Part 3

One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday, and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem, was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!” said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!” But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.

The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I can live near them.”

Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her: “Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up into the blue air above.

The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a prisoner in a cage that hung by the open window. He sang of the happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.

Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and placed it in the lark’s cage.

“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.

“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”

“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill the air with perfume.

The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him, and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.

The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.

--HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS

Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world was green. O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake! See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake! Mark the warm October haze! Mark the splendor of the days! And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow; If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low-- “We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.” “Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less. Share my beauty and my cheer While we rest together here, In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”

All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace, All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face; And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass, While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass, O the warm October haze! O the splendor of the days! O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

--JEAN BLEWETT.

BEFORE THE RAIN

We knew it would rain, for all the morn A spirit, on slender ropes of mist, Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens-- Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To scatter them over the land in showers.

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves; the amber grain Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.

--THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

WEBSTER AND THE WOODCHUCK

On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire, in the United States, there once lived a boy whose name was Daniel Webster. He was a tiny fellow for one of his age. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were so dark and wonderful that nobody who once saw them could ever forget them. He was not strong enough to help much on the farm; and so he spent much of his time in playing in the woods and fields. He loved the trees and flowers and the harmless wild creatures that made their homes among them.

But he did not play all the time. Long before he was old enough to go to school, he learned to read; and he read so well that everybody liked to hear him. The neighbors, when driving past his father’s house, would stop their horses and call for the boy to come out and read to them.

It happened one summer that a woodchuck made its burrow in the side of a hill near Mr. Webster’s house. On warm, dark nights it would come down into the garden and eat the tender leaves of the cabbages and other plants that were growing there. Nobody knew how much harm it might do in the end. Daniel and his elder brother Ezekiel made up their minds to catch the little thief. They tried this thing and that, but for a long time he was too cunning for them. Then they built a strong trap where the woodchuck would be sure to walk into it; and the next morning, there he was.

“We have him at last!” cried Ezekiel. “Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you’ve done mischief enough, and I’m going to kill you.” But Daniel pitied the little animal. “No, don’t hurt him,” he said. “Let us carry him over the hills, far into the woods, and let him go.” Ezekiel, however, would not agree to this. His heart was not so tender as his little brother’s. He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed at the thought of letting it go.

“Let us ask father about it,” said Daniel.

“All right,” said Ezekiel; “I know what he will decide.”

They carried the trap, with the woodchuck in it, to their father, and asked what they should do.

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Webster, “we shall settle the question in this way. We shall hold a court here. I shall be the judge, and you shall be the lawyers. You shall each plead your case, for or against the prisoner, and I shall decide what his punishment shall be.”

Ezekiel, as the prosecutor, made the first speech. He told about the mischief that had been done. He showed that all woodchucks are bad and cannot be trusted. He spoke of the time and labor that had been spent in trying to catch the thief, and declared that if they should now set him free he would be a worse thief than before.

“A woodchuck’s skin,” he said, “may perhaps be sold for ten cents. Small as that sum is, it will go a little way towards paying for the cabbages he has eaten. But, if we set him free, how shall we ever recover even a penny of what we have lost? Clearly, he is of more value dead than alive, and therefore he ought to be put out of the way at once.”

Ezekiel’s speech was a good one, and it pleased Mr. Webster very much. What he said was true and to the point, and it would be hard for Daniel to make any answer to it.

Daniel began by pleading for the poor animal’s life. He looked up into his father’s face, and said:--

“God made the woodchuck. He made him to live in the bright sunlight and the pure air. He made him to enjoy the free fields and the green woods. The woodchuck has a right to his life, for God gave it to him.

“God gives us our food. He gives us all that we have. And shall we refuse to share a little of it with this poor dumb creature who has as much right to God’s gifts as we have?

“The woodchuck is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. He lives in quiet and peace. A hole in the side of a hill, and a little food, is all he wants. He has harmed nothing but a few plants, which he ate to keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food, to liberty; and we have no right to say he shall not have them.

“Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble with fear. He cannot speak for himself, and this is the only way in which he can plead for the life that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so cruel as to kill him? Shall we be so selfish as to take from him the life that God gave him?”

The father’s eyes were filled with tears as he listened. His heart was stirred. He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech, but sprang to his feet, and as he wiped the tears from his eyes, he cried out, “Ezekiel, let the woodchuck go!”

--SELECTED.

THE FAIRIES OF CALDON LOW

“And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?” “I’ve been to the top of Caldon Low The midsummer night to see!”

“And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Low?” “I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow.”

“And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon hill?” “I heard the drops the water made, And the oars of the green corn fill.”

“Oh! tell me all, my Mary-- All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon Low.”

“Then take me on your knee, mother; And listen, mother of mine; A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine;

“And their harp-strings rang so merrily To their dancing feet so small; But oh! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all.”

“And what were the words, my Mary, That then you heard them say?”-- “I’ll tell you all, my mother; But let me have my way.

“Some of them played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; ‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn The poor old miller’s mill;

“‘For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man will the miller be At the dawning of the day.

“‘Oh! the miller, how he will laugh When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh Till the tears fill both his eyes!’

“And some they seized the little winds That sounded over the hill; And each put a horn unto his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill;

“‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds go Away from every horn; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow’s corn.

“‘Oh! the poor blind widow, Though she has been blind so long, She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone, And the corn stands tall and strong.’

“And some they brought the brown lint-seed, And flung it down from the Low; ‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise, In the weaver’s croft shall grow.

“‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver, How he will laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!’

“And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin; ‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he, ‘And I want some more to spin.

“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another; A little sheet for Mary’s bed, And an apron for her mother.’

“With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon Low There was no one left but me.

“And all on the top of the Caldon Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

“But, coming down from the hilltop, I heard afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how the wheel did go.

“And I peeped into the widow’s field, And, sure enough, were seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn, All standing stout and green.

“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung; And I met the weaver at his gate, With the good news on his tongue.

“Now this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I’m tired as I can be.”

--MARY HOWITT.

THE LAST LESSON IN FRENCH

I was very late that morning on my way to school, and was afraid of being scolded, as the master had told us he should question us on the verbs, and I did not know the first word, for I had not studied my lesson. For a moment I thought of playing truant. The air was so warm and bright, and I could hear the blackbirds whistling in the edge of the woods, and the Prussians who were drilling in the meadow behind the sawmill. I liked this much better than learning the rules for verbs, but I did not dare to stop, so I ran quickly towards school.

As I passed the mayor’s office, I saw people standing before the little bulletin-board. For two years it was there that we received all the news of battles, of victories, and defeats. “What is it now?” I thought, without stopping to look at the bulletin. Then, as I ran along, the blacksmith, who was there reading the bill, cried out to me, “Not so fast, little one, you shall reach your school soon enough.” I thought he was laughing at me and ran faster than ever, reaching the school yard quite out of breath.

Usually, at the beginning of school, a loud noise could be heard from the street. Desks were being opened and closed, and lessons repeated at the top of the voice. Occasionally the heavy ruler of the master beat the table, as he cried, “Silence, please, silence!” I hoped to be able to take my seat in all this noise without being seen; but that morning the room was quiet and orderly. Through the open window I saw my schoolmates already in their places. The master was walking up and down the room with the iron ruler under his arm and a book in his hand. As I entered he looked at me kindly, and said, without scolding, “Go quickly to your place, little Franz; we were just going to begin without you. You should have been here five minutes ago.”

I climbed over my bench and sat down at once at my desk. Just then I noticed, for the first time, that our master wore his fine green coat with the ruffled frills, and his black silk embroidered cap. But what surprised me more was to see some of the village people seated on the benches at the end of the room. One of them was holding an old spelling-book on his knee; and they all looked sadly at the master.

While I was wondering at this, our schoolmaster took his place, and in the same kind tone in which he had received me, he said: “My children, this is the last time that I shall give you a lesson. An order has come from Berlin that no language but German may be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. A new master will come to-morrow who shall teach you in German. To-day is your last lesson in French. I beg of you to pay good attention.”

These words frightened me. This is what they had posted on the bulletin-board, then! This is what the blacksmith was reading. My last lesson in French! I hardly knew how to write, and I never should learn now. How I longed for lost time, for hours wasted in the woods and fields, for days when I had played and should have studied. My books that a short time ago had seemed so tiresome, so heavy to carry, now seemed to me like old friends. I was thinking of this when I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say the rules without a mistake? But I could not say a word and stood at my bench without daring to lift my head. Then I heard the master speaking to me.

“I shall not scold you, little Franz. You are punished enough now. Every day you have said to yourself: ‘I have plenty of time. I shall learn my lesson to-morrow.’ Now you see what has happened.”

Then he began to talk to us about the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful tongue in the world, and that we must keep it among us and never forget it. Finally he took the grammar and read us the lesson. I was surprised to see how I understood. Everything seemed easy. I believe, too, that I never listened so well; and it seemed almost as if the good man were trying to teach us all he knew in this last lesson.

The lesson in grammar ended, we began our writing. For that day the master had prepared some new copies, on which were written, “Alsace, France; Alsace, France.” They seemed like so many little flags floating about the schoolroom. How we worked! Nothing was heard but the voice of the master and the scratching of pens on the paper. There was no time for play now. On the roof of the schoolhouse some pigeons were softly cooing, and I said to myself, “Shall they, too, be obliged to sing in German?”

From time to time, when I looked up from my page, I saw the master looking about him as if he wished to impress upon his mind everything in the room.

After writing, we had a history lesson, and then the little ones recited. Oh, I shall remember that last lesson!

Suddenly, the church clock struck the hour of noon. The master rose from his chair. “My friends,” said he, “my friends,--I--I--” But something choked him; he could not finish the sentence. He turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and wrote in large letters, “VIVE LA FRANCE!” Then he stood leaning against the wall, unable to speak. He signed to us with his hand: “It is ended. You are dismissed.”

--_From the French of_ ALPHONSE DAUDET.

* * * * *

Do not look for wrong and evil-- You will find them if you do: As you measure for your neighbor, He will measure back to you.

THE BROOK SONG

Little Brook! Little Brook! You have such a happy look-- Such a very merry manner as you swerve and curve and crook-- And your ripples, one and one, Reach each other’s hands and run, Like laughing little children in the sun.

Little Brook, sing to me, Sing about a bumble bee, That tumbled from a lily-bell, and grumbled mumblingly, Because he wet the film Of his wings and had to swim, While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at him!

Little Brook--sing a song Of a leaf that sailed along, Down the golden braided centre of your current swift and strong, And a dragon-fly that lit On the tilting rim of it, And rode away and wasn’t scared a bit.

And sing how--oft in glee Came a truant boy like me, Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody, Till the gurgle and refrain, Of your music in his brain, Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.

Little Brook--laugh and leap! Do not let the dreamer weep: Sing him all the songs of summer till he sinks in softest sleep; And then sing soft and low Through his dreams of long ago-- Sing back to him the rest he used to know!

--JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

_By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Copyright, 1901._

THE BETTER LAND

“I hear thee speak of the better land; Thou call’st its children a happy band: Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs?” “Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze; And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?” “Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,-- Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?” “Not there, not there, my child!

“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy, Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy-- Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there: Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom; For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb-- It is there, it is there, my child!”

--FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

* * * * *

Whoever you are, be noble; Whatever you do, do well; Whenever you speak, speak kindly, Give joy wherever you dwell.

CÆDMON

On one of the dark, rugged cliffs that jut out into the sea from the eastern part of England, stood, many centuries ago, the monastery of Whitby. At this time the people of England were still very ignorant. Only the monks and nuns knew how to read or write. The rest of the people were either warriors, or else simple-minded shepherds and farmers.

In this monastery lived a servant whose duty it was to attend to the sheep and cattle. In the evenings, very often, his companions were in the habit of gathering together in the common hall or banquet room. There it was the custom, while the feast was going on, for each one in turn to take the harp as it was passed around the table, and make up some simple song to entertain his friends. Although these people knew nothing about reading or writing, they were wonderfully clever at singing songs and accompanying themselves on the harp.

Only the herdsman who attended to the sheep and cattle, and whose name was Cædmon, could never sing. So whenever the feasting time came, and his comrades began to pass the harp from one to another, he, being ashamed of his lack of skill, would leave the banquet hall to go alone to the little house where he slept.

One night, after he had left his comrades, and had attended to all the wants of the cattle under his care, he, as usual, went to sleep, and in his sleep he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed that to his door came a beautiful youth, with a light shining about his head, who said to him, “Cædmon, sing for me.” Cædmon answered: “But thou knowest I cannot sing. That is why I left my companions in the banquet hall, and came here to my lonely hut.” “Try,” said the beautiful youth, “and thou shalt find that thou canst sing.” Then Cædmon in wonder asked, “What shall I sing about?”--”Sing of the beauty of the world, and the glory of the stars and the skies, and of all that is on the earth,” was the answer.

Then in his sleep Cædmon sang a beautiful song, just as the youth had commanded him. But the strangest thing was that when he awoke he remembered every word of the song, and not only that, but he found he could sing a song about any thought that came into his mind; whereas, formerly, he had never been able to sing at all.