Part 6

Of course the little boy was sent to school. He loved to read, but did not like to study. Sometimes his teacher would see him with his eyes shut and his hand moving on the desk. He was thinking of a picture. Drawing was not taught in the schools in those days and boys were punished if they were caught drawing pictures during school hours; so Edwin often ran away from his teachers, and they would find him in a quiet corner, with his slate, drawing the picture of some animal.

Wherever animals were to be seen in London, there Edwin was to be found. He generally carried his sketch book with him, and pictured the animals eating, walking about, asleep, or at play. Sometimes he would go to the London Zoölogical Gardens, and after he had watched the wild beasts for hours he would come away with many sketches. There was also a great market in London where wild animals were to be seen, and the boy, who was generally followed by two or more dogs, became very familiar to the people who came to the market.

When he was old enough Edwin was sent to the Artists’ Academy in London. He was a great favorite in the school, and one famous artist always called him the “Dog-boy.” He was very happy here and for the next few years devoted his time to the study of animals and how to paint them.

After a time Landseer had so many pictures, and wished to keep so many dogs, sheep, and deer, that it seemed necessary that he should have a home of his own where he could receive his friends. A pretty little cottage in St. John’s Wood near London was found to be just the place he desired. There was an old-fashioned garden filled with large trees and beautiful flowers. The new home was named “Maida Vale,” in honor of Sir Walter Scott’s favorite dog.

An old barn was fitted up for a studio, which was soon made beautiful with pictures of all kinds of animals. There were graceful greyhounds, kind-faced sheep dogs, faithful terriers, soft rabbits, cunning kittens, spirited race horses, and fleet-footed deer. The pictures looked so real that a witty friend of the artist used to call out before he entered the studio, “Landseer, keep your dogs off me; I want to come in.” On another occasion this same friend said, “O, give me a pin to take the thorn out of that dog’s foot! See what pain he is suffering!”

Everybody wished to visit this delightful studio, and meet the great painter who was so kind and witty, who loved flowers and children so well, and who had so many interesting friends around him. His visitors were astonished at his great power in training dogs, and gaining their love. When asked the secret, he would smile and say, “I just peep into their hearts.” One day he was entertaining some friends at Maida Vale when the door was pushed open and four great dogs bounded in. One lady was frightened, and as a fierce-looking dog ran past her and put his nose in Landseer’s hand, she said, “How fond of you that dog is!” “Yes,” said the artist, quietly, “but I never saw this dog before in my life.”

Landseer was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he often visited at his home. How he loved the wild scenery and the tender-hearted fearless people of that North Country! How he loved to climb the mountains and watch the shy, beautiful deer as they bounded over the crags! No artist ever painted deer like Landseer.

One day when he was at work in his studio, Landseer was told that Queen Victoria was riding up the garden path. He went to meet her, and she told him she wished him to see her mounted on her horse, so that he might paint her picture. She invited him to be her guest, and he painted a great many pictures of her children and their pets. In 1850, the Queen decided to confer on him the honor of knighthood; so the artist, who was now known all over the world, became Sir Edwin Landseer.

After this he received many great honors. He spent the last years of a happy, busy life in the pretty Maida Vale cottage. As he grew old he talked about his “worn-out, old pencil,” and complained that drawing tired him. It was a trial for him to give up his work, and his eyes were often sad as he looked at his beautiful pictures.

Landseer died in 1873, and was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in London. Copies of his pictures are in every land and in almost every home. He will always be remembered as a lover of animals as well as a great artist.

--SELECTED.

THE TWO CHURCH BUILDERS

A famous king would build a church, A temple vast and grand; And, that the praise might be his own, He gave a strict command That none should add the smallest gift To aid the work he planned.

And when the mighty dome was done, Within the noble frame, Upon a tablet broad and fair, In letters all aflame With burnished gold, the people read The royal builder’s name.

Now when the king, elate with pride, That night had sought his bed, He dreamed he saw an angel come (A halo round his head), Erase the royal name, and write Another in its stead.

What could it mean? Three times that night That wondrous vision came; Three times he saw that angel hand Erase the royal name, And write a woman’s in its stead, In letters all aflame.

Whose could it be? He gave command To all about his throne To seek the owner of the name That on the tablet shone; And so it was the courtiers found A widow poor and lone.

The king, enraged at what he heard, Cried, “Bring the culprit here!” And to the woman, trembling sore, He said, “’Tis very clear That you have broken my command; Now, let the truth appear!”

“Your Majesty,” the widow said, “I can’t deny the truth; I love the Lord--my Lord and yours-- And so, in simple sooth, I broke Your Majesty’s command (I crave your royal ruth),

“And since I had no money, sire, Why, I could only pray That God would bless Your Majesty; And when along the way The horses drew the stones, I gave To one a wisp of hay.”

“Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed: “Self-glory was my aim; The woman gave for love of God, And not for worldly fame. ’Tis my command the tablet bear The pious widow’s name.”

--JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

* * * * *

Teach me to feel another’s woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.

HOW SIEGFRIED MADE THE SWORD

In Saxon land there once lived a young prince named Siegfried. His father, who was renowned for his wisdom and good deeds, was king of a rich and happy country that reached to the great North Sea. His mother, the gentle queen, was beloved by all, both high and low, for her goodness of heart and her kindly charity to all who were in distress. Both the king and the queen left nothing undone to fit the young prince for a happy and useful life. They chose for him the best and wisest teachers; every day they saw that something was added to his store of knowledge and his stock of happiness. As he grew in stature it was their concern that he should grow in skill and strength also. No other youth of his age could run more swiftly or ride more easily; no other youth could shoot the arrow with surer aim or throw the spear with greater force.

But the wise old king knew that a good man’s life consisted of more than learning lessons and playing games. “All work is noble,” said he to Siegfried; “he who yearns to win fame must not shun toil. Even princes should learn how to earn their bread by the labor of their hands.” So the king sent his son to live with a smith called Mimer, that he might learn the smith’s trade and hear his words of wisdom.

This Mimer had built his smithy among the hills by the edge of a great forest. On the side of one of the hills overlooking the forest there was a fountain in which skill and wisdom lay hidden. By drinking daily at this fountain as the sun was rising, Mimer had become the most skilful of smiths and the wisest of men.

Siegfried had now to lay aside his courtly garments and put on a coarse blouse and leathern apron; for the dainties of a king’s table he had to exchange the humble fare of a smith’s apprentice. But he did not complain. His days were mirthful and happy; the sound of his hammer echoed musically among the hills, and the sparks from his forge flew like showers of stars from morn till night. He took such delight in his work that he soon became the cleverest workman in the smithy except Mimer himself. He could twist the links of the heaviest chains and fashion the most delicate ornaments of steel.

One morning the apprentices saw that their master wore a troubled look. He told them that Amilias, the chief smith in another land, had made a coat of armor which he boasted that neither sword could pierce, nor spear could scratch, and he had sent a challenge to the chief smiths of all other lands to equal his workmanship, or acknowledge him as their master. He had been toiling all the day and night to forge a sword that would pierce the armor, but he had failed. He asked, “Is there any one here skilful enough to forge such a sword?”

All the apprentices shook their heads. But Siegfried spoke up: “Give me leave; I shall try to forge the sword that shall cut the armor of Amilias.” All the others laughed at him in scorn, but Mimer said to them, “Let us see what he can do; if he fail, I shall make him repent his pride.”

Siegfried went to his task. For seven days the sparks flew from his anvil. On the eighth day the sword was tempered and he brought it to Mimer. “This seems, indeed,” said Mimer, “a fair edge. Let us try its keenness.” Then he threw a thread upon the water, and as it lay there he struck it with the sword. The blade passed through the thread without disturbing the ends or the surface of the water. “Well done, lad!” exclaimed the smith; “never have I seen a keener edge.”

But Siegfried said to himself, “I can make a better sword than that, and there yet is time.” So for three days more he welded it in a white hot fire and tempered it in buttermilk and oatmeal. Then in sight of Mimer and the apprentices he threw a ball of wool upon the water, and whirling the blade in air brought it down upon the ball and parted it clean in two without moving a thread out of place.

Still there was time, and back to his corner of the smithy went Siegfried again. His hammer rang with a cheerier sound than ever. For seven weeks he worked at the forge, and at last, pale but smiling, he stood before Mimer with the finished gleaming sword. Mimer looked at the edge which gleamed like a ray of light, but he said nothing, and seemed lost in thought. Then Siegfried, taking the weapon in his own hand, swung the blade high over his head, and brought it down upon the anvil. The huge iron block was divided in two. Then to the brook they went, and throwing a fleece of wool upon the water the sword stroke separated it as easily as the ball had been cut before. “With that sword,” cried Mimer, “I shall not fear to meet Amilias.”

Heralds were sent abroad through the two kingdoms to proclaim the day when the test would be made. Other kings heard of the contest and came with their retinues of warriors to witness the trial. There were four kings with their queens and many fair ladies and courtly knights in armor. Multitudes gathered to the height of land that separated the kingdoms.

When everything was ready, Amilias clad in the coat of armor went to the top of the hill and sat upon a great rock, where he was in full sight of all the people. He smiled to see Mimer toiling up the steep hill with that slight sword by his side; the countrymen of Amilias gave a shout of triumph, so sure were they of their champion’s success. But Mimer’s countrymen waited in breathless silence. They had faith in Mimer, but they greatly feared. Only Siegfried’s father seemed confident. He whispered to his queen, “Wisdom and skill are stronger than steel.”

When Mimer reached the top of the hill, he paused a moment to take breath and to cast a glance on the crowds below.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” answered Amilias, with a composed smile, so little did he fear; “strike your strongest!”

Mimer swung the gleaming blade,--for a moment the lightning seemed to play around his head, and then descending, it made a sweep through the air from right to left. The spectators thought to hear the clash of steel, but no sound came to their ears save a hiss like that which a hot poker would make in a bucket of water.

“Stand!” cried Mimer.

Amilias began to obey when, lo! he fell in halves, for the sword had cut through the war coat and the body incased within. One half rolled down the steep hill and fell into the river, fathoms deep, where for many a day, when the water was clear, it could be seen lying among the gravel and rocks.

The king was right: wisdom and skill had proved themselves stronger than steel.

--SELECTED.

* * * * *

He who has a thousand friends, Has not a friend to spare; But he who has one enemy, Will meet him everywhere.

GRASS AND ROSES

I looked where the roses were blooming, They stood among grasses and weeds: I said, “Where such beauties are growing, Why suffer these paltry weeds?”

Weeping, the poor things faltered: “We have neither beauty nor bloom, We are grass in the roses’ garden, But the Master gives us room.

“Slaves of a generous master, Born from a world above, We came to this place in His wisdom, We stay to this hour from His love.

“We have fed His humblest creatures, We have served Him truly and long; He gave no grace to our features, We have neither color nor song.

“Yet He who has made the flowers Placed _us_ on the selfsame sod; _He_ knows our reason for being,-- We are grass in the garden of God.”

--JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

THE WOUNDED CURLEW

By yonder sandy cove where, every day, The tide flows in and out, A lonely bird in sober brown and gray Limps patiently about;

And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand, And many a fringing weed, He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand, Crying, with none to heed.

But sometimes from the distance he can hear His comrades’ swift reply; Sometimes the air rings with their music clear, Sounding from sea and sky.

And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet, Is shaken with his pain, For broken are his pinions strong and fleet, Never to soar again.

Wounded and lame and languishing he lives, Once glad and blithe and free, And in prison limits frets and strives His ancient self to be.

The little sandpipers about him play, The shining waves they skim, Or round his feet they seek their food and stay As if to comfort him.

My pity cannot help him, though his plaint Brings tears of wistfulness; Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint, None may his wrong redress.

Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better way A moment’s joy to gain Than to make sorrow that must mar the day With such despairing pain?

Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone! Oh, listen to my words, And hear with me the wounded curlew moan-- Have mercy on the birds!

--CELIA THAXTER.

THE GOLD AND SILVER SHIELD

In the olden times a British prince set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, at a point where four roads met. In her right hand she held a spear, and her left rested upon a shield. The outside of this shield was of gold, and the inside of silver, and on each side was an inscription.

It happened one day that two knights--one in black armor, the other in white--arrived at the same time, but from opposite directions, at the statue. As neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to examine the beautiful workmanship and read the inscription.

“This golden shield,” said the Black Knight, after examining it for some time,--”this golden shield--”

“Golden shield!” cried the White Knight, who was as closely observing the other side; “why, if I have my eyes, it is silver.”

“Eyes you have, but they see not,” replied the Black Knight; “for if ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one.”

“Oh, yes, it is so likely that any one would expose a golden shield on the public road!” said the White Knight, with a sarcastic smile. “For my part I wonder that even a silver one is not too strong a temptation for some people who pass this way.”

The Black Knight could not bear the sarcastic smile with which this was spoken, and the dispute grew so warm that it ended in a challenge.

The knights turned their horses, and rode back to have sufficient space; then fixing their lances in their rests, they charged at each other with the greatest fury. The shock was so violent, and the blows on each side were so heavy, that they both fell to the ground, bleeding and stunned.

In this condition a good Druid who was travelling that way found them. He was a skilful physician, and had with him a balsam of wonderful healing power. This he applied to their wounds, and when the knights had recovered their senses, he began to inquire into the cause of their quarrel.

“Why, this man,” cried the Black Knight, “will have it that yonder shield is silver!”

“And he will have it that it is gold!” cried the White Knight.

“Ah,” said the Druid, with a sigh, “you are both in the right, and both in the wrong. If either of you had taken time to look at both sides of the shield, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoided.

“However, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils that have befallen you. In the future, never enter into any dispute till you have fairly considered both sides of the question.”--SELECTED.

THE WHITE-THROAT SPARROW

From the leafy maple ridges, From the thickets of the cedar, From the alders by the river, From the bending willow branches, From the hollows and the hillsides, Through the lone Canadian forest, Comes the melancholy music, Oft repeated,--never changing,-- “All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”

Where the farmer ploughs his furrow, Sowing seed with hope of harvest, In the orchard white with blossom, In the early field of clover, Comes the little brown-clad singer Flitting in and out of bushes, Hiding well behind the fences, Piping forth his song of sadness,-- “Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”

--SIR JAMES D. EDGAR.

THE SANDPIPER

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,-- One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,-- One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

--CELIA THAXTER.

* * * * *

A kind face is a beautiful face.

CRŒSUS

Some thousands of years ago there lived in Asia a king whose name was Crœsus. The country over which he ruled was not very large, but its people were prosperous and famed for their wealth. Crœsus himself was said to be the richest man in the world; and so well known is his name that, to this day, it is not uncommon to say of a very wealthy person that he is “as rich as Crœsus.”

King Crœsus had everything that could make him happy--lands and houses and slaves, fine clothing to wear, and beautiful things to look at. He could not think of anything that he needed to make him more comfortable or contented. “I am the happiest man in the world,” he said.

It happened one summer that a great man from across the sea was travelling in Asia. The name of this man was Solon, and he was the lawmaker of Athens in Greece. He was noted for his wisdom; and, centuries after his death, the highest praise that could be given to a learned man was to say, “He is as wise as Solon.”

Solon had heard of Crœsus, and so one day he visited him in his beautiful palace. Crœsus was now happier and prouder than ever before, for the wisest man in the world was his guest. He led Solon through his palace and showed him the grand rooms, the fine carpets, the soft couches, the rich furniture, the pictures, the books. Then he invited him out to see his gardens and his orchards and his stables; and he showed him thousands of rare and beautiful things that he had collected from all parts of the world.

In the evening as the wisest of men and the richest of men were dining together, the king said to his guest, “Tell me now, O Solon, who do you think is the happiest of all men?” He expected that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

The wise man was silent for a minute, and then he said, “I have in mind a poor man who once lived in Athens and whose name was Tellus. He, I doubt not, is the happiest of all men.”

This was not the answer that Crœsus wished; but he hid his disappointment and asked, “Why do you think so?”

“Because,” answered his guest, “Tellus was an honest man who labored hard for many years to bring up his children and to give them a good education; and when they were grown and able to do for themselves, he joined the Athenian army and gave his life bravely in the defence of his country. Can you think of any one who is more deserving of happiness?”

“Perhaps not,” answered Crœsus, half choking with disappointment. “But who do you think ranks next to Tellus in happiness?” He was quite sure now that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

“I have in mind,” said Solon, “two young men whom I knew in Greece. Their father died when they were mere children, and they were very poor. But they worked manfully to keep the house together and to support their mother, who was in feeble health. Year after year they toiled, nor thought of anything but their mother’s comfort. When at length she died, they gave all their love to Athens, their native city, and nobly served her as long as they lived.”

Then Crœsus was angry. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you make me of no account and think that my wealth and power are nothing? Why is it that you place these poor working people above the richest king in the world?”

“O king,” said Solon, “no man can say whether you are happy or not until you die. For no man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.”

Many years after this there arose in Asia a powerful king whose name was Cyrus. At the head of a great army he marched from one country to another, overthrowing many a kingdom and attaching it to his great empire of Babylon. King Crœsus with all his wealth was not able to stand against this mighty warrior. He resisted as long as he could. Then his city was taken, his beautiful palace was burned, his orchards and gardens were destroyed, his treasures were carried away, and he himself was made prisoner.