a hundred crowns.”

“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do you give me this money?”

“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”

“And you’ll never ask it back?”

“Never.”

“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”

“No, no. Why should I?”

“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”

When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.

Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never done in his life.

Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.

Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.

On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room. When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag, and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”

Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are not so happy.

--_From the French of_ JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

THE DROUGHT

Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away? The sky’s sweet smile quite gone? There is no sacred rain by day, No beaded dew at dawn. How can Thy helpless creatures live When drought destroys the sod? Upon our knees we pray Thee give Thy creatures food, O God!

The little stream hath ceased to run, The clover-bloom is dead, The meadows redden in the sun, The very weeds are fled. Their heads the mournful cattle shake Beside the thirsting wood. Lord, hear the humble prayer we make, To give Thy creatures food.

The panting sheep gasp in the shade, Their matted wool is wet, And where the cruel share is laid The striving horses sweat; They welcome death--’tis pain to live-- Restore Thy blessed sod; Oh, hear our humble prayer and give Thy creatures food, O God!

R. K. KERNIGHAN.

_By special permission._

THE EAGLE

He clasps the crag with hookèd hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow.

THE GOLDEN WINDOWS

All day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed, for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had given it to him. Then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and look across at another hill that rose some miles away. On this far hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds. They shone and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them; but after a while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then it looked like any common farm-house. The boy supposed they did this because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and have his supper of bread and milk and so to bed.

One day the boy’s father called him and said: “You have been a good boy, and have earned a holiday. Take this day for your own; but remember that God gave it, and try to learn some good thing.”

The boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece of bread in his pocket, and set out to find the house with the golden windows.

It was pleasant walking. His bare feet made marks in the white dust, and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and making company for him. His shadow, too, kept beside him, and would dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful. By and by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear water. Then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had taught him to do, and went on his way.

After a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows. He came up to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.

A woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him what he wanted.

“I saw the golden windows from our hilltop,” he said, “and I came to see them, but now they are only glass.”

The woman shook her head and laughed.

“We are poor farming people,” she said, “and are not likely to have gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through.”

She told the boy to sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the two, and went back to her work.

The little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her eyes were blue like the sky at noon. She led the boy about the farm, and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with four white feet. Then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows. The little girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the house.

“You have come quite the wrong way!” she said. “Come with me, and I shall show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see for yourself.”

They went to a knoll that rose behind the farm-house, and as they went the little girl told him that the golden windows could be seen only at a certain hour, about sunset.

“Yes, I know that!” said the boy.

When they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed; and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamond, just as he had seen them. And when they looked again, the boy saw that it was his own home.

Then he told the little girl that he must go. He promised to come again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and watched him.

The way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his father’s house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.

“Have you had a good day?” asked his mother.

Yes, the boy had had a very good day.

“And have you learned anything?” asked his father.

“Yes,” said the boy. “I have learned that our house has windows of gold and diamond.”

--LAURA E. RICHARDS.

_From “The Golden Windows,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company._

A SONG OF SEASONS

Sing a song of Spring-time! Catkins by the brook, Adder’s-tongues uncounted, Ferns in every nook; The cataract on the hillside Leaping like a fawn; Sing a song of Spring-time,-- Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!

Sing a song of Summer! Flowers among the grass, Clouds like fairy frigates, Pools like looking-glass, Moonlight through the branches, Voices on the lawn; Sing a song of Summer,-- Ah, but Summer’s gone!

Sing a song of Autumn! Grain in golden sheaves, Woodbine’s crimson clusters Round the cottage eaves, Days of crystal clearness, Frosted fields at dawn; Sing a song of Autumn,-- Ah, but Autumn’s gone!

Sing a song of Winter! North-wind’s bitter chill, Home and ruddy firelight, Kindness and good-will, Hemlock in the churches, Daytime soon withdrawn; Sing a song of Winter,-- Ah, but Winter’s gone!

Sing a song of loving! Let the seasons go; Hearts can make their gardens Under sun or snow; Fear no fading blossom, Nor the dying day; Sing a song of loving,-- That will last for aye!

--ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD.

_By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston._

* * * * *

Striving not to be rich or great, Never questioning fortune or fate, Contented slowly to earn, and wait.

A MISER’S TREASURE

There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that he would gladly have given his life for him.

This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town, not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.

He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe, far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.

All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests, became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long time.

But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.

At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost treasure.

His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness for the now desolate man. But he would have nothing to do with any of them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any interest in life.

One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark. This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.

When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold, hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.

Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.

That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a deep, fatherly tenderness.

He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl; and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.

Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly replaced by the golden-haired child.

--GRACE H. KUPFER.

_From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the American Book Company._

DRIFTED OUT TO SEA

Two little ones, grown tired of play, Roamed by the sea, one summer day, Watching the great waves come and go, Prattling, as children will, you know, Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings; Sometimes hinting at graver things.

At last they spied within their reach An old boat cast upon the beach; Helter-skelter, with merry din, Over its sides they scrambled in,-- Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair, Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.

Rolling in from the briny deep, Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep, Higher, higher, upon the sands, Reaching out with their giant hands, Grasping the boat in boisterous glee, Tossing it up and out to sea.

The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold; Night came, with footsteps damp and cold; Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by; And now across the sunny sky A black cloud stretches far away, And shuts the golden gates of day.

A storm comes on, with flash and roar, While all the sky is shrouded o’er; The great waves rolling from the west, Bring night and darkness on their breast. Still floats the boat through driving storm, Protected by God’s powerful arm.

The home-bound vessel, _Sea-bird_, lies In ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies: Her captain paces, restless now, A troubled look upon his brow, While all his nerves with terror thrill,-- The shadow of some coming ill.

The mate comes up to where he stands, And grasps his arm with eager hands. “A boat has just swept past,” says he, “Bearing two children out to sea; ’Tis dangerous now to put about, Yet they cannot be saved without.”

“Nought but their safety will suffice! They must be saved!” the captain cries. “By every thought that’s just and right, By lips I hoped to kiss to-night, I’ll peril vessel, life, and men, And God will not forsake us then.”

With anxious faces, one and all, Each man responded to the call; And when at last, through driving storm, They lifted up each little form, The captain started with a groan: “My God is good, they are my own!”

--ROSA HARTWICK THORPE.

_By permission of the publishers._

THE DAISY AND THE LARK

In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy. The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the large and beautiful garden flowers.

The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom. She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted her face towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened to the lark singing high in the air.