Part 7

“The stubbornness of this man Crœsus,” said King Cyrus, “has caused us much trouble and the loss of many good soldiers. Take him and make an example of him for other petty kings who may dare to stand in our way.”

Thereupon the soldiers seized Crœsus and dragged him to the market-place, handling him roughly all the time. Then they built up a great pile of dry sticks and timber taken from the ruins of his once beautiful palace. When this was finished, they tied the unhappy king in the midst of it, and one ran for a torch to set it on fire.

“Now we shall have a merry blaze,” said the savage fellows. “What good can all his wealth do him now?”

As poor Crœsus, bruised and bleeding, lay upon the pyre without a friend to soothe his misery, he thought of the words which Solon had spoken to him years before: “No man can say whether you are happy or not until you die,” and he moaned, “O Solon! O Solon! Solon!”

It so happened that Cyrus was riding by at that very moment and heard his moans. “What does he say?” he asked of the soldiers.

“He says, ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’” answered one.

Then the king rode nearer and asked Crœsus, “Why do you call on the name of Solon?”

Crœsus was silent at first; but after Cyrus had repeated his question kindly, he told all about Solon’s visit at his palace and what he had said.

The story affected Cyrus deeply. He thought of the words, “No man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.” And he wondered if some time he, too, would lose all his power and be helpless in the hands of his enemies.

“After all,” said he, “ought not men to be merciful and kind to those who are in distress? I shall do to Crœsus as I would have others do to me.” And he caused Crœsus to be given his freedom; and ever afterwards treated him as one of his most honored friends.

--JAMES BALDWIN.

_From “Thirty More Famous Stories,” by permission of the American Book Company._

THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--from the frozen Labrador-- From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear wanders o’er, Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

A SONG OF THE SLEIGH

Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snow When moonbeams sparkle round; When hoofs keep time to music’s chime, As merrily on we bound.

On a winter’s night, when hearts are light, And health is on the wind, We loose the rein and sweep the plain, And leave our cares behind.

With a laugh and song we glide along Across the fleeting snow! With friends beside, how swift we ride On the beautiful track below!

Oh, the raging sea has joys for me, When gale and tempests roar; But give me the speed of a foaming steed, And I’ll ask for the waves no more.

--JAMES T. FIELDS.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER

Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.

“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half an hour.”

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’s _such_ a goose, Martha!”

“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her.

“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”

“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”

“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.

“Hide, Martha, hide!”

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs supported by an iron frame!

“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.

“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”

Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the kettle.

“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.

“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire. Then Master Peter and the two young Cratchits went to bring the goose, with which they soon returned in high glee.

Such excitement followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy, ready beforehand in a little saucepan, hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table.

The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves. Then climbing into their chairs, they held their fingers over their lips, lest they should call for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. When she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, and size were wonderful to think of. With apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was enough dinner for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight, looking at one small bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten all of it yet. But every one had had enough, even the youngest Cratchits. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have climbed over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose! The two young Cratchits almost went black in the face when they thought of what might have happened.

Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the kettle. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a baker’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, and decked with Christmas holly. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said it was the best pudding he had ever seen. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.

At last the dinner was all done, the hearth swept, and the fire made. All the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, and watched the chestnuts on the fire as they sputtered and cracked. Then Bob said, “Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

Which all the family re-echoed.

“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

--CHARLES DICKENS.

* * * * *

Darkness before, all joy behind! Yet keep thy courage, do not mind: He soonest reads the lesson right Who reads with back against the light.

CHRISTMAS SONG

The earth has grown old with its burden of care, But at Christmas it always is young; The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air, When the song of the angels is sung.

It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night: On the snowflakes which cover thy sod The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white, And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight That mankind are the children of God.

On the sad and the lonely, the wretched, and poor, That voice of the Christ Child shall fall, And to every blind wanderer opens the door Of a hope that he dared not to dream of before, With a sunshine of welcome for all.

The feet of the humblest may walk in the field Where the feet of the Holiest have trod. This, this is the marvel to mortals revealed When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed, That mankind are the children of God.

--PHILLIPS BROOKS.

BERGETTA’S MISFORTUNE

Old Bergetta lay asleep on the doorstep in the sun. Her two little white fore paws were gathered in under her chin, and she had encircled herself with her tail in the most compact and comfortable way. Her three companion cats were all out of her way at that moment. She forgot their existence. She was only conscious of the kindly rays that sank into her soft fur and made her so very sleepy and comfortable.

Presently a sound broke the stillness, very slight and far off, but she heard it, and pricked up her pretty pink-lined ears and listened intently. Two men, bearing a large basket between them, came in sight, approaching the house from the beach. The basket seemed heavy; the men each held a handle of it, and very silently went with it round to the back entrance of the house.

Bergetta settled her head once more upon her folded paws, and tried to go to sleep again. But the thought of the basket prevented. She got up, stretched herself, and lightly and noiselessly made her way round the house to the back door and went in. The basket stood in the middle of the floor, and the three other cats sat at a respectful distance from it near each other, surveying it doubtfully.

Bergetta wasn’t afraid; she went slowly towards it to find out what it contained, but when quite close to it she became aware of a curious noise--a rustling, crunching, dull, clashing sound which was as peculiar as alarming. She stopped and listened; all the other cats listened. Suddenly a queer object thrust itself up over the edge, and a most extraordinary shape began to rise gradually into sight. Two long, dark, slender feelers waved about aimlessly in the air for a moment; two clumsy claws grasped the rim of the basket, and by their help a hideous dark bottle-green-colored body patched with vermilion, bristling with points and knobs, and cased in hard, strong, jointed armor, with eight legs flying in all directions, each fringed at the foot with short yellowish hair, and with the inner edges of the huge misshapen claws lined with a row of sharp, uneven teeth, opening and shutting with the grasp of a vise,--this ugly body rose into view before the eyes of the astonished cats. It was a living lobster.

As the hard and horny monster raised itself out of the basket, it fell with a loud noise all in a heap on the floor before Bergetta. She drew back in alarm, and then sat down at a safe distance to observe this strange creature. The other cats also sat down to watch, farther off than Bergetta, but quite as much interested.

For a long time all was still. The lobster, probably rather shocked by its fall, lay just where it had dropped. Inside the basket a faint stirring and wrestling and clashing was heard from the other lobsters,--that was all. Very soon Bergetta felt herself becoming extremely bored with this state of things. She crept a little nearer the basket.

“I needn’t be afraid of that thing,” thought she; “it doesn’t move any more.”

Nearer and nearer she crept, the other cats watching her, but not stirring. At last she reached the lobster, that in its wrath and discomfort sat blowing a cloud of rainbow bubbles from its mouth, but making no other movement. Bergetta ventured to put out her paw and touch its hard shell. It took no notice of this, though it saw Bergetta with its queer eyes on stilts, which it wheeled about on all sides to see what she was doing.

She tried another little pat, whereat the lobster waved its long feelers, that streamed away over its back in the air, far beyond its tail. That was charming! Bergetta was delighted. The monster was really playful! She gave him another little pat with her soft paw, and then coquettishly boxed his ears, or the place where his ears ought to be. There was a movement of the curious shelly machinery about his mouth, but he was yet too indifferent to mind anything much.

Bergetta continued to tease him. This was fun! First with the right and then with the left paw she gave him little cuffs and pushes and pats which moved him no more than a rock. At last he seemed to become aware that he was being treated with somewhat more familiarity than was agreeable from an entire stranger, and began to move his ponderous front claws uneasily.

Still Bergetta continued to frisk about him, till he thrust out his eight smaller claws with a gesture of displeasure, and opened and shut the clumsy teeth of the larger ones in a way that was quite dreadful to behold. “This is very funny,” thought Bergetta. “I wonder what it means!” and she pushed her little white paw directly between the teeth of the larger claw which was opening and shutting slowly. Instantly the two sides snapped together with a tremendous grip, and Bergetta uttered a scream of pain,--her paw was caught as in a vise and cut nearly through with the uneven toothed edge.

Alas, alas! Here was a situation. In vain she tried to get away; the lobster’s claw clasped her delicate paw in a grasp altogether too close for comfort. Crying with fear and distress, Bergetta danced about all over the room; and everywhere Bergetta danced, the lobster was sure to go, too, clinging for dear life; up and down, over and across, they went in the wildest kind of a jig, while all the other cats made themselves as small as they could in the remotest corners, and watched the performance with mingled awe and consternation. Such a noise! Bergetta crying and the lobster clattering, and the two cutting such capers together! At last some one heard the noise, and coming to the rescue thrust a stick between the clumsy teeth and loosened the grip of the merciless claw; and poor Bergetta, set at liberty, limped off to console herself as best she might.

--CELIA THAXTER.

STORM SONG

The clouds are scudding across the moon; A misty light is on the sea; The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, And the foam is flying free.

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar: Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room, A thousand miles from shore.

Down with the hatches on those who sleep! The wild and whistling deck have we; Good watch, my brothers, to-night we’ll keep, While the tempest is on the sea!

Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip, And the naked spars be snapped away, Lashed to the helm, we’ll drive our ship In the teeth of the whelming spray!

Hark! how the surges o’erleap the deck! Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves! Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck, Drifting over the desert waves.

Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave, With God above us, our guiding chart: So, whether to harbor or ocean grave, Be it still with a cheery heart.

--BAYARD TAYLOR.

* * * * *

I am glad a task to me is given, To labor at day by day; For it brings me health and strength and hope, And I cheerfully learn to say: “Head, you may think; Heart, you may feel; But Hand, you shall work alway.”

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee!

“O for a soft and gentle wind!” I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free,-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud! The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free,-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE INDIANS

When the people from the Old World first settled in this country, they found a race here whom they called Indians. This same race still inhabit this country, but they are few in numbers as compared with the whites, and they live mostly in the far West.

The Indians then did not dress like those you may see now, but their faces and figures have not changed very much. They have a dark skin, straight, black hair, black eyes, high cheek-bones, flat noses, white teeth, and wear no beards. In stature they are tall and straight.

The houses in which the Indians lived were not at all like our homes, and they were called huts or wigwams. These wigwams were sometimes made of poles set in the ground in a circle. But when a large hut was wanted, the poles were planted in two long rows. The poles were bent over at the top, then fastened together and all covered with bark. Sometimes the poles were driven into the ground in such a way that they met at the top. A hole was left for smoke near the top, and the rest of the pole frame was covered with bark on the outside and with skins on the inside.

The Indians had no furniture, not even beds, and every one sat and slept on skins or on mats made from rushes by the squaws. These mats and skins were kept upon the ground, but each person had a place for his own.

The food of the Indians consisted of fish and game, together with such fruits and nuts as they were able to pick and gather, besides the corn for cakes. Potatoes and corn are both natives of this country and were first used by the Indians. For drinking purposes, water was commonly used, but they made a great many drinks with berries, leaves, and roots.

The faces of the Indians were frequently painted in many colors, and to make the paint last long, holes were sometimes pricked into the skin by means of thorns. The painting then was much like the tattooing done now in many islands of the sea. Sometimes they tattooed in this way nearly the whole of their bodies.

In the warm parts of the country they wore little in the way of dress, often no more than a kind of short skirt which did not reach to the knees; but they took great delight in having large strings of beads round their necks, besides birds’ claws, squirrels’ heads, and the like. Where it was colder, bearskins were worn in winter, with the fur left on the pelt. In summer lighter skins were chosen, and sometimes the fur was taken off. Large garments were, in the main, made from the skins of the otter, beaver, or raccoon. The men had a sort of leather breeches which they used when hunting, and they wore moccasins for shoes.

Feathers, sometimes in head-dresses, sometimes in garments, were used by the Indians, to show degrees of honor won in war. Bows and arrows were used by them for hunting, and likewise for weapons to defend themselves. The work of making bows and arrows must have taken a great deal of time, for the arrow shafts were whittled out of wood, and the arrow-heads were chipped out of flint and other stones. They used spears with which to fish, as well as hooks and lines.

The wood for their boats was obtained by burning down trees near the ground, and then burning off the branches and tops. In this way they managed to get logs the right length, and then they burned them out on one side, after which they scraped out the charred parts with shells. These made very strong boats. A lighter canoe was built of a frame covered with bark.

In times of peace the Indians hunted and fished. Such a thing as a store or market was not needed. Each family had to catch all the fish or kill all the game that might be required for its wants. The boys early learned the art of fishing and hunting, and in summer they fished from the shore or from a canoe. In winter they bored holes through the ice and used a hook and line or a long spear. This spear, at the pointed end, was shaped like a fish.