Part 4

Wonderful, indeed, all this seemed to the humble shepherd. He told his companions about his dream, and they led him to the abbess, who was chief in the monastery, and bade him sing his songs for her.

So he sang. All the wise monks came to hear him, and tears came into their eyes at the beauty of his song; for when he sang, the sky and the earth and the sea these men had known all their lives seemed suddenly to be filled with a new glory. They all said that Cædmon had received a wonderful gift from God, and that he must use it in a holy way.

From that day on some one else guarded the sheep and the cattle in the monastery of Whitby; and the former shepherd learned to read and write, and became one of the monks of the abbey. Many and beautiful and holy were the songs he wrote. They were written in Anglo-Saxon, the language spoken by the ancestors of the English people, and this simple shepherd, Cædmon, who was the first of the Anglo-Saxon poets, was therefore really the father of all English poetry.

--GRACE H. KUPFER.

THE BLUEBELL

There is a story I have heard-- A poet learned it from a bird, And kept its music, every word--

A story of a dim ravine, O’er which the towering tree-tops lean, With one blue rift of sky between;

And there, two thousand years ago, A little flower, as white as snow, Swayed in the silence to and fro.

Day after day with longing eye, The floweret watched the narrow sky, And fleecy clouds that floated by.

And through the darkness, night by night, One gleaming star would climb the height, And cheer the lonely floweret’s sight.

Thus, watching the blue heavens afar, And the rising of its favorite star, A slow change came--but not to mar;

For softly o’er its petals white There crept a blueness like the light Of skies upon a summer night;

And in its chalice, I am told, The bonny bell was found to hold A tiny star that gleamed like gold.

And bluebells of the Scottish land Are loved on every foreign strand Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand.

Now, little people, sweet and true, I find a lesson here for you, Writ in the floweret’s bell of blue:

The patient child whose watchful eye Strives after all things pure and high, Shall take their image by and by.

--ANONYMOUS.

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE MINSTREL’S SONG

Once in the olden time a king called his heralds together to hear his bidding. And all the swift runners gathered before the king, each with a trumpet in his hand. And the king sent them forth into every part of the kingdom to sound their trumpets and to call aloud:--

“Hear, O ye minstrels! Our gracious king bids ye come to his court and play before the queen.”

The minstrels were men who went about from castle to castle and from palace to cot, singing beautiful songs and playing on harps. Wherever they roamed they were always sure of a welcome. They sang of the brave deeds that the knights had done, and of wars and battles. They sang of the mighty hunters that hunted in the great forests. They sang of fairies and goblins, of giants and elves. And because there were no storybooks in those days, everybody, from little children to the king, was glad to see them come.

When the minstrels heard the king’s message, they made haste to the palace; and it so happened that three of them met on the way and decided to travel together.

One of these minstrels was a young man named Harmonious; and while the others talked of the songs that they would sing, he gathered the wild flowers that grew by the roadside.

“I can sing of drums and battles,” said the oldest minstrel, whose hair was white, and whose step was slow.

“I can sing of ladies and their fair faces,” said the youngest minstrel. But Harmonious whispered, “Listen! listen!”

“Oh! we hear nothing but the wind in the tree-tops,” said the others. “We have not time to stop and listen.”

Then they hurried on and left Harmonious; and he stood under the trees and listened, for he heard the wind singing of its travels through the wide world. It was telling how it raced over the blue sea, tossing the waves and rocking the white ships. It sang of the hill where the trees made harps of their branches, and of the valleys where all the flowers danced gayly to its music. And this was the chorus of the song:--

“Nobody follows me where I go, Over the mountains or valley below; Nobody sees where the wild winds blow,-- Only the Father in Heaven can know.”

Harmonious listened until he knew the whole song. Then he ran on, and soon reached his friends, who were still talking of the grand sights that they were to see. “We shall behold the king, and we shall speak to him,” said the oldest minstrel. “And we shall see his golden crown and the queen’s jewels,” added the youngest.

Now their path led them through the wood, and as they talked, Harmonious said, “Hush! listen!” But the others answered: “Oh! that is only the sound of the brook, trickling over the stones. Let us make haste to the king’s court.”

But Harmonious stayed to hear the song that the brook was singing, of journeying through mosses and ferns and shady ways, and of tumbling over the rocks in shining waterfalls, on its way to the sea.

“Rippling and bubbling through shade and sun On to the beautiful sea I run; Singing forever, though none be near,-- For God in Heaven can always hear.”

Thus sang the little brook. Harmonious listened until he knew every word of the song, and then he hurried on.

When he reached the others, he found them still talking of the king and the queen, so he could not tell them of the brook. As they talked, he heard something again that was wonderfully sweet, and he cried, “Listen! listen!”

“Oh! that is only a bird,” the others replied. “Let us make haste to the king’s court.”

But Harmonious would not go, for the bird sang so joyfully that Harmonious laughed aloud when he heard the song. It was singing a song of green trees; and in every tree there was a nest, and in every nest there were eggs.

“Merrily, merrily, listen to me Flitting and flying from tree to tree; Nothing fear I, by land or sea,-- For God in Heaven is watching me.”

“Thank you, little bird,” said Harmonious; “you have taught me a song.” And he made haste to join his comrades.

When they had come into the palace, they received a hearty welcome, and were feasted in the great hall before they came into the throne room. The king and queen sat on their thrones side by side. The king thought of the queen and the minstrels; but the queen thought of her old home in a far-off country, and of the butterflies she had chased when she was a little child.

One by one the minstrels played before them. The oldest minstrel sang of battles and drums, and the soldiers of the king shouted with joy. The youngest minstrel sang of ladies and their fair faces, and all the ladies of the court clapped their hands.

Then came Harmonious. And when he touched his harp and sang, the song sounded like the wind blowing, the sea roaring, and the trees creaking. Then it grew very soft, and sounded like a trickling brook, dripping on stones and running over little pebbles. And while the king and queen and all the court listened in surprise, Harmonious’s song grew sweeter, sweeter, sweeter. It was as if you heard all the birds in spring. And then the song was ended.

The queen clapped her hands, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the king came down from his throne to ask Harmonious if he came from fairy-land with such a wonderful song. But Harmonious answered:--

“Three singers sang along our way, And I learned the song from them to-day.”

Now all the minstrels looked up in surprise when they heard these words from Harmonious; and the oldest minstrel said to the king: “Harmonious is surely mad! We met no singers on our way to-day.” But the queen said: “That is an old, old song. I heard it when I was a little child, and I can name the singers three.” And so she did. Can you?

--MAUDE LINDSAY.

_From “Mother Stories,” by permission of Milton Bradley Company._

THE USE OF FLOWERS

God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night,--

Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountain high, And in the silent wilderness, Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not, Then wherefore had they birth?-- To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth:

To comfort man, to whisper hope Whene’er his faith is dim; For Whoso careth for the flowers Will much more care for him.

--MARY HOWITT.

THE MILLER OF THE DEE

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, Beside the river Dee; He worked and sang from morn till night-- No lark more blithe than he; And this the burden of his song Forever used to be: “I envy nobody--no, not I-- And nobody envies me!”

“Thou’rt wrong, my friend,” said good King Hal, “As wrong as wrong can be; For could my heart be light as thine, I’d gladly change with thee. And tell me now, what makes thee sing, With voice so loud and free, While I am sad, though I’m a king, Beside the river Dee?”

The miller smiled and doffed his cap, “I earn my bread,” quoth he; “I love my wife, I love my friend, I love my children three; I owe no penny I cannot pay; I thank the river Dee That turns the mill that grinds the corn That feeds my babes and me.”

“Good friend,” said Hal, and sighed the while, “Farewell, and happy be; But say no more, if thou’dst be true, That no one envies thee; Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, Thy mill my kingdom’s fee; Such men as thou are England’s boast, O miller of the Dee!”

--CHARLES MACKAY.

THE STORY OF MOWEEN

This is a story a hunter told me as we sat by the camp-fire on the top of the mountain, after a day’s climb through the woods:--

“When I was a child, my home was on the edge of a great forest. There were but few people near us, and not a town for miles and miles. Many wild animals lived in the woods, which were so wide and deep that most of the animals had never seen a human being.

“One day my father and a neighbor were out hunting. There was no breeze, and the woods were very still. They were walking down a hillside, stepping quietly over the fallen trunks and dry leaves, when suddenly, ‘Look! look!’ my father whispered to his companion.

“A strip of water gleamed through the trees, and a mother bear and three cubs were walking along the shore. The bear caught the sound or the scent of some one near, for she stopped, rose on her hind legs, and snuffed the air, and all the little bears did exactly what she did. ‘We have surprised Bruin giving her children a lesson,’ said my father. But as he turned to speak, and before he could say a word to prevent, his companion had shot the mother bear. She tumbled down on the sand, and the little bears began to whimper and cry.

“Father never spoke to that man again, though he was a neighbor; and a neighbor means a good deal when the nearest one lives two miles away.

“The cubs were brave fellows; they did not run away even when the men went up to them, but stayed by their mother, whimpering a little. ‘It was pitiful to see them,’ father said. He was not willing to go away and leave the little fellows, for they were too small to take care of themselves; and now they had no mother to teach them bear language and bear ways. He picked up one and carried it, and the others followed. So he brought the three bears home to be my playmates, and glad I was to see them. They cried at first and missed their mother; but they soon became accustomed to living with people. What frolics we had! Every morning we would scamper up and down the road. When some one called in to the house and I ran in, they would come running and tumbling after me. We played house and school and soldier together, and though I often wished they could talk with me, in every other way they were good comrades.

“They were always good-natured. You have heard a dog growl over a bone; the bears preferred lumps of sugar, which they took without growling. How they liked sweet things! They would come into the pantry and beg for cake; and when my mother wanted to give us all a treat, she would make molasses candy.

“Did we sell them? No, sir! Father said their mother had been so cruelly treated that they deserved extra kindness, and they were free to come and go as they would.

“One morning I woke up to find that two of them had gone off to the woods,--their natural home. Only Moween had chosen to stay with us rather than to go with his brothers. He lived with us until he was a big bear. Sometimes he would roam into the woods to find honey, but he always came back. I used to like to go nutting with him, for he would climb up the tree and shake the branches until the nuts came pattering down.

“One afternoon a German, leading a bear by a chain, stopped at the house. He had lost his way, and we asked him to rest and spend the night with us. He explained in broken English that he had been travelling about the country with his dancing bear. The bear danced for us, but Moween seemed frightened and ran away when he saw the newcomer. The dancing bear, on his part, seemed afraid of Moween. However, at supper-time, Moween returned, and the bears seemed to make friends. What they said to each other I do not know, but when morning came both bears were gone. The dancing bear had slipped his chain. Their trail led into the forest, and we followed it a mile or two, but did not find them.

“This time my pet bear did not come back. Every spring I used to expect him, for when the maple trees were tapped, we had ‘sugarings off’ which were always feasts for Moween. But I have not seen him since, though I never see a bear without wishing that he were my old playmate, Moween.”

_By permission of the Outlook Magazine._

--SELECTED.

A HINDU FABLE

It was six men of Hindustan, To learning much inclined, Who went to see the elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind.

The _First_ approached the elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: “I clearly see the elephant Is very like a wall!”

The _Second_, feeling round the tusk, Cried: “Ho! what have we here, So very round, and smooth, and sharp! To me it is quite clear, This wonder of an elephant Is very like a spear!”

The _Third_ approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: “I see,” quoth he, “the elephant Is very like a snake!”

The _Fourth_ reached out his eager hand, And felt about the knee: “What most this wondrous beast is like To me is plain,” said he; “’Tis clear enough the elephant Is very like a tree!”

The _Fifth_, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: “Even the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an elephant Is very like a fan!”

The _Sixth_ no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail, That fell within his scope: “I see,” quoth he, “the elephant Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Hindustan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong; Though each was partly in the right And all were in the wrong.

--JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

THE BOY MUSICIAN

There was a time, long ago, when people believed that fairies hovered over a sleeping babe, and gave to the little one the charm of beauty, or the joy of strength, or the power of genius.

If this were true, then fairies must have visited the cradle of little Wolfgang Mozart. We might easily believe that one of them said, “I shall give thee a loving heart;” and that another whispered, “Thou shalt delight in sweet sounds; music shall be thy language.”

The little Mozart lived in Germany more than a hundred years ago. His father was a musician, and his sister, Anna, had already made rapid progress in music. At all of her lessons the baby brother was an interested listener, and he often amused himself in trying to repeat the exercises he had heard. Before he was four years old, he began to compose music. His little pieces were written for him by his father, in a book which was kept for that purpose.

One Sunday the father came home from church and found Wolfgang at a table busy over a piece of paper. His fat little hand grasped the pen with much firmness, and at every visit to the ink-bottle he plunged it to the very bottom. The paper was very badly blotted with ink, but the baby composer calmly wiped away the blots with his finger and wrote over them.

“What are you doing there?” asked his father.

“Writing a piece of music for the piano,” replied Wolfgang.

“Let me see it.”

“No, no, it is not ready!”

The father took up the paper, and laughed at the big blots and the notes which were scarcely readable. But upon looking over the work more carefully, he saw that it was written according to rule, and that it was a wonderful composition for so young a child.

The father now devoted all his time to the education of his two children. They progressed so rapidly that they were a marvel to their native town. When Anna was ten years old and Wolfgang six, they were taken by their father and mother to Vienna, and there the Emperor listened to their music. The courtiers and the royal family praised the gifted children and filled their hands with costly presents.

Soon after their return home, a noted violinist called to ask Herr Mozart’s opinion of some new music. As they were about to practise the different parts, little Wolfgang begged to play second violin.

“You cannot join our rehearsal,” said his father. “You have had no instruction on the violin.”

“I do not need any lessons to play second violin,” the boy persisted.

“Run away and do not disturb us,” was the father’s reply, and the little boy walked out of the room, crying bitterly. The visitor begged that the child be permitted to play with him, and Wolfgang was called back.

“Play then,” said the father; “but play very softly.”

The child was comforted. He brushed away his tears and began playing, softly at first, as he had been commanded; then he forgot everything but the notes before him, and the music swelled higher and higher. All were amazed, and tears of gladness stood in the father’s eyes.

Another concert tour was planned, and Wolfgang and his sister travelled with their parents from city to city, giving concerts at the courts of kings. Great crowds went to hear them, and everywhere they were greeted with enthusiasm and delight.

When Wolfgang was eleven years old, he went to Italy to study music. The fair, slender lad was looked upon as a marvel by the Italian musicians. The father and son reached Rome at the time of the great Easter festival. A beautiful piece of music had been set apart as sacred to this yearly service. For two hundred years it had been carefully guarded, and all musicians were forbidden to copy it. Wolfgang listened intently; and when he came again the next day to the church, he brought with him a folded paper on which he had written from memory the whole of the sacred music.

“Truly such wonderful gifts come from Heaven!” said the priests, in awe and admiration.

Mozart remained for nearly two years in Italy, studying with the finest musicians and hearing the best music. After his return to his native land, he continued his musical studies and gave his whole life to his art.

It seems impossible that the boy, who in his early years received such honors, should in his manhood meet poverty and neglect. Such was Mozart’s sad fortune, but in spite of his discouragements he struggled on, and became one of the greatest of musical composers. He has given to the world a wealth of beauty that has made his name immortal.--BERTHA LEARY SAUNDERS.

THE SPARROWS

In the far-off land of Norway, Where the winter lingers late And long for the singing-birds and flowers, The little children wait;

When at last the summer ripens And the harvest is gathered in, And food for the bleak, drear days to come The toiling people win;

Through all the land the children In the golden fields remain Till their busy little hands have gleaned A generous sheaf of grain;

All the stalks by the reapers forgotten They glean to the very least, To save till the cold December, For the sparrows’ Christmas feast.

And then through the frost-locked country There happens a wonderful thing: The sparrows flock north, south, east, west, For the children’s offering.

Of a sudden, the day before Christmas, The twittering crowds arrive, And the bitter, wintry air at once With their chirping is all alive.

They perch upon roof and gable, On porch and fence and tree,

They flutter about the windows And peer in curiously.

And meet the eyes of the children, Who eagerly look out With cheeks that bloom like roses red, And greet them with welcoming shout.

On the joyous Christmas morning, In front of every door A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain, Is set the birds before.

And which are the happiest, truly It would be hard to tell: The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer, Or the children who love them well!

How sweet that they should remember, With faith so full and sure, That the children’s bounty awaited them The whole wide country o’er!

When this pretty story was told me By one who had helped to rear The rustling grain for the merry birds In Norway, many a year,

I thought that our little children Would like to know it, too, It seems to me so beautiful, So blessed a thing to do,

To make God’s innocent creatures see In every child a friend, And on our faithful kindness So fearlessly depend.

--CELIA THAXTER.

THE TIME AND THE DEED

Art going to do a kindly deed? ’Tis never too soon to begin; Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed, The world, my dear one, has pressing need Of your tender thought and kindly deed. ’Tis never too soon to begin.