Part 5

But if the deed be a selfish one, ’Tis ever too soon to begin; If some heart will be sorer when all is done, Put it off! put it off from sun to sun, Remembering always, my own dear one, ’Tis ever too soon to begin.

--JEAN BLEWETT.

THE FLAX

The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and the showers watered it, so that it became very beautiful.

“People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax, “and that I am so fine and long, that I shall make an excellent piece of linen. How fortunate I am! it makes me so happy; it is such a pleasant thing to know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine cheers me, and how sweet and refreshing is the rain! no one in the world can feel happier than I do.”

One day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up by the roots; this was painful. Then it was laid in water as if they intended to drown it, and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were to be roasted; all this was very shocking.

“I cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “I must have my trials, and so learn what life really is.” And certainly there were plenty of trials in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.

At last it was put on the spinning-wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the wheel, so quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts.

“Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain, “and must be contented with the past;” and contented he remained till he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen. All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one piece. “How wonderful it is that, after all I have suffered, I am made something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world--so strong and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. I cannot be happier than I am now.”

After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles. This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into garments.

“See now, then,” said the flax, “I have become something of importance. This was my destiny; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way to be happy.”

Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other. “We would gladly have held together a little longer, but we must not forget that there is an end to all things.” And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water and made into a pulp, and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves beautiful white paper.

“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise, too,” said the paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful luck!” And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were written upon it. Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all that was written was sensible and good, and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.

“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I imagine that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. I suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than probable, for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever.”

But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book, or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could gain pleasure from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before it had got half through its journey.

“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor, like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They shall do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”

Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into a tub that stood in the wash-house. “After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper. “Now I am able for the first time to think of my life and all the good that I have done. What shall be done with me now, I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”

Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they wished to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.

The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon alight. “Oh, oh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame. It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and they gleamed as the white linen had never been able to gleam. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts turned into fire.

“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames, and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Nothing remained of the paper but black ashes with the red sparks dancing over them. The children thought that this was the end, but the sparks sang, “The most beautiful is yet to come.”

--HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

* * * * *

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright; Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And find a harvest-home of light.

JEANNETTE AND JO

Two girls I know--Jeannette and Jo, And one is always moping; The other lassie, come what may, Is ever bravely hoping.

Beauty of face and girlish grace Are theirs, for joy or sorrow; Jeannette takes brightly every day, And Jo dreads each to-morrow.

One early morn they watched the dawn-- I saw them stand together; Their whole day’s sport, ’twas very plain, Depended on the weather.

“‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low: “Yes, but ’twill soon be over.” And, as she spoke, the sudden shower Came, beating down the clover.

“I told you so!” cried angry Jo: “It always is a-raining!” Then hid her face in dire despair, Lamenting and complaining.

But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,-- I tell it to her honor,-- Looked up and waited till the sun Came streaming in upon her.

The broken clouds sailed off in crowds, Across a sea of glory. Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in-- Which ends my simple story.

Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine, The hopeful are the gladdest; And doubt and dread, children, believe Of all things are the saddest.

In morning’s light, let youth be bright; Take in the sunshine tender; Then, at the close, shall life’s decline Be full of sunset splendor.

And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette, To shun all weak complaining; And not, like Jo, cry out too soon-- “It always is a-raining!”

--MARY MAPES DODGE.

* * * * *

A kindly act is a kernel sown, That will grow to a goodly tree, Shedding its fruit when time has flown, Down the gulf of eternity.

THE MAID OF ORLEANS

In the midst of those terrible times, during which for one hundred years England and France were at war, there was born in the little village of Domrémy a peasant girl, named Jeanne d’Arc. When she was old enough she used to tend her father’s sheep, and as she sat on the hillside, watching them day by day, she often looked out over the ruined houses and blackened fields and wondered if the English would ever come again to frighten her people and burn their peaceful homes. Her father, too, feared the same, and so taught his little daughter to ride a horse and to use simple weapons.

Later she heard that the dreaded English were back in France, not in her own village, but besieging the brave town of Orleans. News came that the Dauphin, who was now governing France, dared not go to Rheims to be crowned, because the English troops held the place. One day as Jeanne sat musing over all these rumors, wishing that she were a man so that she might go and fight for her country, she saw a vision and heard voices bidding her leave her home and deliver the Dauphin from his enemies, so that he might be crowned king. So loudly and so plainly did she hear these voices that she felt she must go to the French court at once. She was so poor that she thought at first that she must go afoot, but some kind neighbors gave her a horse. Then she put on men’s clothing, instead of her coarse red dress, cut off her long black hair, and rode bravely off alone.

The journey was long and perilous, for the country was still full of robbers and free lances, but when it was over she found that her troubles had only begun. The nobles met her strange story with laughter and scorn, and refused to let her see the king. But finally her sweetness and gentle manner prevailed, and she was led into the presence of her sovereign. The story runs that the king, to test her, had put on the simple robe of a courtier, and stood among the rest of the nobles when Jeanne entered. But Jeanne went to him, without hesitation, saluted, and said:--

“In God’s name, it is you, sire, and none other.”

There she stood, a simple shepherd lass, who could neither read nor write, before a roomful of men of noble birth; but she was not afraid, for she brought with her the faith that she was to save France. Gradually, her soft voice, ringing with enthusiasm and loyalty, aroused the king and his lords, and he granted Jeanne her request--she was to go and relieve Orleans.

He gave her a big horse and pure white armor, and she herself sent for a sword having five crosses on the blade, that she had seen in a dream lying behind an altar in a certain church.

But at Orleans the people who were defending the city mistrusted her. They tried to hide their plans from her, and made a secret attack in the night on the enemy. But the shouts of war woke her from her sleep. She hastily called for her horse and galloped into the midst of the fight. The soldiers cheered her wildly, and now even the unwilling captains were forced to listen to her. In the days that followed, Jeanne, though twice wounded, was always at the front, urging on the French and terrifying the English, who took her for a witch. She entered Orleans on Friday, and a week from the following Sunday the English had turned their backs forever on the city.

Jeanne did not linger to enjoy her triumph. Amid the tears of joy and the cheering of the people, she rode out of the city the next day to perform the rest of her task,--to crown the Dauphin king of France. From far and near people came to see her, and a large army sprang up around her and the king, eager to march towards Rheims. Still the court delayed, for the nobles were jealous of Jeanne’s glory, but she was firm in her faith and the people were with her.

The French first attacked the English who were holding Troyes. After a six days’ siege the king was discouraged, for the food was growing very scarce, but Jeanne begged him to hold out two days longer. When he agreed, she mounted her horse and led the attack against the town. The English, in terror, opened their gates before the assault began. Thus the last difficulty was surmounted and the army marched safely to Rheims. Here the king was crowned in the big cathedral, the brave young peasant girl standing by his side.

Jeanne was now ready to go back to her father and mother, and the tending of her sheep, but the voices still called her to drive the English from the land. She stayed with the king and army, trying to hasten an attack on the English. But the indolent king, listening to idle tales from his jealous nobles, forgot all Jeanne had done for him and France, and began to believe that she was a witch. At last Jeanne was captured by the enemy. The English believed her to be a witch and tried her for sorcery. The French king made no effort to ransom her, and she was condemned to be burned at the stake. The sentence was carried out, and thus the poor peasant girl gave up her life for the ungrateful country she had saved from ruin.

--MAUDE BARROW DUTTON.

_From “Little Stories of France,” by permission of the American Book Company._

BIRDS

Birds--birds, ye are beautiful things, With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings; Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell, Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark; Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark; Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves, And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.

Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake; Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake; Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land; Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground; Ye come when the richest of roses flush out, And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.

--ELIZA COOK.

THE OWL

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round; And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay; Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

IKTOMI AND THE COYOTE

Afar off upon a large level land, a summer sun was shining bright. Here and there over the rolling green were tall bunches of coarse gray weeds. Iktomi in his fringed buckskins walked alone across the prairie with a black bare head glossy in the sunlight. He walked through the grass without following any well-worn footpath.

From one large bunch of coarse weeds to another he wound his way about the great plain. He lifted his foot lightly and placed it gently forward like a wildcat prowling noiselessly through the thick grass. He stopped a few steps away from a very large bunch of wild sage. From shoulder to shoulder he tilted his head. Still farther he bent from side to side. Far forward he stooped, stretching his long thin neck like a duck, to see what lay under a fur coat beyond the bunch of coarse grass.

A sleek gray-faced prairie wolf! his pointed black nose tucked in between his four feet drawn snugly together; his handsome bushy tail wound over his nose and feet; a coyote fast asleep in the shadow of a bunch of grass!--this is what Iktomi spied. Carefully he raised one foot and cautiously reached out with his toes. Gently, gently he lifted the foot behind and placed it before the other. Thus he came nearer and nearer to the round fur ball lying motionless under the sage grass.

Now Iktomi stood beside it, looking at the closed eyelids that did not quiver the least bit. Pressing his lips into straight lines and nodding his head slowly, he bent over the wolf. He held his ear close to the coyote’s nose, but not a breath of air stirred from it.

“Dead!” said he at last. “Dead, but not long since he ran over these plains! See! there in his paw is caught a fresh feather. He is nice fat meat!” Taking hold of the paw with the bird feather fast on it, he exclaimed, “Why, he is still warm! I’ll carry him to my dwelling and have a roast for my evening meal. Ah-ha!” he laughed, as he seized the coyote by its two fore paws and its two hind feet and swung him overhead across his shoulders. The wolf was large and the teepee was far across the prairie. Iktomi trudged along with his burden, smacking his hungry lips together. He blinked his eyes hard to keep out the salty perspiration streaming down his face.

All the while the coyote on his back lay gazing into the sky with wide-open eyes. His long white teeth fairly gleamed as he smiled and smiled.

“To ride on one’s own feet is tiresome, but to be carried like a warrior from a brave fight is great fun!” said the coyote in his heart. He had never been borne on any one’s back before and the new experience delighted him. He lay there lazily on Iktomi’s shoulders, now and then blinking blue winks. Did you never see a bird blink a blue wink? This is how it first became a saying among the plains people. When a bird stands aloof watching your strange ways, a thin bluish white tissue slips quickly over his eyes and as quickly off again; so quick that you think it was only a mysterious blue wink. Sometimes when children grow drowsy they blink blue winks, while others who are too proud to look with friendly eyes upon people blink in this cold bird-manner.

The coyote was affected by both sleepiness and pride. His winks were almost as blue as the sky. In the midst of his new pleasure the swaying motion ceased. Iktomi had reached his dwelling-place. The coyote felt drowsy no longer, for in the next instant he was slipping out of Iktomi’s hands. He was falling, falling through space, and then he struck the ground with such a bump he did not wish to breathe for a while. He wondered what Iktomi would do, so he lay still where he fell. Humming a dance-song, Iktomi hopped and darted about at an imaginary dance and feast. He gathered dry willow sticks and broke them in two against his knee. He built a large fire out-of-doors.

The flames leaped up high in red and yellow streaks. Now Iktomi returned to the coyote, who had been looking on through his eyelashes.

Taking him again by his paws and hind feet, he swung him to and fro. Then as the wolf swung towards the red flames, Iktomi let him go. Once again the coyote fell through space. Hot air smote his nostrils. He saw red dancing fire, and now he struck a bed of crackling embers. With a quick turn he leaped out of the flames. From his heels were scattered a shower of red coals upon Iktomi’s bare arms and shoulders. Dumfounded, Iktomi thought he saw a spirit walk out of his fire. His jaws fell apart. He thrust a palm to his face, hard over his mouth! He could scarce keep from shrieking.

Rolling over and over on the grass and rubbing the sides of his head against the ground, the coyote soon put out the fire on his fur. Iktomi’s eyes were almost ready to jump out of his head as he stood cooling a burn on his brown arm with his breath.

Sitting on his haunches, on the opposite side of the fire from where Iktomi stood, the coyote began to laugh at him. “Another day, my friend, do not take too much for granted. Make sure the enemy is stone dead before you make a fire!”

Then off he ran so swiftly that his long bushy tail hung out in a straight line with his back.

--ZITKALA-S̈A.

_From “Old Indian Legends,” by permission of Ginn and Company._

GOLDEN-ROD

Spring is the morning of the year, And summer is the noontide bright; The autumn is the evening clear That comes before the winter’s night,

And in the evening, everywhere Along the roadside, up and down, I see the golden torches flare Like lighted street lamps in the town.

I think the butterfly and bee, From distant meadows coming back, Are quite contented when they see These lamps along the homeward track.

But those who stay too late get lost; For when the darkness falls about, Down every lighted street the Frost Will go and put the torches out!

--FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

_By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._

NOVEMBER

November woods are bare and still; November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning’s chill; The morning’s snow is gone by night; Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creep, Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, The forest sifts and shapes and spreads; I never knew before how much Of human sound there is in such Low tones as through the forest sweep When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight; Sometimes the viewless mother bids Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight; I hear their chorus of “good-night”; And half I smile, and half I weep, Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”

November woods are bare and still; November days are bright and good; Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill; Life’s night rests feet which long have stood; Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood, The mother will not fail to keep, Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”

--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

SIR EDWIN LANDSEER

In the great South Kensington Museum in England there are many beautiful pictures, painted by famous artists. In one corner there is a little lead-pencil sketch of a donkey’s head, and visitors to the gallery used to ask the guide how it came there. The old man would point to the name below the sketch and say, “Why, that is Sir Edwin Landseer’s, and done when he was only five years old.” This is true, for the little drawing is marked, “E. Landseer, five years old.”

The little boy who did such wonderful work lived in a happy home in the great city of London. Not far from his home was a beautiful field called Hampstead Heath, and it was on this delightful playground that Edwin and his older brothers spent some of the happiest hours of their lives. While the others were burying each other in the grass, riding the old horse, or romping with the dogs, little curly-headed Edwin would be sitting under a tree, trying to make pictures. Sometimes his sister would sit by his side and watch the pencil as his baby fingers guided it. Very soon she would see a horse’s head on the paper and would recognize their own old Dobbin. “How good it is!” she would exclaim, “What a famous little artist you are!”

Edwin learned some wonderful lessons on Hampstead Heath. When he would beg to be taught to draw, his father would say: “Study things as God has made them, my boy. Your own eyes must be your first teachers.”