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STORIES FROM MY ATTIC,
BY THE AUTHOR OF
" DREAM-CHILDREN " AND "4 SEVEN LITTLE PEOPLE AND THEIR
FRIENDS."
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON.
1869.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
HORACE E. SCUDDER,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.




CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE ATTIC... 1
IN THE WINDOW SEAT.
LOOKING AT A PICTURE...                      9
HENS........                                 22
A STORY THAT I MEAN TO WRITE.               25
AN AUGUST NIGHT..                          28
AT CHRISTMAS TIME..                          34
AT THE STUDY TABLE.
THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES.               39
With an illustration from a photograph.
THE BATTLE OF THE GOLDEN SPURS.   54
SIR WALTER SCOTT....... 61
With an illustration of Sir Walter's Study, from a photograph.
THE SINGING OF THE SEIRENS                   73
FRANCIS HUBER.....                           78
With a portrait.
WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
THE MUSIC PARTY.....  87
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART....    110
With a portrait.
THE RETURN OF ORPHEUS                        124
BEFORE THE FIRE.
" AS GOOD AS A PLAY "..                     131
THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL                137
THE NEIGHBORS...                147
With an illustration by H. L. Stephens.




IV                  CONTENTS.
PAGE
GOOD AND BAD APPLES.166
THREE WISE LITTLE BoYS.                     177
With an illustration by Courtland Hoppin.
TOM AND JOM.... 200
THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN... 209
THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD...  221
ROMANCE.
ROSE AND ROSELLA.                             235




STORIES FROM MY ATTIC.
THE ATTIC.
IN the house where I live I have chosen
to take possession of the attic. Here, quite
above the ordinary street sounds, I sit at my
desk, or before my fire, or climb into my cushioned window-seat, where the world can get at
me only by toiling up-stairs, while heavenly visitors, as they come flying down the roof, find my
attic their first resting-place. Yet I am not so
far off from a very pleasant world; I have only
to open my door of an evening, and pretty
notes of music steal up from the instrument
two flights below, and I know that a few skips
will take me into the family room by the
centre-table and in hearing of the piano.
For all that I love my attic best, and here I
have come to live, and living, to gather about
me so many neighbors of thought and fancy,
that I would play the part of host for a little
while, and open my room to living guests.
Come up into my sunny garret 
1




2       STORIES FROMl MY ATTIC.
The ceiling is not high, and on the street
side it slopes toward the floor, suddenly stopping, however, as if it were afraid to go ally
further, lest it slip off altogether. The window is bolder, for it stands at the very edge,
calmly leaning on its elbows on the roof, and
looking over the street and the little park,
and off to the country beyond; it has its own
little roof, which is on very good terms with
the roof of the attic; they have a common
gutter and pipe, and agree to let all their rain
go into the common stock.
The attic then has but one window, but that
is so large and so high that the light coming
through it finds its way into every part of the
little room.  Within the window I have built
a window-seat. Standing upright, my head is
a little above the sill of the window. So I have
arranged a flight of three steps, which I
gravely mount as if ascending a throne, and
there, at the top, is my broad window-seat, from
which I can look over the roof, down into the
street, or on to the little park. Beyond the
park was a great manufactory. One night it
took fire; from my window-seat, where it was
light as day, I saw the flames rushing up. The
next morning it was as if some fairy had been
at work; the great building was burned to the




THE ATTIC.                3
ground; but now I saw what it had hiddena green cemetery, and just beyond the top of a
church tower that looked like a blunt pencil, or
crayon, and I suppose the clouds that I see
above it sometimes are the figures it traces on
the sky. In another direction I can see into
the hilly country, and by craning my neck out
of the window I can see sails in the bay. It
seems to me that I can see a good deal of the
world from my window-seat.
But though there is no hour of the day when
it does not afford me a bright watch-tower
from which to spy out the land, I am  not
sure but I like best those shady hours when I
curl myself up on the seat and look sometimes
out on the shadows below, oftener in upon the
many cornered room, and at last I draw the
red curtain across the window and watch the
fire-light as it plays at hide and seek about the
walls, running in behind pictures and then
scampering back to the black coal. If I have
anything pleasant to think about, it will dance
in and out of my mind to the rhythm of the
flashing fire-light.
One cannot always be thus half dreaming.
If he does nothing then he will have nothing
to think of, and at such times I often clamber
down from my perch and seat myself at my




4        STORIES FROM MY ATTIC.
study table to read and write and study.
Everything is so near by that I can almost
reach my shelves from my table. The books
stand in their rows waiting to be taken down,
and when one goes, his neighbors immediately
lean on each other and whisper about him till
he comes back.  And there are a few untidy,
forlorn books, poor relations and meanly clad,
that lead a wretched life in the dark behind
the other books, poked out of sight and sometimes left for months leaning their heads
against the wall. There is one old fellowv, a
fat dictionary in shirt sleeves, that has been in
all the backyards to the very top of the bookshelves. He began life respectably; he was fat
indeed, but well dressed, until a little dog one
day got hold of him and ate the back of his
coat entirely off. I let him stay amongst his
brother dictionaries out of pity, for some time,
but he looked so ashamed that finally I slid him
slyly behind them, and ever since he has been
living in dark corners and in the backyards of
the shelves. When I want to make an inquiry
of him, I hardly know where to find him, but
have to search all his haunts. He looks very
miserable when I bring him out.
Sometimes, as I have said, I leave the door
ajar, and as I study there comes a whiff of




THE ATTIC.                5
music from the room below, and many a time I
slip down and forget the old attic and my
books and do not go up again till another day.
Yet I believe I never turn to go out of the
door without giving a half regretful look at
my fire. That, after all, is the real occupant of
the room. It owns everything, and I may
come and visit it. There it sits in its comfortable iron chair, and I feed it with coal, and dust
about it, and sweep up around it, and sometimes sit down before it with the bellows, and
gently tickle it with faint puffs of wind that
make it jump and laugh with pleasure. Then
it gets to burning steadily and with hearty
cheer, and I take my rug and stretch myself
before it, or sink into my easy chair while it
tells me stories and crackles over its bright
fancies. Just over it is a light mantel holding
trifles; among them  a bronze monk with a
candle in his hand and afflicted with a painful
sense of a hinge in his back. Yet he reads
calmly on. I unhinge him to take out a match
from under his girdle - with his head thrown
alarmingly back he still reads; I shut him up
with a snap, and he reads calmly on. Below
the shelf is a row of plaster casts from marbles on the Temple of Apollo at Bassae. The
marbles are very large; these casts are very




6       STORIES FROMI MY ATTIC.
small, but there is a prodigious amount of life
going on over them - horses and men struggling together and so tangled up that I never
have quite made out whiclh is to be victorious.
So there is a little touch of history on my
chimney.
Best of all is it when I have drawn my chair
before the fire and my little niece comes in by
the doorway, like a bit of the music which
sometimes steals up to me, and finds a place
somewhere in the chair, and we look at the fire,
and then she tells me stories, and I tell her of
the time when she used to climb into the
paper basket and I carried her down to sell her
to grandmother.
It happens to me now that I must leave my
attic for another home. I have packed my
books and taken the pictures from the walls.
The red carpet is rolled up, the red cushion
stowed away, the desk and chairs move off in
a procession down-stairs. How shall I carry
away the fancies and stories and thoughts
which have endeared the room to me? Some
indeed have already gone out with me into society; I will gather those that seem most fitting and so go out from my little attic. Heaven
send those who sit there after me as pleasant
hours as I have had, and so forth we go, my
little book and I.




IN THE WINDOW-SEAT.








LOOKING AT A PICTURE.
Eight o'clock in the Evening.
IT is snowing and blowing out-of-doors, and
I have drawn the red curtain across my window, but sit in my window-seat still, with my
feet drawn up on the cushion. The gas in the
pipe is not lighted yet, but the gas in the coal
is lighted, and flashes out of the fire-place most
cheerily.  It makes everything very distinct,
and looking about I find nothing better to rest
my eyes on than a picture which hangs over
the mantel-shelf. It has no name except the
one that I give it; for the artist who drew it
put no name upon it, and he died forty years
ago. It is " The Entrance," by William Blake;
and as I sit in my snuggery, the storm howling outside, this picture takes my recollections
and my imaginings across the ocean, and back
to the time when William Blake made it. I
found it in a picture-store on the famous
Strand of London, as one of the great streets
running parallel with the Thames is called.
It had been lying neglected there for some
time, waiting for some one to come who had




10       IN THE  VINDO  W-SEA T.
heard of its maker, and who would buy it for
his sake as well as for its own. A little way
from  the picture-store is a sort of rat-hole
alley-way leading froml the Strand, and called
Fountain Court. There are a great many such
courts in London; one sees a dark passageway not much larger than a man's bodly, and
going in through an arch he comes out into a
little court, closed all about, and occupied by
dingy houses. In this dismal Fountain Court,
which looked as if it had never heard of even
a pail of wateri, was a house which I went to
look at, because in it had lived once William
Blake. Some old clothes were hanging out of
the windows, and some slatternly women and
children were about. It was no doubt a little
cleaner looking when William Blake and his
wife lived there, and from the window of one
of these two rooms they could get a glimpse of
the river and hills beyond, but it never could
have been a very bright or cheerful spot. I
fear that most people living there would become like the place - stupid and indifferent to
anything higher or better than a pipe and a
glass of beer.
Here, however, William  Blake lived, and
painted pictures, and wrote poems, and his pictures became more wonderful as he grew older.




LOOKING AT A PICTURE.         11
He painted what he saw about him. Fountain
Court, and people going through it with mugs
of beer in their hands. No, for he was not
looking at such sights much. When he was a
little boy, he came home one day and told his
mother that he had seen a tree filled with
angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every
bough, like stars; and again, going out into
the fields, where the hay-makers were at work,
he saw them raking hay, and amid them were
bright angels walking. We sometimes say,
especially in hymns, that with the eye of faith
we may see the heavenly country and the spirits
that dwell there, but our eyes are nevertheless
looking hard at the ground or the bricks about
us. Now Blake had this eye of faith, and so
clear was it that he constantly seemed to be
seeing beautiful or terrible spirits, when others
saw nothing but muddy London streets, and so
what he saw he painted.
There were some around him who cared for
these things, but most people could not see
what he saw, and they blamed him for being so
foolish. He did not mind them. He said that
God was showing him these wonderful sights,
and it would not be right if he were to turn
away and look at what other men cared about,
even though he could-then paint pictures which




12        IN THE WIND OW-SEAT.
men would admire, and give him great sums
of money for.  Once he wrote about himself, -
"The Angel who presided at my birth
Said:'Little creature, formed of joy and mirth,
Go love without the help of anything on earth."'
But when any listened to him, or spoke, who
felt as he did, they loved him more than they
could tell. They were few who cared for him
and his work, but he said: " I see the face of
my Heavenly Father: He lays His hand upon
my head, and gives a blessing to all my work."
When he drew a face, he was thinking of
what the man had suffered and enjoyed, and
how much he had thought of those things
which would last forever, and how little of
what was soon to pass away. He drew many
pictures of the life of Job. You who have
read the Book of Job in the Bible know that
it is wonderful and deep, and that it has not
much to say about the destruction of Job's
house, and the disease which wasted Job; but
a great deal concerning God, and the stars
which he made, and man's soul, more wonderful than the -stars. So Blake, as if he had
been with Job and his friends, put into pictures what they felt, and the pictures are only
less glorious than the words which we can
read.




LOOKING AT A PICTURE.                13
Besides painting what he saw, Blake wrote
down what he heard, and some very strange
things he wrote, for his ear was like a musical
instrument out of tune in some of its notes;
when these were struck there was a discord,
and we can make out no tune; but some of the
notes were clear, and when these were struck,
a beautiful sound went out, which Blake caught
in words and sang for us. Whatever was
simple and truthful and lovely went to his
heart; and he was not easily deceived by outside appearances, but knew how to see a heart
that could be touched, even when most would
think the owner of it a hard and hateful mall;
if there was anything worth loving, he was
quite sure to love it, because he knew that
God did too. Here are some lines of his upon
THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, "'weep,'weep!'weep,'weep!"
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, -
"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a sleeping, he had such a sight:




14           IN THE WIND 0 W-SEA T.
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, "If he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy."
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got, with our bags and our brushes, to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm,
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
Here is another, which is called
THE LITTLE BLACK BOY.
My mother bore me in the Southern wild,
And I am black, but oh, my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught-me underneath a tree,
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
"Look on the rising sun, - there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away;
And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.




LOOKING AT A PICTURE.                    15
"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies;and this sunburnt face,
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
" For when our souls have learnt the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice
Saying,' Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' "
Thus did my mother say, and kissbd me,
And thus I say to little English boy:
" When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me."
Those who have " The Children's Garland,"
a very pleasing little  collection  of poetry for
children, will find two of Blake's poems in it,
and I will give just one more: —
THE LAMB.
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight, -
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice;




16         IN THE WINDOW-SEAT.
Little lamb, who made thee.
Dost thou know who made thee i
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!~
William Blake was not always happy, even
though he had such beautiful sights before
him; many times he was harsh and bitter,
oftener he was weighed  down with troubles,
but one thing he never lost sight of —that to
live in the love of God was what would last;
and, remembering this, he beat down whatever
rose to disturb it, whether discomfort about
him or sinful enemies within; so that at the
last of life, when he lay down poor and almost
neglected, save by his beloved wife and a very
few steadfast friends, he chanted and sang
melodies that rose from his heart to his lips,
and with these bright songs and happy words,
he left the world.
I look once more at the picture over my
mantel. It is not hard to read it after reading




LOOKING AT A PICTURE.           17
of Blake. Two angelic beings stand waiting
at the opening doors, their faces turned wistfully downward to the cloud below, out of
which ascends one whose face we do not see,
but whose hands are outstretched as she rises
to that world which she has seen with the eye
of faith.  Now the doors are open for her.
So, like Williani Blake, she enters in.
Eleven o'clock in the Morning.
That was in the winter time when I sat in
my window-seat. It is warm enough now to
sit with the window open and look out-ofdoors. I look over the roofs of houses and
see churches that rise higher, and from the
street below comes the sound of children playing on the little square of smiling green, with
its fountain of laughing water. The churches
and the children, the children and the churches
run in my mind, and suddenly there comes to
me the recollection of a festival which I' once
attended on the very first day of this summer
month,- a festival in a great church in the
heart of a great city. St. Paul's Cathedral in
London is greater than any church which any
of us know in America; when one climbs the
hill on which it stands, coming up through
crooked lanes and crowded streets, he comes
2




18       IN THE WINDOW-SEAT.
suddenly upon this great building which
gathers around and beneath a lofty dome
lifted high above all the houses about, higher
even than the smoke that hangs over the city.
It is of white stone, which has become so
darkened in many places by the smoke and
grime and fog of London, that one thinks of it
as a black building upon which the moon is
shining, and very beautifully do the long rays
of white steal down into the blackness.
It was this Cathedral that I entered on the
forenoon of the first day of June, while omnibuses and drays and carriages were rumbling
in the streets, and all London had opened its
millions of eyes and was busy with its millions
of hands. Into the church I went and sat beneath the great dome. There was a sound
here, too, but it was of thousands of little
voices whispering, and thousands of little
hands rustling. Around the dome, from floor
to gallery, had been built tiers of wooden seats,
and there came filing in troops of children,
who clirmbed in order, and took their places on
the benches, until there were five thousand
boys and girls filling the seats.
They were children from the charity schools
of London, and each school was dressed in
uniform, but all the schools were not dressed




LOOKING AT A PICTURE.           19
alike; so that one saw green and blue and orange and white ribbons of clean little children
floating down to the floor. Little girls in droll
white caps, yellow sleeves, and blue dresses,
with white kerchiefs, sat together above; while
below were boys in dark-blue clothes and broad
white collars. By each school or class was a
teacher, and against one of the pillars was
hung a little box, in which stood the leader of
music. Below were thousands more of older
people who had come to hear the children sing.
There was service held.  At the time of
prayer five thousand little hands rustled and
covered the eyes, the girls lifting their white
aprons. But at the time of singing, one pure
song rose froln the sweet fresh voices. I could
not hear the reader; he was too far away; but
every now and then, on what seemed perfect
stillness, there rose from the children's throats
a song of praise, or the simple Amen, which
seemed to rise as on wings, and pass up the
high dome, up through the windows, far above,
escaping to heaven. Last of all came that
chorus, which, perhaps, some of you have
heard from great choirs,- Hallelujah! for the
Lord God omnipotent reigneth: the kingdom of
this world is becdme the kingdom of our Lord and
of His Christ, and He shall reign forever and ever,




20          IN~  THIE  WINDO TT-SEAT.
King of kings, and Lord of lords.  Hallelujah!
It was the musician Handel, the writer of the
music for these words, who began this yearly
celebration in the days of George the Third.
When all was over, I went and stood by the
door outside. The children passed out by two
and two, led by parish beadles who walked before with staves, and so they moved away down
the London streets to their homes again.  As
I stood there I thought of one who had also
seen these children and heard them siing years
ago; one who sang in his heart when their
voices were lifted up, and who wrote afterward
what he sang to himself. It was William
Blake that wrote these words:HOLY THURSDAY.'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green;
Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as
snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters
flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London
town,
Seated in companies they were, with radiance all their own;
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among;




LOOKING AT A PICTURE.                  21
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor:
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
The children must be singing to-day.  I do
not see the churches; I do not hear the children  playing in the street; I am  under the
dome of St. Paul's: a mighty Hallelujah is
risin g.




HENS.
At Cackling-time.
IT is useless for me to pretend that I see
hens from my city window-seat. There is not
even a weathercock in sight, but my cushioned
roost is just as much a place for me to see
things from with nly memory's eye, as with
the real ones that wander out-doors and in, like
hens themselves, picking up one object and
another in an aimless sort of way and cackling
over them. I remnember a delightful evening
when I was out driving by the banks of the
Charles River, in Massachusetts. We came to
a spot which was hemmed in beliind a hill and
bounded in front by the river, while on the side
was a thick wood; the place was flat grassland, and looked like a small camp. It was, in
fact, a camp of hens. Only the most venturesome ever strayed near the wood, and they had
no wish to go into the river. A half dozen
rude shanties stood together, and dozens of
little coops lay scattered about. It was sundown, and the hens and crowers had all gone
to roost, while those that had broods were




LHENS.                23
snugly housed in the coops. But the farmer
obligingly went in, and routed out the sleepy
fowls from their houses. It was a funny sight
to see them  come tumbling, cackling, and
crowing out of the shanties, one after the
other, each seemingly whiter than the last;
for the wonder was there was not a black
feather among them, and there were over two
hundred old fellows and as many chickens:
all were pure white, and the man had, at one
time, five hundred perfectly white fowls.' The
whole company were clacking about as if waked
out of dreams, strutting around in a bewildered
manner.  The farmer showered corn among
them, but they did not seem to pay much attention to that. They walked sleepily about,
and at last, one by one, found their way back
to their roosts, where they went to sleep again;
and, I have no doubt, to this day, such of them
as live, talk over that time when, somehow,
they had two days in one.
I have known several hens quite intimately,
and some by reputation.  One I have not
heard of for some time, but it was living forty
years ago on one leg, having lost the other by
being run over, I think. It hopped about in a
lively fashion, picking up a living, and seemed
to be thought none the less of for being one



24        IN THE WINVDO W-SEAT.
legged. A hen is a gentle-looking creature,
and seemns to be so foolish that if a carriage is
cominog along the road, she will scuttle across
the road in front of it to get out of its way,
instead of staying still where she is. But did
you ever see a hen with a brood of chickens
under her, - how she gathers them under her
wings and will stay in the cold if she can only
keep them warm, - and how she guards them
so carefully that she is really fierce toward any
one who tries to get her chicks awayP I have
seen this, and I have read, as, no doubt, sollle of
you have, of One who loved men so, that when
they would not come to Him for His blessing,
He said, sadly, "How often would I have
gathered thy children together, even as a hen
gathereth her chickens under her wings, and
ye would not! " If the Saviour call speak of
the hen thus, I think we may be reminded of
Him  and His words by a great many things
which we see constantly, - the wheat growing
in the field, the doves that fly about the streets,
the lambs that are on the hills, and the boat
that rocks on the waves.




A STORY THAT I MEAN TO WRITE.
l/ie Hour of Bells and Crackers.
I HAVE set up a garden on the roof, outside
of my window. When I was a little boy I
used to see pictures in books of gardens on
roofs in Germany, with little children sitting
among the flower-pots; and my notion of
oriental houses was of flat-roofed buildings
laid out on top with flower-beds, and people
walking up and down gravel walks, Now that
I am grown up, I have a garden four feet
long and nine- inches broad; but as the roof
is rather narrow, I have to sit inside on my
window-seat and admire my garden. To make
sure of having flowers, I planted verbenas and
heliotropes just ready to blossom, and one tuft
of lobelia already in flower; so I consider my
garden a very flourishing one. Besides, there
are morning-glory seeds in the box, and when
the vines are grown I think that they will
climb over my window, and make it so dark
with blue flowers and green leaves that I shall
have to desert my window-seat and go into the
country for light.




26       IN THIE WVIkNTDO W-SEAT.
Just now, looking into my garden, and over
it into the street, and beyond and up into the
sky, I begin to think of a story which I mean
to tell some day, but which just now is a little
backward, like the mignonette and morningglory seeds in my garden. I have long wanted
to tell the story, and once began it and wrote
a few sentences. It is to be a story about a
Rocket.  I have not decided yet why and
where the Rocket is to be let off; but there is
to be a little boy to touch it off, and I have had
some thoughts of fastening something on to
the Rocket which it shall carry up into the
sky. Once I thought of having a grasshopper
skip on to it just as it was going up, - a very
ambitious and self-conceited grasshopper who
would be telling his neighbors that he was
going to jump very high, and sure enough,
should, much to his own astonishment, jump a
prodigious height by means of the Rocket. I
have not thought so much about the going up
of the Rocket, however, as I have of the coming
dowl; and here I mean once for all to do justice to the much-abused Rocket-stick, which is
always being laughed at and treated contemptuously, as if it were its fault and not its virtue
that it should come down quietly and in the
dark. The Rocket-stick in my story is to be




A STORY THAT I MEAN TO WRITE.  27
tied on patiently and to go up calmly, without
having its head turned by the great fuss going
on over it, and then, coming down, I mean to
have it meet with a very delightful surprise.
I have not yet determined what the end shall
be, but rather think I shall make it come down
feet foremost, and stick into the earth of some
little garden, just where a sweet-pea is coming
up, there to stand firmly, while the sweet-pea
twines around it and covers it with its blossoms. There is to be some more ending to it,
I believe, or at any rate something is to be
done to prevent the sweet-pea from going to
seed, and the Rocket-stick from being pulled
up. I am not sure, too, but I shall have some
little creature crawl up into the empty powderhorn and make a comfortable home there. At
all events, our fierce, fiery Rocket, that blazes
off into the sky, is to have a quiet peaceful life
in the sunshine afterward. Very likely, while
I am writing this story I shall have other
thoughts in my mind, and perhaps think of
that cannon in the picture which has become a
nest of birds; of the field of wheat that waves
over the battle-field; of the men and women
who are boys and girls now.




AN AUGUST NIGHT.
By Firelight and Starlight.
THE windows of heaven had been opened
where I took my seat a few summers ago, and
on that window-seat I have sat many a time
since - in recollection.  I had been walking
over and around the White Mountains of New
Hampshire, with Grasshopper and Little Muscle. It had been raining from the beginning,
and we had scarcely seen a mountain, but had
trudged  on, knapsack  on  back, drenched
through much of the time, and drying ourselves the rest. At last we came to one portion of our walk which lay through a forest.
It led from Waterville to the Saco River, near
Abel Crawford's grave, but was only a bridlepath which had been roughly cut a few years
before, and so out of use that it could scarcely
be distinguished, after a few miles, from
the sable-lines, as they are called, - blazes
made by trappers of sable.  No one at the
red farm-house could tell us exactly about
the path, what its course was after reaching
Sawyer's River, eleven miles or so distant, or




AN AUG UST NIGHT.           29
how many miles in length it was. Some said
fourteen miles in all, some said sixteen, one
shook his head and said nineteen, but no one
really knew. All the advice we could get was
a warning from two young artists who had
tried the walk a few days before, and getting
bewildered on sable-lines, had, as they averred,
walked sixty miles; and after spending the
night in the woods, had been forced to straggle back.
Then there were the inhabitants of the
woods- Bears? - a few, but they were timid.
Cats were the most unpleasant, - bob-cats, as
they were disrespectfully called, from their bobtails. Mr. H., an enthusiastic fisherman, told
us that he gave them  a wide berth when he
met them in the woods; but one day, having
nothing but his fishing-rod in hand, he met a
bob-cat in the path, and feeling very stubborn,
he sat down, remembering the taming power
of the human eye, and looked the bob-cat unflinchingly in the face. The bob-cat stopped,
-there were a few yards between them,and having perhaps a similar theory, sat down
on his haunches, and looked steadily at Mr. H.
It was a long fifteen minutes; but the man
won, and the brute slunk off.
We started at noon under bright skies,




30       IN THE WINDOW-SEAT.
though it had been raining in the morning,
and went singing and shouting on our way.
We dared the bob-cat to come out, we jeered
at him, we taunted him with cowardice; and
once, when we were resting, Grasshopper and
I acted the scene, Grasshopper coming up to
me on all-fours, and fixing a bob-cat gaze upon
me as I stared at huim, till he was ready to turn
on his heel. So we walked along the hilly
path, full of sport, when lo! just as I was calling out in my loudest voice, " Robert! Robert!
toi que j'aime," a veritable bob-cat crossed the
path. We all turned to each other and whispered emphatically, - " Bob-cat!"  We listened-we heard the fellow  go crunching
through the forest and mneaouing in the distance; we sat on a log, but in vain; six eyes,
lie reasoned, were too much for his two.
But it began to lower, then it rained, and in
a few minutes our shoulders were wet through.
We trudged on. We reached Sawyer's River
at six o'clock, calculating that we had made
thirteen miles. We held a council; should we
rcailp here in the hut P It could not be more
than five miles further, two hours of daylight
were left, and we surely could get through; so
off we started again, watching the path carefully, for it was from this point that it was




AN AUGUST NIGHT.           31
doubtful.  Sawyer's River kept crossing the
path. We walked cautiously on. It came to
be eight o'clock and we always seemed to be
just on the point of seeing clear land ahead.
We came now to a brook entering the river
on our left. The path was all a maze, and reasoning sagely that the brook was going straight
to Saco River, which ran by the road we were
making for, we stepped into it and went kneedeep floundering down the current. We were
now wet from top to toe, though it had stopped
raining. A few rods of this short cut were
enough, and we clambered on to the bank
again, and with remarkable good fortune stumbled upon the path once more.
Then it grew darker; we heard the roaring
of water, and always thought we were coming
to the Saco, and always found it to be Sawyer's.
We stumbled along, Grasshopper in front,
Little Muscle in the middle, and I behind.
Then it was that enormous trees were found
fallen across the path.  Little sharp twigs
stuck out from them. It must have been on
these that I caught in clambering over, my
knapsack banging against my sides, for one
strap was broken, and tore those little patches,
when Little Muscle laughed inside, and I
sighed out. We stumbled on in the miry dark



32        IN THE TVINDO TI-SEAT.
ness. We halted for Grasshopper to feel the
path ahead with his feet, when lie would hollo
to us, and we would go to his voice, letting
him  start off again on fresh discovery.  Finally, not even patient hunting seemed of any
avail; we appeared to be in the path, and yet
at its end. We leaned against a fallen tree
aand took counsel together.  Should we follow
our compass and push through the woods? It
could not be more than three quarters of a
mile more, surely.  We were hungry, tired,
and wet. It was after ten o'clock, so we agreed
to camp out on the spot.
The Grasshopper had some matches, I had
some birch-bark, Little Muscle had some newspaper, and one of us had a small pocket-knife.
We dropped the knife at once and could not
find it again; but there were some rotten
trunks of trees standing about, wet and spongy,
and we broke these down, and, after patient
labor, made a fire. Then we made a corduroy
bed of old trunks, and propped up some logs
for seats, and made some clothes-poles on
which we hung our raiment, while we roasted
ourselves like savages. We spent the rest of
the night drying each garment by turns. The
Grasshopper and Little Muscle lay down on
the corduroy. I slept beautifully on a chip for




AN AUGUST NIGHT.            33
a minute and a half, when the heat from the
fire stole through me.
At four in the morning we were nearly ready
to start.  Everything was dry, especially our
mouths, which could find no water. I was
lying down, for I felt like it. I heard a sound
above me.
"Little Muscle," said I, "what is that pattering?"
"Rain," said Little Muscle, and he took a
pocket-handkerchief and spread it gently over
me.  The contents of our knapsacks were
spread about on the ground. In three minutes we were wet through, and so were all our
things. We walked five miles by the path,
and then came to the road. It rained the rest
of the day. We went to bed at Old Crawford's, and pushed our clothes outside the
door; and in the afternoon I read the newvspaper aloud, while Grasshopper mended my
trousers beautifully, and Little Muscle went to
sleep.
3




AT CHRISTMAS TIME.
Midnight.
THROUGH the frosty pane, I make out the
shining stars, and in the dead of night, when
others are sleeping, I keep watch. When one
is out-of-doors in the middle of the night he
is surprised to see how differently everything
looks, especially in moonlight.  The buildings so high and strange, the trees muttering
to each other, and bushes looking as if they
were stealing out of the meadow to the road.
And then at night, one looks up into the sky.
There are no people, perhaps, about, to catch
his eye, and his business does not keep him
thinking with his eyes down, so he looks up and
sees the countless stars. If he is on shipboard,
he watches the mast drawing queer diagrams
on the heaven, and tries to count the stars in
some one patch. And here and there, over the
surface of the globe, are dotted little towers,
in which men sit and watch steadily with great
telescopes, to see what more they can find out
about those wonderful heavenly bodies. We
seem at such timnes to be standing tiptoe on




AT CHRISTMAS TIME.          35
the earth, on its extreme outside, and peering
up illto that strange sky, which we can only
ascend into with our bodies such a miserable
little space.
Then there are some whose work requires
them to be out-of-doors all night. The watchmen in our cities walk up and down, and see
some sights that are not at all heavenly. The
engine-driver of the night train peers out beyond his engine as it dashes through the darkness. He cannot look up into the sky much,
he must keep on the lookout for signals ahead.
How many ships are sailing over the ocean all
night long, with a few men muffled up, pacing
the deck, or sitting together in chat, or minding the wheel.
In countries where it is warm there is a
great deal of out-door life in the night, and
the flocks upon the hill-side are watched by
the shepherds. They can look at the stars,
and watch the meteors that flash across the
sky. A stranger sight they saw once on a hillside in Judea, when, as they kept watch of
their sheep, a great light shone around, and
the angel of the Lord came upon them with
that wonderful annunciation, at the words of
which the heavens were opened, and a multitude - no man could number them - praised




36        IN THE WVINDO W-SEAT.
God in the hearing of these simple shepherds.
Perhaps, too, at that very moment the Wise
Men of the East were journeying toward the
place.
The shepherds kept their flocks by night,
and thirty years afterward, other shepherds
watching, might have seen Him, the True
Shepherd, going at midnight on the quiet hill.
Did they know that He whom they saw moving along in the distance, His outline growing
fainter, was going out into the cold and darkness to pray to the Father P'Cold mountains, and the midnight air,
Witnessed the fervor of his prayer;"
and on the lonely mountain the Shepherd was
watching his sheep.




AT THE STUDY TABLE.








THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES.
In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes,
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.
LONGFELLOW.
AT whatever hour of day or night one
were to enter Bruges, he would be welcomed
by the ringing  of bells.   Long  before he
reached the city, - unless now he were coming, as probably he would come, by the noisy
railway, —he would hear the pleasant tunes
sounding; and if lying in his room at the
Hotel de Flandres he were to wake in the night,
he would not have to listen long before he
would hear the bells again at their work, ringing out the bright music. High up in the
Belfry of Bruges, which rises so lofty above




40        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
Les Halles in the market-place that the great
building looks like a low-roofed house, the bells
are swung, and there, every fifteen minutes,
day and night, they play their tunes.  The
music sounds so sweetly up in the pure air,
that it is as a voice let down from heaven. No
one can see the bells, except he climb up the
tower staircase or mount the opposite houses;
only the swallows know them well, flying in
and out, for their nests are there. No one is
ringing the bells, yet still they sound, making
their glad noise above the drowsy town of
Bruges.
Drowsy enough it is, looking as if here
might be the palace of the Sleeping Beauty,
and as if the bell was ringing day and night
to-wake her.  Canals crossed by bridges —
Bruges is Bridge in Flemish —are in every
direction. Back of the Town Hall creeps the
sluggish Dyver Canal, and it looks no lazier
than the few people who walk along the shaded
mall by its side.  In the market-place sit a
few old women knitting, and selling to a few
other old women clattering about in wooden
shoes; and yet, as one goes idling through the
city, he sees great houses and warehouses, with
quaint scroll-work on the face, and with high
stepped roofs. Great churches and hospitals,




THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES.  41
with glorious paintings, stand massively by
themselves, and at the street corners, in niches
of the houses, stand images of the Virgin
Mary and child Jesus.  There is a street
called " The Street of the Lace-makers." Jog
down the street some summer afternoon in a
rattling vigilante with a Flemish driver: you
see the quaint houses that have settled themselves comfortably as if for a long nap, and at
each door-step a knot of women and children,
gossiping together over their lace-making,
while the youngest brats play soberly about in
the gutter. Each has a reel and cushion, and
the little pins move briskly, while the tongues
of the dames keep pace. Suddenly a sharp
tinkling bell is heard, rung with a quick, decided air. At once women and children drop
upon their knees; the vigilante stops, the
driver uncovers his head, and gets down to
kneel upon the ground, all make the sign of
the cross, and pray until the little procession
of priests with the Host, which was coming
up the street, has passed by and gone beyond.
But the Belfry chimes easily draw us back
through the silent streets and past the neglected houses to the grand square and to the
Belfry itself. There is room enough here to
see it, but for a good look the houses opposite,




42        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
from which our picture was taken by a photographer, are best. Look now at this Belfry
tower. It is only ten feet less than three hundred feet in height. Take away the buildings
on either side, or rather the two wings of the
tower, for such they are, and you have the
tower as it stood in 1364; yet not exactly,
for you must now add a lofty spire which
ascended from the summit, but was finally
burnt in 1741. In place of it is the low parapet which may be seen running around the
top. You can see, through the open windows
above, a little of the bells; below is the great
clock, and below that a narrow slit of a window; this brings us to the base of the highest
stage; this upper section of the tower rests on
a broader one, and from the four corners of
this next section rise turrets, connected with
the tower above by what are called flying buttresses, or stone braces, which span the distance between the turrets and the tower. A
second stage brings us to the top of the first
and original tower, with its four shorter pinnacles, and so we descend to where it meets
the roof of Les Halles; these two wings are
used, one as a cloth market, the'other for a
meat market.  Above the entrance archway
is a balcony from which proclamation used to




0,
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THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 43
be made, and above that is a niche containing
a statue of the Virgin Mary; for, as we have
seen, the people of Belgium are and always
have been Roman Catholics.
A long, dark staircase leads, step by step,
within the tower to its top. At last a narrow
ladder leads into the chamber where the bells
are hung. There is the great bell of all, and
there, besides, are forty-seven other bells of
different weight, ranging from twelve to nearly
twelve thousand pounds, and it is on these that
the chimes are rung. They have the sweetest
tone of all the bells in Belgium. In our country a chime is a rare thing; and when Mr.
Ayliffe rings the chimes at Trinity Church in
New York on public days, the programme is
published in the newspapers, and at the hour
people stand about the head of Wall Street to
hear with all their might, while, as far as the
bells can be heard, people are listening as to
something quite unusual. It is different in Belgium, and indeed in other European countries,
though there they are most common. I once
strayed into a little German church far back
in Texas, and there saw the school-master
ringing chimes upon two poor little bells hung
above, under the roof. What a faint reminder
it must have been to the homesick exiles!




44        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
It would not be possible for any one standing
at the foot of the tower to ring the chimes at
Bruges by pulling now upon one rope, now
upon another, as he wished to ring a particular
bell. To make it possible for the performer,
there is a very ingenious contrivance in the
chamber below that containing the bells, by
which the musician sits at a great key-board,
like that of a piano, the keys of which connect
with the hammers that strike the bells. He
strikes the keys, not with his fingers but with
his fists, which are guarded by leathern coverings; and though great force is required,sometimes being equal to two pounds' weight
on each key, - musicians have acquired marvelous skill in playing on these colossal instruments; they can indeed play music in three
parts, - the bass being played on pedals, and
the first and second trebles with the hands.
But the chimes are sounded every fifteen
minutes, and it is plain that no musician could
be so constantly at work. In fact it is only
occasionally, upon Sundays chiefly, that any
one plays upon the bells, for generally the bells
play themselves. There is a great cylinder in
the chamber, from the circumference of which
project pegs placed at proper intervals, according to the order in which each bell is to be




THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES.  45
struck. This is made to revolve by clock-work,
and the pegs are thus brought into contact
with levers operating upon the bell-hammers.
The whole is a sort of gigantic musical-box,
only instead of the steel comb which one there
sees producing the music by vibrating after
contact with the pegs, the music here is produced by a lever connected with the comb, as
it were. And just as the airs in the musicalbox can be changed, so those in the Belfry can
be and are changed, - once a year, I think, -
by altering the relation between the pegs and
the hammers.
Look out now through the great open casement, and what a wonderful view stretches in
every direction. The great plain is cultivated
like a garden, and at this height the canals
look like ditches for draining the land. There
is no country in Europe so densely populated
as Belgium, and every square inch of soil
seems to be spaded and hoed and raked for
cultivation. The line of sea can be traced on
the north and northeast. South thirty miles,
lies the town of Courtray; southeast is Ghent,
twenty-seven miles away, and other smaller
towns dot the great field. Below lies the town
of Bruges; and now we are so far away from
human voices and to-day's news, that, stand



46       AT THE STUDY TABLE.
ing beside these bells, whose tongues have
spoken for hundreds of years, and looking off
to the sea and to the towers of Ghent, it is
not hard to put our ear close to the Great Bell,
and listen to the sounds that have been struck
from it ever since it was first raised to its
place. If we could look back over history as
well as across over this plain, what should we
see of deeds in which this Bell has taken a
part! When was it rung? and how came this
Belfry to be standing here?  These great
towers are not found thus in England, nor in
France, nor much in Europe anywhere except
here in Belgium, and in parts of Italy, in Lombardy that is, and in Venice. They are in fact
witnesses in history.
Where now the Tower of Bruges stands was
once a wooden belfry; but before that was built
there was the busy town, with its artisans and
sailors. The towns near by, like Bruges, were
near the sea, and connected inland by numerous streams; hence they could raise flax upon
the broad plains, weave it into cloth in their
towns, and send it by ships to all parts of the
world. Year by year they grew richer and
more important; but those were times when
there was little law quite so good as a strong
arm and sharp weapon, and those who had the




THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES.  47
power kept it for their own pleasure. In the
days of feudalism, the king or emperor claimed
to own all beneath himl- people, and their
lands, and money; he exacted soldiers to serve
in his army, and money to meet his expenses;
but there were great numbers of powerful and
wealthy men who stood between the lowest
and himself: thus, he did not command the
humblest personally, but as a general gives his
orders to be obeyed by a colonel, who in turn
orders the captain, who passes the order down
until it reaches the private soldier; so the emperor or king had about him barons and earls,
almost as powerful as himself; these offered
their services to him with their men, and they
obtained their men from the neighborhood of
their estates and castles. It was a time of
war and pillage: even in peace there were
bands of robbers continually prowling about.
Hence, poor people sold themselves in part to
those above them, and in return got a kind of
protection from them. The town of Bruges,
like others about it, was called the possession
of the Earl of Flanders, and he called himself
a subject of the King of France. But most of
the townsmen did not wish to go to war under
the banner of the Earl; they preferred the life
of artisans and sailors, and accordingly bought




48        AT TtIE STUDY TABLE.
from the Earl the privilege of living peaceably
at home. The various towns had a common
interest, and therefore they were leagued together for self-defense against marauders. By
degrees they became more and more capable
of taking care of themselves; they found that
they could shoot the bow as well under their
own leaders as if they were led by a baron.
They became, too, more engrossed in making
money, and grew richer and richer.  The
Earls of Flanders wanted money, for warmaking was expensive, and they were engaged
in crusading, which took a deal of money that
never came back. So they went to the rich
burghers, as the citizens of the towns were
called, for money, and in exchange were ready
to give them certain privileges, which before
were supposed to belong to lords only, - as, for
instance, the right to elect their own magistrates, and to manage their own local affairs.
More and more these great towns came to be
self-dependent.  They acknowledged the supremacy of the earls, but in reality they ruled
themselves.  They fortified their cities, and
built these belfries for watch-towers; they
hung a bell in them to call the citizens together in case of danger, and by various signals to give warning or to tell news.




THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 49
"And hear ye not the bells? they're ringing backward,"
cries the Earl of Flanders, in Henry Taylor's
"Philip Van Artevelde."
"'Tis an alarm!"
answers the Lord of Occo.
They built also halls, Motels de Ville they are
called, in which the citizens met; and to have
a bell and public hall were among the first
privileges which a town demanded in any bargain with its lord. Thus it was that the belfry
was at once a servant of the town, and a constant reminder of the power which they were
holding. A citizen might well feel proud as
he passed by the belfry, for it told him that
he was not altogether the property of some
haughty lord, but that he could with his fellows treat with that lord almost as an equal.
As the towns grew stronger, they grew more
self-reliant, and more proud, too, of the coinmonwealths which they had built up. A fire,
perhaps, destroyed their watch-tower, or they
tore it down, and then in place they built brick
ones, adding another stage as they grew richer
and freer; they were fighting now for their
rights as well as paying for them, and their
towns became strongly fortified cities. Their
halls where they met could not be too magnificent for their wealth, nor too grand to show
4




50        AT THE STUDY-TABLE.
their pride: they were the palaces of the
people, for the people were now beginning to
feel that they were the rulers. When Philip
the Fair, King of France, visited Bruges in
1302, his wife, Queen Jeanne of Navarre, cried
with vexation, when she saw the ladies of
Bruges, — "I thought I was the only queen
here, and yet here are more than five hundred
queens;" so splendidly did they carry themselves with their wealth and their pride.
These gigantic towers were the brawny arms
which Flanders held up, as if saying, "See
how mighty we are, and what our own hands
have wrought!"  The bell was the voice of
the tower, and it spoke in all kinds of tones.
In the charter of an ancient town we read:
"If an outsider has a complaint against a
burgher, the Schepens and Schout (i. e. the
aldermen and mayor) must arrange it.  If
either party refuses submission to them, they
must ring the town-bell and summon an assembly of all the burghers to compel him.
Any one ringing the town-bell, except by general consent, and any one not appearing when
it tolls, are liable to a fine." So we see that
the bell was a very important personage in the
town. Swinging up there in the tower, it kept
a sort of watch over the liberties of the town,




THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 51
and the rights of each citizen and outsider
also. At certain hours, too, it rang out to tell
workmen when to begin and when to stop
-work.  For centuries, every morning, noon,
and evening, it rang for this; and such -was
the rush of workmen at those hours over the
bridges that cross the canals, that the laws
forbade the draws to be raised then to let boats
through.
But it must not be supposed that all things
went on smoothly, the towns becoming richer
and freer constantly. There was jealousy between them, fierce rivalry of trade and blood,
each town seeking to ruin its neighbor while it
enriched itself. Bruges and Ghent, especially,
were rivals and at last broke out into war, as
we shall see. And more than this, not only
were the towns incorporated, that is, possessing privileges of self-government, but, from a
very early period, the various trades and arts
were banded together into what were called
guilds, Which were formed, as the towns were,
for mutual protection. To have any part in
the government, one must be a member of a
guild; and these societies naturally became
jealous of each other's influence and power.
The Earl of Flanders shrewdly took advantage
of all this weakness. It was his aim to keep




52       AT THE STUDY TABLE.
control over these rich towns, but he knew
that if they were of one mind in the towns,
and the towns were banded together against
him, he would stand a poor chance of getting
his money. So it was his policy to set one
town against another, and one guild in the
same town against another in the same town.
He made friends of different parties, and
hence in war he was sure of some support.
The history of these towns is an interesting
one, but it grows sad as we see how they lost
their liberty by quarreling among themselves.
It would be sadder, if we did not believe, as
we do, that the towns, like those of Lombardy
and Venice, were getting gains for liberty all
over the world, and when they were crushed,
liberty did not go down, but showed itself
stronger in Holland, then broadened in England,- and, passing to America, established
itself so firmly that every shock felt here
makes sorrowful the friends of liberty in
Europe.
We have stood stood so long looking out of the
Belfry window that there is not time to show
what we have seen, but at other times we mayv
hear what the Belfry of Bruges witnessed in
those early days. It was something to have
seen the men of Bruges returning from the




THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 53
Battle of the Golden Spurs; and for the Belfry's sake let us hope that it did not see its
great Gilt Dragon, as large as a bull, taken
down by the men of Ghent eighty years afterward,- though to this day thle Dragon can be
seen twinkling in the distance upon the Belfry
of Ghent. The town of Bruges is sleepy indeed, but it has some grand dreams. We walk
again through its drowsy streets, but if we
only read history well, and keep our eyes open,
we may see wonderful sights and great goings
on among the crowds of citizens. Let us
watch for the return of the men of Bruges
from the Battle of the Golden Spurs.




THE BATTLE OF THE GOLDEN SPURS.
AT the beginning of the fourteenth century,
Edward I. was King of England, Philip IV.,
called Philip the Handsome, was King of
France, and Bruges was the first commercial
city of Europe. With Bruges the other great
towns of Flanders had a like prosperity, and
this little country with its great wealth was
looked at wistfully by the hungry Philip of
France. The real rulers of the country were
the rich burghers who had quietly been buying
the right to govern themselves of the Counts
of Flanders.  They still professed allegiance
to the counts, and the counts leaned toward
France; but the belfries and Hotels de Ville,
which now began to stand firmly and proudly
in the cities, were witnesses that the citizens
held the real power and meant to keep it.
This little country, close to France and England, was connected with the former by its
nominal rulers, the counts, and with the latter
by its real rulers, the burghers: for it was the
great market for the wool of England, and be



THE BATTLE OF THE GOLDEN SPURS. 55
ing, too, the great depot for the Mediterranean
trade in the north, it was the Exchange of the
great mercantile  countries.  So, whenever
there was a rumble of war in Europe, Flanders looked two ways at once.  Its Counts
sided with France, if she was strong, or rebelled against her, if she was weak, while the
wary Burghers looked more carefully to England.
Thus it happened, that at the beginning of
the fourteenth century, when a great change
was taking place in the life of Europe, Flanders was drawn into the struggle, and on her
soil was fought a battle which had much to do
with hastening the new order of things.
Philip had made a quarrel with Guy de
Dampierre, Count of Flanders, and as the rich
towns were discontented with Guy at the same
time, the crafty Philip professed to make common cause with them, and by a trick got possession of the Count and shut him up in Paris.
At the same time he sent an army to protect
Flanders, which meant, to protect Flemish
riches from going anywhere except into the
French king's pocket.  The governor appointed by Philip was his queen's uncle, Chatillon, who at once began governing the country after the fashion of those days, not for the




56        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
benefit of the country but of the governor.
He took from the burghers the power which
they had been using of managing public affairs, and then laid a heavy tax upon the workmen of the cities. This was a very different
state of things from what the towns of Flander$ had been used to. We have seen how they
had been, from time to time, getting wealth
and real power into their own hands, and giving to their rulers, the counts, only a show of
power. Matters grew worse: it was plain that
the French power was using Flanders as its
money sack. Heavy taxes, impositions of every
kind, the insolent presence of a foreign soldiery,
quickly roused the people, who had not become
sluggish under long oppression, but lively from
the habit of self-government. They began to
meet secretly and to murmur angrily. Especially the craftsmen began to move, the rich
burghers being more cautious by fear of losing
their property.
The first outbreak arose from Chatillon insolently casting into prison certain deputies who
had appeared in behalf of the trades to complain of non-payment for work given them by
royal order. At this the people broke open the
prison and set them free, a few lives being lost
in the attack. The affair was brought before




THE BATTLE OF THE GOLDEN SPURS. 57
the French government and the answer came
back to rearrest the released prisoners. But
the people who had set them free were now
drawn illto the struggle and began organizing
resistance. They were led by one of the men
who had been imprisoned. He was the deacon,
as the head man was called, of the guild of
weavers. His name was Peter King, a man
of the common rank, about sixty years old, a
little, mean-looking fellow with one eye; but
he was a man of courage, of readiness, and
shrewdness, and a natural orator. He could not
speak French, but, what was more to the purpose, he could speak Flemish, the people's
tongue, and in that language he stirred them
and drew them after him, in spite of the
caution of the burghers.
In time of danger the Flemings had always
been wont to ring their great bell, but now,
since the French had possession of that, they
improvised an alarm-bell. Their plans were
laid; and on the 21st of March, 1302, at the
moment agreed upon, the people seized on their
caldrons and rang the alarm on their copper
sides. All over Bruges sounded the caldron;
this was the signal for the rising, and at once
in every direction the French were set upon
and slain. For three days the massacre con



58        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
tinued; twelve hundred knights and two thousand foot-soldiers fell, and Chatillon had to
ride f6r his life.
Everything now was at stake. These men
of Bruges had flown at the French power.
Could the popular rising become a national resistance P They marched at once to Ghent to
get that city's alliance; but the wretched
jealousy between the towns, and the factions
in each city besides, made Ghent cold, and she
would not join Bruges. A few towns took the
part of Bruges, either from choice or froml
compulsion, Ypres, Nieuport, Berghes, Fumes
and Gravelines. At the head of the forces was
one of the sons of the Count of Flanders, for
common wrongs had reconciled the people and
Guy, and one of his grandsons.
Philip sent an army to chastise these insolent workmen, an army that held the flower
of French knighthood and nobility.  They
marched and met the Flemings before the
town of Courtrai.  The battle-field was a
large plain, and it seemed as if the odds were
fearfully against the men of Bruges, for their
enemy was cavalry, heavily clad in mail, and
almost irresistible in an onset upon infantry;
and the Flenlings were on foot, - even the few
knights that led them dismissed their horses,




THE BATTLE OF THE GOLDEN SPURS. 59
and bravely stood in the ranks along with the
tradesmen. They were armed with pikes shod
with iron; good-day was the name they gave
to them, and a terrible welcome they proved to
the French knights. Each man held his pike
fixed in the ground before him, awaiting the
attack. Before the battle, mass, as usual, was
celebrated; that is, the communion was partaken of by'these men who were expecting
death; but as they could not all take it for
want of time, each stooped down and raised to
his lips a morsel of the turf he trod upon.
Their country was sacred to them.
The French, despising their vulgar enemy,
would not try the stratagems of war, although
the Constable of France, their general, proposed at first to flank them.  The proud
knights, thinking it almost disgraceful to be
fighting at all with these low tradesmen, followed their general in an impetuous charge.
Headlong they rode, the hindmost pushing
close upon the forward until they were mingled
in confused array. And now, coming upon the
sturdy ranks of the Flemings, they came also
on what they had not before seen, a long canalditch, such as cross and recross that country
in every direction. Into this ditch plunged
headlong the foremost riders; after them




60        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
came those behind, and the Flemings rushing
forward with their " good-days " fell upon the
entangled horsemen, and plied their iron-tipped
staves lustily. Thirty feet wide was this ditch,
and swept around in the form of a crescent, so
that it held out open arms, as it were, to receive these knights. Smothered in their iron
armor, a very prison-house to them when off
their steeds, the mass of helpless knights were
at the mercy of the weavers and smiths. They
were literally beaten to death, and the victorious Flemings, gathering together their spoils,
found that such havoc had been wrought
amongst these nobles and knights, that seven
hundred gilt spurs, the insignia of French nobility, were their trophies, and were hung up
by them in the chapel of the counts in the
Cathedral at Courtrai.  Eighteen hundred
knights and twenty-seven thousand soldiers,
it is said, were lost by the French in the battle,
the men of Bruges numbering twenty thousand
fighting men in the ranks. Eighty years afterward, when the French defeated the Flemings
in another battle, they were eager to take
down these trophies of their former disgrace.




SIR WALTER SCOTT.
WALTER SCOTT, the most celebrated storyteller of modern times, was born August 15,
1771, at Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland.
When eighteen months old, he had a sickness
which left him unable to use his right leg, and
for a few years the chief care which his parents
had for him, was directed toward preserving
his health and restoring the withered limb.
Accordingly, he spent his childhood, not in the
city, but at his grandfather's farm, Sandy
Knowe, not very far from the English boundary, and in the very heart of the country
which he has made so famous by song and by
story.  He was a hearty, active child, and
growing impatient of his forced quiet, he began to try the withered leg, to stand upon it,
then to walk, and finally, to run; and so, although he was lame all his days, and carried a
stout stick whenever he went out, yet he went
where he wanted to; and just because there
was a difficulty to overcome, he cared more,
in his school-days, to outstrip his fellows in




62        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
agility, than to lead them in the class, where
he had no such disadvantage to contend with.
His school-days were passed, partly at Sandy
Knowe, partly in Edinburgh; but his companions at first were chiefly older people on his
grandfather's farm, and his lameness made him
a favorite, and secured him little indulgences
which, perhaps, he would have missed, if he
had been entirely strong. The Scottish people
love to tell stories, and down to the time of
Walter's grandmother, the wild mountain country, with its ravines and passes, had been the
scene of perpetual conflict between neighboring people; besides, in that rocky, stormy
country, men and women had grown sturdy
and self-willed, hard to persuade, and ready to
cling till death to what they believed right, or
loved; and the tumultuous life of the country
had made people who felt alike, to hold together, and to suffer for one another, if need
be. So there was an endless store of adventure
and romance, deeds of daring, and acts of generous love, which every hearty Scotsman or
Scotswoman could draw from, for the amusement and instruction of children. One could
not take his stand anywhere in field or on hilltop, without having his eye fall on some spot
which had its story, told in the homely, pictur



SIR WALTER SCOTT.           63
esque dialect of the people; and every one
told and listened to the stories about men who
had died years before, as if they themselves
had been actors in the scenes.
It was in this country, and among these
people, that Walter passed his childhood and
boyhood, rambling everywhere, listening to
every one, seeing everything, and putting all
away in his great rodmy memory; no, not
putting away, for what we merely put away in
our memory never stays there; it is what we
bring out and use that we really have: and
Walter soon became the story-teller of the
school; and lying on the grass, or walking
with a comrade afield, he would weave a web
of romance, half remembered, half made up at
the moment, to which the lads listened with
delight. It was just so with reading. He
read here and there in all sorts of books; but
he liked best books of chivalry, histories that
told of battles, and ballads in which horses
went rushing by, and the trumpet sounded for
the onset.
As he grew older, he began to buy books
with the little spending money which he had,
and to gather, besides, curious relics from the
places which he visited. In some ruined castle
there had once been great banquets, and out



64        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
side, gay tournaments; he knew by heart
for his love was in it -the names of the men
who rode forth from the castle-yard when all
those stones had been part of the strong
towers; so he would carry away with him
some block or carving, and it would be to
him like the miniature of a friend; when he
looked at it, he could rebuild in imagination
the old castle, and repeople it with its gay
pageant. His own ancestors would be found
there, for he seized eagerly upon every scrap
of Scottish history in which a Scott had
figured.
Thus the country all about became to him a
living book. He read the beauty and the wildness of the landscape, and he read, too, the
stories written on it by the hands of the men,
who, for hundreds of years, fathers and sons,
had lived their strange, adventurous lives
there. But this was much like dreaming;
and all this while he was going on with the
hard work of a plain gentleman's son, who
had his bread to earn.  His father was a
lawyer, and in this profession Walter was
bred, though he chose a different branch from
that pursued by his father. For a long time,
just when he was full of his romance, and of
the good-fellowship which he enjoyed with his




SIR WALTER SCOTT.           65
companions in study, he worked steadily at the
driest sort of labor, not relaxing until his work
was done, but using his pen as a copyist as diligently as if he were engaged in the lighter
task of writing a letter to his chosen fiiend,
William Clerk. His good sense and straightforward honesty led him into habits of industry
and close application, which were of inestimable value to him. They made it possible for
him to accomplish a vast deal of work; and
better than that, they gave him power to keep
his strong imagination under control, so that
he could use it, and not be run away with
by it.
When twenty-six years old, he married, and
lived in a simple fashion, for he had not much
money, but in the constant enjoyment of the
society of people like himself, young, hearty,
witty, and thinking more of the inexhaustible
pleasures of the mind and heart, than of those
sensational pleasures which are worn out almost before they can be gone through with.
He began to turn his thoughts to collecting
some of the old ballads that he had so often
heard, but rarely had seen in print. From
this he turned to imitating the ballads, and
telling in verse some of the numberless stories
with which his mind was full. He obtained
5




66        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
two salaried offices, which enabled him to live
as he could not by his profession, for which he
had no strong liking, and now his taste for literature became more fixed; it was evident to
himself, before it was to his friends, that writing books was to be the work of his life. But
now this was made clear to the satisfaction of
all, by the publication of his first long poetical
work, -" The Lay of the Last Minstrel." In
this he reproduced the stirring scenes which
had passed away from men's immediate knowledge, but which in his mind were real, living
pictures; he set them before others in so lively
a fashion, that every one was enchanted. It
had not seemed possible that right about them,
and so few generations back, such fine things
had happened; and now here they were told
in rhyme, which went off in the ear like the
canter of a pony. The poem was a success,
the greatest success which an English poet
had ever up to that time enjoyed, and Scott
was now a famous man, and thenceforth till
the end of his life, writing books, and especially books of romance, was his chief busin1ess.
There followed in succession the poems:
"Marmion," " Lady of the Lake," "Vision
of Don Roderick," " Rokeby," " Lord of the




SIR WALTER SCOTT.           67
Isles;" but overshadowing these works, there
began and grew the great series of romance,
called still after the title of the first, "The
Waverley Novels."  The first one, "Waverley," grew out of the same great fund of material which had been accumulating in Scott's
mind; but it was in his own eyes a more hazardous proceeding to publish it, than it had
been to publish "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." There were no successful novels then
existing; good poetry was more popular, and
a poet stood higher in men's minds than a
novelist. Partly, perhaps, for these reasons,
and partly for the pleasure of overhearing
himself talked of, Scott published " Waverley"
without putting his name to it, and continued
to publish the series of novels ill the same way.
For fourteen years these volumes were coming
out almost as fast as the eager public could
read them, - in one year three novels in ten
volumes being published, - and yet Scott
never acknowledged their authorship, except
to the few to whom he had intrusted the
secret.  Of course, long before he publicly
claimed them, people talked of him as the
author, and he only told at length what every
one knew; but there was a mystery about the
publication, and something so nearly impos



68       AT THE STUDY TABLE.
sible in one mall turning out such a prodigious
amount of work, that there was a stout discussion going on all the time whether Scott
really was the author. Some of his intimate
friends, who were not in the secret, would not
believe him the author, for they saw him constantly engaged all day long with other work,
or showing his liberal hospitality: they did not
see him, however, in the early morning, when
he was throwing off sheet after sheet of his
latest novel before the household had risen;
or at night in his chamber when the household
was at rest. Lockhart, who has written Scott's
Life, tells us how once in Edinburgh he was
dining with some young fellows, gay and
thoughtless like himself, with little care except to make the present pass quickly; - but
we will let him tell his story: —
"After carousing for an hour or more, I observed that a shade had come over the aspect
of my friend Menzies, who happened to be
placed immediately opposite to myself, and
said something that intimated a fear of his
being unwell.'No!' said he.'I shall be
well enough presently, if you will only let me
sit where you are, and take my chair; for
there is a confounded hand in sight of me
here, which has often bothered me before, and




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111111       I  --   -








SIR WALTER SCOTT.           69
now it won't let me fill my glass with a good
will.' I rose to change places with him accordingly, and he pointed out to me this hand,
which, like the writing on Belshazzar's wall,
disturbed his hour of hilarity.' Since we sat
down,' he said,'I have been watching it: it
fascinates my eye; it never stops; page after
page is finished, and thrown on that heap of
manuscript, and still it goes on unwearied;
and so it will be till candles are brought in,
and God knows how long after that. It is the
same every night: I can't stand a sight of it
when I am not at my books.' -' Some stupid,
dogged, engrossing clerk, probably,' exclaimed
myself,' or some other giddy youth in our society.' -' No, boys!' said our host;'I well
know what hand it is:'tis Walter Scott's.'
This was the hand that, in the evenings of
three summer weeks, wrote the two last volumes of'Waverley.' Would that all who
that night watched it, had profited by its example of diligence as largely as William Menzies!"
As Scott's popularity rose with each successive novel, so his prosperity increased, and
he set about achieving what had long been a
cherished purpose —the building for himself
a house in the heart of his beloved country,




70        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
which should be his own, and, like the houses
of his ancestors, be the gathering place of all
his friends and kinsmen, where he could display a hospitality as broad as his generous
nature desired; and where, too, he could realize to the full his darling ambition of living
a right noble Scottish life, farming, planting
trees, and making a grand Scott homestead.
As with all the rest of his plans, this grew,
from little beginnings and humble intentions,
to vast proportions; and the result was Abbotsford, with its great castle-like house, built of
spoils from all the neighboring ruins, and
filled with curious ancient relics, which the
enthusiastic antiquary gathered and received
from every quarter. THere his friends came,
and about him here his family grew; while
the farm itself, under his artist eye, developed
into a lovely and varied estate.
Did not this seem to be a sunny life P and
yet there was to come a storm; and after the
storm, men were to see this stalwart, oaken
character still erect, though beaten upon
sorely.
Early in his literary career, indeed before
he was fairly a writer, Scott had interested
himself in an old school friend, James Ballantyne, who was a printer at Kelso. He induced




SIR WALTER SCOTT.           71
him to come to Edinburgh, and used his influence to obtain work for him; by degrees, as
his own schemes of authorship took shape, he
joined his fortunes with those of his friend,
and was in effect a partner of his in a great
and growing business. Scott wrote the books
which Ballantyne printed, and his mighty industry kept the presses filled. Was it strange
that Scott should have been thought by his
partner, and should have thought himself, to
have an inexhaustible capital in his brain, when
he had only to write a novel, and thousands of
pounds flowed in at once P But over confidence, bad management, and troublesome
times, brought a crisis. The printing and
publishing houses in which he was interested,
failed, and Scott became suddenly a poor man
-but still with that California head of his.
And now came the turn in Sir Walter's life,
which, with all its sadness, led to his noblest
honor. The law gave him the chance to escape the obligation laid upon him by the failure
-of Ballantyne, but he refused to accept it.
Friends, even strangers, came forward with
magnificent offers of money, but he put them
aside, took up his pen, and deliberately set
about discharging debts which his sense of
honor forbade him to disregard. He was to




72        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
roll off a load of five hundred thousand dollars. Look at this man! nearly sixty years of
age, "lonely, aged, deprived of my family —
all but poor Anne," as he writes, when fast
following his losses, comes the death of his
wife; so lonely, that for companionship he
talks to his daily "Diary," yet working on and
on, steadily giving himself to his task, and
shrinking from no labor that may bring him
nearer to the goal of his desires; warned by a
paralytic stroke, yet again taking his heavy
pen, which once raced lightly over the paper,
- we turn away, and will not look at the failing strength, the broken body, the worn mind.
He died the 21st of September, 1832, having,
with almost superhuman strength, discharged
half of his obligations. His family and friends
took up the sacred debt, and discharged the
remainder. The world will never cease owing
a debt of gratitude to one who has cheered it
with so many pure and noble tales, and given
it, besides, his own hearty, whole-souled, manly
life.




THE SINGING OF THE SEIRENS.
AS TOLD BY ODYSSEUS.
[Odysseus and his shipmates, returning from the shores
where they had called up the shadowy ghosts, once more
feasted on Kirke's island, and rested before they should take
up again their wanderings. Odysseus told Kirke what they
had passed through, and whither they now were to go she in
turn revealed to him.]
KIRKE speaks. - " So, all these labors have
come to an end;-  now hear what I shall tell
thee: it is God himself shall show it. To the
Seirens thou first wilt come, that bewitch men,
when any one draws nigh; when he, unwitting,
nears them  and hears the sound of their singing, to him no wife nor children dear stand at
the door to welcome him to his home again,
no, but the Seirens enchant him with their
silvery melody as they sit on the meadow sward.
But -around them is a huge heap of bones
with shrivelling flesh, the bones, the flesh of
rotting men. Row past! row past their isle
and stuff thy fellows' ears with honeyed wax
that none may hear. Thus with the rest, but
be it thine to hear if thou wilt, bidding the




74       AT THE STUDY TABLE.
men bind thee hand and foot, erect upon the
mast-frame, with the ropes tightly gathered
about the mast. So thou mayst take thy fill
of joy in listening to the Seirens. But if thou
implorest thy comrades, yea bidst them  set
thee free, then let them fetter thee with still
other bands."
Such were her words: then straight the
Light of Day rose in the East and sat on her
throne of gold. Back over her island home
went heavenly Kirke, and I to my ship again,
where I bade the fellows climb once more the
ship's side and cast loose the hawsers. Up
they clomb and took their places on the rowers'
benches; stroke on stroke their oars dipped in
the frothy sea, but again came a fore wind,
bellying the sails and making the ship's prow
cut the waves with its deep-blue blade; brave
messmate that, for our voyage, sent by Kirke,
strange goddess with her waving tresses and
her human voice! So, straight, all left the
oars and sat on deck, each hammering at his
armor, whilst the wind and the helmsman kept
the ship on her course. Then I opened my
lips, and out of my heavy heart spoke to the
fellows: -
"Friends all! for it were not well that one,




THE SINGING OF THE SEIRENS.   75
or two at most, should know the fateful tales
which Kirke told to me. I will retell them
that all may know and die, if die we must, or
know them to escape, and flee a fated death.
First then, she warns us shun the voice of
the heavenly-throated Seirens, and the flowery
mead whereon they rest. Me only would she
have to hear their song.  But tie me with
stubborn ties that I may stay fast bound, erect
upon the mast-frame, with the ropes knotted
to the mast. And should I beg, nay, command
you to loose me, do you only press me tight to
the mast with more bands still."
Each of Kirke's tales I told in turn; while
I was yet speaking, our good ship, flying forward, was at the Seirens' isle, for the favoring
breeze drove her on.  Then all at once the
wind dropped; there was a dead calm; a spirit
hushed the waves in slumber. The men arose,
furled the ship's sails and laid them by in the
hold, then sat on the rowers' benches and
turned up the foaming water with their smooth
oars. For me, I took a great cake of wax and,
cutting it into bits with a sharp knife, kneaded
the pieces with my sturdy hands. Quickly the
wax melted, for it yielded to the mighty force
of the Sun-god, Hyperion's kingly son. One
by one I smeared the ears of all my comrades,




76       AT THE STUDY TABLE.
who gathered around and bound me hand and
foot, erect upon the mast-frame, with the ropes
well knotted to the mast. Again they sat and
beat the frothy sea with their oars. And when
we were as far off from the island as a man
could be heard if he shouted, while rowing
lightly, the sea-swift ship pressed near and
escaped not the charmers who lifted up their
clear warblings.
"Hither ho! draw near, Odysseus, worthy
of a world of praise, the glory of the Achaean
name; stay thy ship to hear our voice. For
never sailed one by in his dark ship and
stopped to hear the celestial songs flowing
fiom our lips, but went he on his way, merry
at heart and wise in soul. We know all that
befell thee on the broad plain of Troy -all
that the Argive host and Trojans suffered at
the hest of the gods. Yea, we know whatsoever cometh to life in all the springing earth."
These were the words borne on their heavenly voice. My heart was moved. I yearned
to listen, and I commanded the men to set me
free, frowning at them with my eyebrows.
But they only bent low at their oars and rowed
on; while Perimedes and Eurylochus arose
and tied me with more cords and jammed me
to the mast. Then, when we had rowed by




THE SINGING OF THE SEIRENS.   77
these charmers, and could no longer hear the
words of the Seirens nor the melody of their
voices, my trusty comrades drew out the wax
with which I had estopped their ears and
loosed me from my fetters.




FRANCIS HUBER.
THERE is an old familiar story called " Eyes
and nlo Eyes," which tells how two boys, who
had each a good pair of eyes, took the salme
walk in the country, but came back, one with
nothing to tell because he had not used his
eyes; the other with his head full of remarkable sights which he had seen. When Spring
comes, and there is a general waking up of
Nature, eyes have a wonderful deal to look
at; do they see half as much as a blind
man once saw who literally had no eyes, and
yet has written the most minute and accurate
account of the habits of that little creature,
the bee P
Francis Huber was born with a good pair
of eyes, in Geneva, Switzerland, July 2, 1750.
His parents were well-known citizens, who
gave him a good education, an'd he cared so
much for study and reading, that he very unwisely bartered his eyes for knowledge; for
late at night he worked in his. room over a dim
candle, and when that went out, by the light




'~ \
4/                                                                                  /
j~~~~~ /                                               i',/'//           i4








FRANCIS HUBER.            79
of the moon, carrying further the studies of
the day, and reading romances. He did not
take very good care of himself, it is to be
feared; for his health, and with it his sight,
began to give way when he was about fifteen.
It looked as if he were about to become blind,
and his father took him to Paris to consult a
famous oculist. This physician sent him into
the country, away from  books and college
friends; to lead the life of a peasant upon a
farm. He lived with the plain people about
him, following the plough all day, and sleeping all night, instead of wasting candles and
moonlight. His health returned, and he went
back to Geneva, in love with the country, and
with his head full of many things that he had
noticed as he worked in the fields.
But his eyes grew dimmer, and it became
certain that he must be soon totally blind. Before they closed, however, he had seen the face
of a young girl, Marie Lullin, whom he was to
see but a short time longer, but who was to live
faithfully with him for forty years. Her father
was very angry that a young man about to be
totally blind should offer to marry his daughter,
who had two eyes, and was to have a large
fortune, and refused his consent to the marriage. Huber, in despair, used all the remain



80        AT THE STUDY TABLE.
ing light in his eyes to get such a vivid knowledge of things about him as should last him
when he could no longer see. He looked at
everything closely, and putting together what
he saw with what he remembered, and what'
he imagined he saw, he was able to present
such a picture to himself as sometimes even
deceived him into believing that he saw every
particle of it, just as we think we recollect a
good many things that happened to us when
children, because they have been told us over
and over. At any rate, he used his knowledge
and sight so discreetly, that it was very hard
for other people to suppose him nearly blind;
and this was exactly what he wished, for it was
his probable helplessness which made Marie's
father refuse him his daughter. But Lullin
was not won over by this course, and steadily
kept to his refusal. Marie, however, remained
faithful; and when, seven years after, at twenty-five, the law allowed her freedom, she
married Huber, and thenceforth was inseparable from  him, reading to him, writing for
him, and, most of all, observing for him.
For this vwas the wonderful fact about Huber,
that having no eyes, he used the eyes of those
about him in such a way, that he was able to
make discoveries which astonished the scien



FRANCIS HUBER.             81
tific world, and have never been proved false.
He had his wife, he had also a sagacious and
devoted servant, named Francis Burnens, and
finally his son Pierre grew up to observe for
him, and to become himself famous for his
study of ants. Huber's life in the country had
made him fond of Natural History, and his interest had been increased by reading; moreover, he had a neighbor named Charles Bonnet, who had some reputation as a scientific
man, and came to talk with him.
In his darkness, therefore, for he had now
become totally blind, he began to remember
certain facts about bees, which he had noticed,
and wished to explain them. For this it was
necessary to watch them, and he set Francis
Burnens to work, telling him what to look at
and to look for. He asked him questions in
such a way that the quick-witted servant
learned what to notice, and daily reported his
observations. Huber's mind became intensely
occupied with this subject. He asked his wife
and his neighbors what they saw, and if they
saw thus and thus. In this way he was getting
the observations of a number of people, who
all saw independently of each other; and Huber once said, smiling, to a brother naturalist,
"I am much more certain of what I state
6




82       AT THE STUDY TABLE.
than you are; for you publish what your own
eyes only have seen, while I take the mean
among many witnesses."
In his darkness, Huber's mind took hold of
the facts presented to it, and turned them
about, put them  together, made one explain
another; and, in a word, constructed whole
facts out of the bits and fragments which different people brought to him. "He discovered," for instance, says one of his friends,
" that the nuptials, so mysterious and so remarkably fruitful, of the queen bee, the only
mother of the tribe, never take place in the
hive, but always in the open air, and at such an
elevation as to escape ordinary observation,but not the intelligence of a blind man, aided
by a peasant. He confirmed, by multiplied
observations, the discovery of Schirach, until
then disputed, that bees can transform, at
pleasure, the eggs of working bees into queens
by appropriate food. He described with much
care the combats of queen bees with each
other, the massacre of drones, and all the
singular occurrences which take place in a
hive when a strange queen is introduced as a
substitute for the natural queen. He showed
the influence which the dimensions of the cells
exert upon the shape of the insects which pro



FRANCIS HUBER.             83
ceed from them; he related the manner by
which the larvae spin the silk of their cocoons;
he studied the origin of swarms, and was the
first who gave a rational and accurate history
of those flying  colonies."  This, and very
mnuch more, is recited as the discovery of Huber.
Now who saw all this, Francis Burnens or
Francis Huber P Bees had been seen by peasants ever since the world began, and yet Huber, who had no eyes, was the first really to
see them. Burnens. was indefatigable in following his master's directions, but he could
not put his facts together as Huber did. Just
so our eyes may rest upon everything about
us, but behind the eye is the mind, that sits
like Huber all alone, and directs the eye what
to look at and report to it; and it is just as
the mind directs and the eye obeys, that we
find out things, - discover,- that is, take off
the cover and see what is underneath. That
habit which Huber formed when he was growing blind, of putting together what he heard
and what he remembered and also saw very
imperfectly, was a capital preparation for his
scientific studies afterwards, and made it more
possible for him to put Burnens' facts into just
their right places. Burnens brought him this




84      AT THE STUDY TABLE.
and that, and Huber put this and that together.
Every one who knew him said that he was
a happy man, and no wonder, for his mind was
busy all the while about things worth knowing; and instead of complaining bitterly and
idly that he had no eyes, he thanked God that
he had a mind, and could make very good
use of other people's eyes. He died in 1831,
eighty-one years of age.




WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.








THE MUSIC PARTY.
THERE had been a music-party at the house
of the Professor. The instruments were a
piano, tw6 violins, and a violoncello; the music
was chiefly from Beethoven and Mozart.
There was, however, one piece from  Haydn
which was the most entertaining of all, for in
that the company also acted as performers. It
was his Children Symphony, in giving which
an orchestra is required, beside the violins and
violoncello, of a night-owl, cuckoo, quail, rattle, whistle, bells, penny trumpet, and drum.
Each of these instruments has its appointed
part, and a good interpreter of the music fancies a sleighing party or hunt, a mimic battle
or a spring scene in which the cuckoo with
" ominous note" has it all its own way, with no
indignant poet to put it to flight. This piece
had been performed with great success, spite
of the sheepiness of the young gentleman who
played the penny trumpet, and considering also
the defective playing upon the whistle. But
every orchestra has its faults, though few main



88       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
tain such good feeling as did the amateur one
upon the evening mentioned. The parts had
been distributed without much regard to the
character of the performers, and the student,
who was particularly unmartial, and somewhat
melancholy indeed, was the one who played the
trumpet so badly; the rattle was given to a
young lady who spent the rest of the evening
in looking over an album of photographs upon
the table, and the night-owl fell to the liveliest
person in the room. But just this incongruity
made more fun. The company was small and
well-chosen; there was unconstrained enjoyment; the music was carefully selected and
admirably played; the Children Symphony was
novel and well carried out, and all agreed that
the evening, now at an end, was one of the
pleasantest they had ever spent. The host and
his amiable wife followed the company to the
door, and at last all were gone.
The student, however, remained a little
longer, as he was a privileged person, and it
was well understood between him and the Professor's daughters that there was an entire
mould of ice-cream left, which could not possibly keep and which it was a pity to throw
away.  This after-play lasted a while and
ended with the student's asking to hear once




THE MUSIC PARTY.            89
more upon the piano an air which had lodged
in his head during the evening. The piano
was reopened, the air played, and the student
rose to go. HIe noticed the stringed instruments in their cases placed in the corner of
the room, and learned that the gentlemen who
played them had asked permission to leave
them till the morning; the instruments were
valuable ones and the cases were opened for
him to see.  Thus it chanced that the piano,
the violins, and the violoncello were all again
uncovered, and what is more important to us,
- for otherwise our account would have been
through by this time, - they were left so,
although it was very careless on the part of all
concerned.
The student shut the door of the house behind him and stood upon the step outside, buttoning his great-coat about him. The moon
was touching the fringe of heavy clouds and
just setting out over the blue sea of sky. He
stopped as he was closing the upper buttonhole of his coat and looked up at the witching
sight. The passage, which had been repeated
to him just now lingered in his brain, and he
remembered its connection in the music. It
had come out clear and lovely from a dark
mass of sound, flowing along with liquid mel



90       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
ody. It was like the moon above him, and as
he recalled other effects in the same piece, it
seemed to him as if there were nothing in
creation so wonderful as sound.
"How subtle it is!" said he. "It steals
so into the brain and holds such power over
one. There surely is nothing so penetrating
and which yet can swell to such compass.
Sound, methinks, must have a life of its own
- a personality; it is so human, it must have
its sympathy and antipathy like mortals.
What exquisite sensibility, then, it must possess, finer far than that of the most sensuous
poet. It must have a most tremulous, airy
susceptibility. It is without doubt the most
delicate essence of soul. In such a guise one
might discover the secrets of soul-life.  0
that I might for once be a sound! "
Now the reason why we do not always get
what we wish for is, that we do not wish so
hard as to believe that we have it; this was
not the case with the student. He had become so entirely absorbed in the contemplation
of the delightful nature of sound, as he stood
thus watching the moon, that when he suddenly and fervently uttered this wish, he had
his wish granted. No sooner had he spoken
the word than he was conscious of a remark



THE MUSIC PARTY.            91
able change. His soul, so to speak, undressed
itself, casting off the body, and he would have
been in a very destitute condition if the change
had stopped here, since it is not expedient here
to be without a body, even in travelling, as
some do contrariwise affirm; but at the same
time the sound which had lingered in his brain
began to swell.  It penetrated his soul like
moisture, until he was, as it were, absorbed in
the sound; but that did not prevent him from
using his faculties so far as they could be used
when the senses were gone, - with this addition, however, that he was now like a well tuned
music-box playing an air with nobody to listen
to it.
Sound easily moves, as we all know; it is
very much governed by attraction also, and
accordingly the student, leaving his body upright upon the door-step, was drawn involuntarily through the key-hole of the outer door,
and thus by the hall back into the room where
the music had been given; for there were
other sounds possessing attractive power. Indeed, when the student-sound entered the room,
a great number of notes, some from the violins,
some from the violoncello, and some from the
piano, were hovering about; they were of every
variety of character, and when they came from




92       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
the mlusic-writer's brain and found life through
the medium of his instrument, they were like
a great multitude of people, each with a separate temperament. But the student was only
dimly conscious of their presence, since he also
was a sound, and like thenm had existence without sense. He differed from  them  in this,
however, that in him sound was associated
with soul; if he could only find some sort of a
body now suitable to his state, he would have
excellent advantages.
It seems strange that when the student was
so entirely musical as at this moment, he
should bethink himself of a large picture
which hung upon the wall, and which was
more interesting as a historical picture than
as a work of art.  It was the Death-bed of
Calvin and contained many figures. Of this
picture the student thought, just at the moment when he was most embarrassed by the
absence of his body which he had left upon the
door-step.  An odd fancy crossed his mind.
" How would one of the figures in the picture
answer as a substitute for my body?"  When
la soul that is so refined as to be for the greater
part a sound, has any wish, it does not need to
express it earnestly; the mere suggestion is
enough, and thus instantly the student had the




THE MUSIC PARTY.             93
satisfaction of taking possession of the body,
such as it was, of one of the figures in ihe
picture.
"I must confess," said he, naturally fastidious and rendered more so by his musical
nature, "that this is not the most fitting
abode for me; my face is not very beautiful,
neither is my dress, especially this ruffled collar,
nor is it pleasant to be so near a sick-bed. I
will get a little farther off;" and he moved
into the person at the end of the room -the
syndic, so proud of his handsome leg. He
proceeded to make the most of his situation.
Naturally he tried the ears first of his new
body, and though they were quite disproportionate to his delicate organization, they were
of some use; just as a fine musician may draw
sweet sounds from a wretched instrument.
His eyes were next attended to; here he had
the misfortune to be obliged to look through
the glazing of the picture; thus it was like
always being upon the outside of a window;
but, that too, was only a partial hindrance. His
nose he found to be quite stopped up with
dust, but he was not sorry for it when he remembered that he was in a sick-room. His
eyes and ears were, in fact, all that he was
particular about, especially as he considered




94       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
that he only meant his abode in that body to
be a temporary one.
He was now quite comfortably settled, and
began to take a lively interest in what he saw
and heard about him. The sounds which before he had known to be present by a sort of
attraction to them, he now was able to distinguish. There were two kinds. One was that
of sounds which had entered the mind of some
one of those present in the evening and had
served as the material for some creation.
They had entered by the ear and found personality, and indeed, individuality, and having
once entered a human soul, were, like our hero,
incapable of enjoyment from sources outside
of themselves, unless harbored in some form
approaching at least the human; for they are
no longer pure sounds, but by their abode in
man, have acquired something of the character
of his soul, and hence require a bodily complement. It is the aspiration of all such, driven
out of the mind where they had been first welcomed, to return again to their old haunts;
nor do they obtain rest until they achieve
their purpose. Perhaps for months or even
years they wander' desolately about, separated
each from  the dimidium aninmc  suce, yet do
they sometimes receive a fresh welcome; what




THE MUSIC PARTY.           95
wonder then, that readmitted, they persistently
remain, and all day long we work and play
and read to the melody which will not away
from our minds? These, therefore, had, like
our hero, obtained various tenements: one,
more fortunate than the rest, in the face and
chest of the lovable Mozart; one in the faces
that make up the Sistine Madonna; out of the
eyes of the two cherubs looked forth others,
and the cloud-faces swarmed with them. Some
had established themselves in the various personages in the large picture already mentioned.
Even the Professor's grandfather's portrait in
oil was not without its lodger; and the image
of the lively Zouave that stood upon a bracket,
surmounted by a feather, housed a very merry
sound.
But these were not the only ones. Our
student, in his sound-soul, did gain something
from his bereft condition, for he was able to
see what would have been forbidden to his
merely physical eyes. There were a multitude
of sounds present which belonged to no one
but themselves, and which never had been inclosed in a human soul; these were such as
had, to use a familiar expression, entered one
ear and passed out of the other. They had
character, for the musician had created them




96       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
with a meaning; but not having been granted
as yet a responsive creation in the mind of
some other, their life was but a germ. The
musically creating and the musically receiving
mind must be, as it were, married, else the
germs are never recognized, they never come
into the children's place. Therefore, the student, looking from his perch, could see these
crowding upon the keys of the piano, and
hovering about the strings of the violins and
violoncello. Here was their orphaned home,
and if they wandered it was to return again.
Yet they were ever wandering, although they
knew that there was no hope, until, indeed, new
birth should be granted them, and thus a new
chance of life. The air of the room, to one
whose ear, like the student's now, could perceive
it, was resonant with the murmur of these
sounds, longing for life. They had such fine
affinities that no discords possibly could occur,
for only when they made harmony would they
touch each other, otherwise they were repelled
and nothing could bring them into contact.
Let it not be supposed that they were all pitched
in one melancholy key. They moved about in
their various characters, yet whether subdued
or gay, all alike expressed the one thing lacking to them. They moved, some executing




THE.MUSIC PARTY.           97
little pirouettes; some in a tender fashion
weeping as only little sounds can weep, and
glancing across their track came joyous, lighthearted ones. A deep-mouthed one would
start from the rendezvous on the violoncello
and go rumbling through the air, meeting
some fellow froln the lower keys of the piano,
and they would move in company; on their
way they would fall in with a delicate, gossamer-clad sound from the violin, journeying
with one like a silver bell in note from the
upper keys of the piano. They went mostly
in pairs, but many a solitary one kept his own
counsel and wandered about whither he would.
The demi-sounds, or those that sought,
through human'relationship, to ensconce themselves in some palpable form, could see all this,
but they could render no help, nor indeed would
they leave their tenements, knowing the greater
discomforts awaiting them outside. To them
the unfortunate ones, shut out from even their
imperfect life, were like the spirits who circled about Dante and Virgil in their gloomy
visit. It ought before to have been said that
in the number of the demi-sounds were found
those that had been sent into life through the
mimic instruments that made up the orchestra
of the Children Symphony which had been per6




98        WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
formed in the evening.  Their abode was
humble indeed, but well chosen, for most of
them  had sought faces of children in simple
oil-prints; the Zouave, to be sure, held the one
whom  the trumpet had sent out, while one
awaked by a violin in the same piece, had entered a cabinet picture by Lambdin of a little
girl sewing. All of these more perfect sounds
possessed so much of the human soul that they
could speak indifferently, making use of the
mouths they had at command.  Such talking
was necessarily very imperfect, and to such refined percept4ons as sounds have would not
have been altogether agreeable; but their aspirations after humanity overbore all objections,
and thus quite a conversation was carried on.
A neighbor of the student's first addressed
him:"Meseems, that I have met you before. I
am from a sonata of Beethoven myself."
"I recollect you," said the student, " though
my ears are rather imperfect. Ah! if I but
had the ears which I once possessed I should
know you better. For myself I am from the
Septuor of Beethoven;" he said this with difficulty, for though his sound-nature held sway,
his soul-nature made feeble protest, thinking
to itself: "I am denying myself! "




THE MUSIC PARTY.             99
"Then we are connections," said the other,
"on the father's side. And yet it seems as if
I had other and better knowledge of you. I
feel irresistibly drawn toward you."
" It is possible that we have met," replied
the student, and now his soul-nature was at
least passive. "Your voice has something in
it familiar to me." Here spoke the sound that
inhabited the portrait in oil of the Professor's
grandfather: -
"I am here," said he, "and here I mean to
stay. I am from the pitch note of the piano.
I was received this evening just long enough
to say I was born and then I was dismissed.
So I have come here where I can see everything that goes on in the room."
" Hurrah! hurrah! on! charge!"' "What's that? what's that? " asked the
student. " I know that voice."
" It'aonly the Zouave," said the sound that
inhabited the portrait of Mozart. " He is
near me. I can see him with the great
feather behind him. He has broken out before in that fashion. Such a sound has taken
possession of him. I am from the tuning of
the violin, nor can I expect ever again to find
the home that I have been driven from. I
have a plan. This has been an unusual even



100      WILEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
ing, and, for a wonder, we are all together
still; I propose that we now celebrate our
good fortune."
" That pleases me," said the sound that inhabited the portrait of the Professor's grandfather, "and I suggest that each in turn tell
his story or sing his song."
"Hurrah! hurrah! on! charge!"
"Do you choose to be quiet! " said the student's neighbor.  "Have you no manners?
That was a good suggestion. Let us take
turns and let the sound that proposed it, being no doubt the oldest, preside and call on
each in his place." This was agreed upon, and
the sound that inhabited the portrait of the
Professor's grandfather, commenced by saying
that he had no story to tell. He would have
no objections to giving his autobiography but
his life had been very uneventful. He could
only say that he had tried to live at peace with
all; his lot was humble though he came of
good family.
When the student heard this he knew not
what to think. His soul-nature, feebly as it
asserted itself, yet bore witness to a recollection of this same story which it had some time
framed. If it could it would have laughed at
the coincidence. The sound that dwelt in the




THE MUSIC PARTY.            101
portrait of Mozart was now' called upon and
thus spoke: -
"There was a child that was a dwarf. His
father had cast him aside but his mother loved
him still. He was the first-born and had his
father's face, but most his mother's. Then followed brothers and sisters. He never grew,
but they became beautiful youths and maidens,
and he was their servant. No one noticed
him except for his oddness of appearance, but
all praised his brothers and sisters, and rightly,
for they were indeed beautiful; and the little
dwarf was as pleased as if he himself had been
praised. He was a good servant, but no one
loved him or cared for him except his mother.
His brothers and sisters would never call him
brother, yet he was happy."
If the student before was astonished at the
coincidence between the words spoken and
some past thought or experience of his own,
now he was doubly amazed and his soul-nature,
rendered curious, was excited so far as its narrow limits allowed, for still his sound-nature
prevailed. He said nothing, however, and in
its turn spoke a sound that occupied a copy of
Palmer's marble Spring. It announced itself
as from one of Mendelssohn's songs without
words and it did nothing but breathe, yet.so




102      WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
sweet was the breath of this sound that each
heard for itself a separate song perfectly distinct, and so all were satisfied.  The student
also heard one, and this also was to him as an
old melody.
This is what'the sound that dwelt in the
image of the Zouave said, even before it was
called upon:"Hurrah! the bar of steel is dull in the
sun, but the armorer pounds it and shapes it,
sharpens it, makes it to shine. Now'tis a
sword! how it gleams in the sun with its edge
so keen! what shall it cut?
"The youth and the maiden part at the
garden-gate; she with tears but he with joy;
the sword is his.  O brave sword! has it cut
these two? wait and see.
"Then comes the battle.  How the sword
fares! how the enemy fall! O dashing youth
with the brave, bright sword! all the day long
he fights and the good sword glistens.
" Then comes sunset on the battle-field and
at the garden-gate. Hurrah! hurrah! on!
charge!"
"That is not well," said the presiding sound.
" I thought we should have heard the rest, but
you began all over again."
"Is not our turn come'?" asked the chil



THE MUSIC PARTY.           103
dren-sounds, and then they told amusing
stories: one of how he was overturned in a
sleigh; another of going bird's nesting; another of evening sports, and so on. There was
great glee over this part, but when they were
through, the presiding sound called upon the
student's neighbor that had first accosted him,
and he spoke in this wise: -
"The snow is on the ground.  The sky
above is of burnished steel, set with golden
stars. My breath stands stiff in the mid air.
There is no voice, for the earth is dead and the
shroud is on it. The snow is so deep that the
grave-stones cannot be seen in the city of the
dead. What way of escape is there   The
sky is shut tight round the earth. If we dig
through the snow the ground is like stone.
Shall we climb the steel firmament?  Let us
try; perchance we may gain the stars. But
there is nothing there. Everything is in us.
The earth is stone dead and the sky is metal.
Let it be so. Is there nothing but winter? "
" That is no story at all," said the presiding
sound, " and it is no song, and not at all appropriate. Now let us hear what you have to say,
and you shall be the last." And he turned
and nodded to the sound that dwelt in the
picture of the little girl sewing. "You are to




104         WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
be the last that we will hear, for we cannot
be telling stories to each other and singing
songs all night.  We  must stop  somewhere,
else we may get out of tune, and — that is the
worst thing that could happen to any sound."
This is what the last and least sound sang: -
The gaunt trees stand
Throughout the land,
And the leaves lie dead at their feet:
The violets' eyes
Are closed likewise,
And the buttercups' lips so sweet.'Tis early spring;
The woodlands ring
With the shouts of children at play;
They hunt the flowers,
And scatter showers
Of forest leaves by the way.
But death-like sleep
The violets keep,'Neath the forest leaves stiff and dry;
Yet still the trees,
The sport of the breeze,
Look patiently up to the sky.
Then Heaven descends,
And new life lends
To the gaunt and lonely trees;
And at their feet
Are the violets sweet, -
Their blue eyes —our hearts'-ease.




THE MUSIC PARTY.             105
The student, astonished at the coincidence
of the other stories with fancies which he himself had at some time possessed, was more
amazed, even to agitation, upon hearing this
little song. His memory, which had been excited almost to a human state, assured him
that the very words had been composed by him
that evening, during the performance of one of
the pieces. His mind, affected by all these
thoughts, was no longer passive; it struggled
with his sound-nature, and a sad and perplexing contest arose.  His agitation must have
been apparent, for his neighbor, who had frequently addressed him, now spoke:" One has been omitted, and one, too, I am
convinced, of no ordinary nature. This sound
has been housed near me; he is a distant connection, I find, and there is something peculiar
about his nature which makes me desire to
know more."  At this the student-sound could
no longer restrain himself, and more to himself than to the rest, gave expression to his
disturbed consciousness:" I am," he said, " from the Septuor of Beethoven, and if I would, could put my music into
words; but I am sadly perplexed since I feel
that my life is somewhat more varied and completer than I could thus sing. Whatever I have




106      WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
heard to-night in this little gathering has been
old and well known to me. It is as if I had
been in turn each who has spoken or sung. I
know not why, I am not happy. I feel orphaned; something is lacking." Thus musing,
alternately his sound-nature and soul-nature
was uppermost. He thought to himself, " If
I might but touch the strings of the violin
from which I came, I think I should be satisfied." So he slipped out of the figure in the
Death-bed of Calvin which he had occupied -
the syndic with the handsome leg - and essayed to reach the violin.  But there was
movement elsewhere also. The various sounds
that had contributed to the evening's mlerrymaking, upon hearing the student's voice,
recognized, as his neighbor from the first had
done, a presence toward which they were
drawn. HIis words had excited in each the
same longing, for all felt, even though faintly,
that the humanity which it was their highest
aspiration again to enter, was present with
them, although in a less positive and attractive
form than usual. It was in the student's
brain, in fact, that each had received that perfection of life which only thus is granted to
sounds; the words which they uttered were
the product of that union between the music




THE MUSIC PARTY.           107
giver's and the music receiver's mind; and it
was the dim recollection of having given birth
to these fancies that now so perplexed the hapless student-sound. He, once deprived of even
the limited corporeity afforded by the figure in
the picture, was reduced to a pitiable state;
as a sound, he was in part drawn toward the
violin, in part, if one might so say, drawn into
the soul with which it formed a union; as a
soul, craving a union with its body, he was attracted not only to the habitation he had just
left, but also - as if it were a great way off -
to the more perfect one which preceded. Now,
moreover, was he aware of the congregation
of sounds vainly seeking him. The rest were
indeed moving hither and thither, all in search
of the human presence, faintly shadowed to
them, assuredly recognized as the complement
of their life, but inexplicably vagrant and unattainable.  His sound-nature was too controlling to admit of his being revealed to them, and
was itself filled with a longing to enter into its
own alter ego, the soul-nature: that was degraded and almost powerless, because it had
disengaged itself from its natural tenement.
But struggling is so much opposed to the
nature of sound, which is passive, that his
soul grew more and more conscious of its




108       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
powers; the memory grew  stronger, and he
thought: —
" How insufficient my abode in the figure of
the picture was. I was indeed a sound as I now
am, but I could see little and hear little. I had
fine affinities, it is true, with other sounds, yet
they lacked much that I have possessed. It
was like a dream and seemed unreal.  But I
can remember how once- it was long ago - I
had larger life. I lived in a student. I was
not thus beaten about, homeless and unsatisfied. I was housed in a noble body that had
sensibility and fineness of vision, and hearing
and scent. 0, that I might once more be in
my old home! "
This wish also was energetic; the sound
shrank to its proportional measure while the
soul became enlarged and was borne by its fervent wish toward its old seat. As it passed
out, it was aware, by its still musical affinity,
of the aspiration ever growing fainter to it,
though in reality more earnest, of the congregation of sounds within praying to be allowed
to accompany it. Fragments of melodies entered for a moment the soul, but were not retained.  Doubtless these followed still, long
after it was conscious of their presence.  Itself, as before, found its way through the key



THE MUSIC PARTY.           109
hole, and entered as mysteriously as it had left
the body of the student, which was standing
upright on the door-step, the right hand buttoning the upper button of the great-coat,
while the head was turned upward toward the
moonl.
Immediately upon the entry of the soul, the
hand finished its task, and the head was bent
down. The student walked cautiously down
the steps. "That air runs in my head still,"
said he, and he whistled it. "That is better,"
thought the sound, as well as it could think:
" it is like a new creation."




WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.
IT has often been observed that a child of
great parts proves in the end to be a man of
only ordinary capacity, and it has become common to look with distrust upon precocious children, as likely to disappoint their guardians
and friends, either by not growing up at all, or
by leaving behind with their youth all that
made them remarkable. But Mozart the musician was plainly an exception to these examples; for he not only had a wonderful
genius in music when a mere child, so that he
bore comparison with masters in the art, but
his genius never forsook him, expanding with
his years, until he stood the most eminent df
musical artists of his time, and only to be
mentioned now in company with the truly
great men whose works give us the law in
musical matters.
His father, Leopold Mozart, was a musician
who stood high in the employ of the Archbishop of Salzburg, a town lying between
Munich and Vienna.  He was an educated












TWOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.  111
man, but being forced to gain a livelihood
through the practice of music, he became,
like most of that profession in those days,
dependent upon the favor of some person of
distinction, either in church or state.  Accordingly, he was in the service of the Archbishop, and occupied the position of Hof-Kapellineister, conductor of the court music.  He
had two children, Wolfgang, and Maria Anna,
or Nannerl, as she was called, who was four or
five years older. When Nannerl was seven
years old her father began to teach her music
upon the clavier, an instrument of which the
piano-forte of the present day is an improved
form. She learned very rapidly, and showed a
remarkable genius for reading and executing
music. But while she was taking her lessons,
there appeared a greater, in her little brother
Wolfgang, then not more than three years old,
who stood by her, and would himself strike
the keys, but never, like most children, in
sport, striking at hap-hazard, and only pounding to bring some sound out; for he was
pained by discords, and would only strike harmoniously. Indeed, scarcely had he begun to
express himself like other intelligent children,
by words and meaning actions, before he
showed that he had much music in him that




112      WHtEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
would come out.  He would catch quickly
what was played to him, and play it correctly
himself; he would even invent little pieces,
which he played; and his very sports were set
to music, for when he was playing with his
favorite, a trumpeter in his father's band, he
would insist that the playthings should be
carried from one room to another to the sound
of music. He was an affectionate little fellow,
full of tenderness, and eager to be loved; so
that he would jump up from his sports and run
to those about him, asking if they really loved
him; if they laughed and teased him by saying No, his eyes would fill with tears.
There was one other study besides music
which took hold pf him, and that was arithmetic. The floors, and walls, and chairs, and
tables were covered with figures which the imnpulsive little scholar was using; and this is
not to be wondered at, for though music seems
to us often such a matter of feeling, yet we
know that the science of music is very exact,
and has much to do with numbers, as any one
may see who notices such expressions as thirds,
consecutive fifths, and the like.
As little Wolfgang grew, his father and all
looked on in wonder. It seemed as if they
could teach him nothing, for whatever they




WOLEGANG AMADEUS MOZART.   113
told him of music, that he seemed to kno*
already.  Nevertheless the boy studied hard,
practicing and composing, and led a happy
life between his clavier, his figures, and his
childish plays; they all seemed to be the same
thing.  When he was seated at the instrument he was like one in sport, and when he
was busy with his games he was like one in
earnest, so natural and fresh was his life. At
length, when he was six years old and Nannerl
eleven, his father, who had for many months
given up teaching music to others that he
might educate his children, determined to
take a journey with them, and show the world
how wonderful they were, especially his little
Wolfgang. At that time a musician, if he
would prosper, must attach himself to some
prince, or other person of distinction; and if
he was dissatisfied with his place, he must
travel and seek some other patron. Mozart,
the father, was not contented at Salzburg, and
he wished to try his fortunes elsewhere; he
wished also by travel to teach the children
many things, and to bring theml to the knowledge of such persons as would be likely to
notice and help them. They took short journeys first, to Munich and Vienna, and encouraged by the great attention which they re8




114      WHEN MUSIC IS ITEARD.
ceived, they set out on a tour which occupied
them three years, during which they visited
Paris and London, and travelled through Germany, Holland, France, and Switzerland, the
father all the while carefully educating his
children.  On this tour the children performed wherever there was a court, - Wolfgang playing the clavier, the organ, and the
violin; singing, playing, and composing extempore; and indeed, doing at eight or nine
years, all the various things which are done by
educated musicians.
Everybody was astonished at the child, and
every one loved him; for little Wolfgang, while
playing the most difficult music, was only doing what it was easy and natural for him to
do, and he would go right from his music to
his sports as if they were both alike to him.
When he was in England, he was playing before a gentleman who tells how "While playing to me, a favorite cat came in, on which he
left his harpsichord, nor could we bring him
back for a considerable time. He would also
run about the room with a stick between his
legs by way of horse." Wherever they went
they were treated with attention, and presents
were given them, after the fashion of the day,
not only in money, but in the shape of snuffboxes, watches, and elegant clothes.




WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.   115
When they were once more in Salzburg, the
troubles which always gather about reputation,
began to arise. The Archbishop, who was
wont to think of the musicians as his servants,
was annoyed that they should be receiving
honor and renown of which he had small
share, and resolved that they should be still
more dependent upon him; and the other
musicians began to be filled with a mean jealousy of this wonderful boy, and they did all
they could to make him seem less remarkable.
They kept out of his way and refused to hear
him play, ini order that, when they were asked
about him, they might say, " 0, we have
never heard him; we do not wish to encourage a mountebank," knowing very well that
they could not thus speak of him after hearing him; but the father laid a trap for one of
them.
"I had persuaded some one, quietly," he
says, " to give us intelligence when he would
be present, and our fiiend was to bring this
person an extraordinary difficult concerto,
which could be placed before little Wolfgang.
We came together, and he had the opportunity
of hearing his concerto played by Wolfgang, as
if he knew it by heart. The astonishment of
this composer and clavier-player, and the ex



116      WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
pressions of admiration he used, confirmed all
that I have stated above. He ended by saying,' I can say no less, as an honest man, than that
this boy is the greatest man in the world; it
could not have been believed.'"
Still Mozart kept on studying and composing, growing more admirable as a musician
every day, and keeping, too, just as boyish and
full of life and merriment. He did not mind
these things as his father did, who now began
to lay plans for Wolfgang, that he might be
freed from the necessity of living always at
Salzburg.  The two took a journey to Italy,
and Wolfgang, who was now nearly fifteen
years old, gave himself up to the life about
him; he wrote music, he heard music, he visited friends who covered him with favors, and
in the midst of all he was constantly writing
letters home, full of fun and merry wisdom.
At Milan his first opera, " Mithridates," was
performed, and brought the most triumphant
applause.  It was church music, however,
which at that time he wrote best and most
freely.
For ten years now, Mozart continued to live
in Salzburg, and to make journeys thence, with
shifting fortune, but always pouring out his
wonderful music, and suffering no trials or




WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.   117
vexations to drive him from freely using the
gift which God had bestowed upon him. But
at twenty-five he was called to Munich to compose an opera, and to this he gave himself
heart and soul. It was " Idomeneus, King of
Crete," and Mozart, in the strength of his
young manhood4produced in this opera something new; for though other operas had been
written before it, this, written in a few weeks,
is the "basis of all the music of our day."
It brought him friends, and filled the young
composer with high hope of a future career,
unchecked by the petty tyranny of the Archbishop of Salzburg. "I should rejoice," he
writes to his father at this time, "were I to
be told that my services were no longer required; for with the great patronage that I
have here, both my present and future circumstances would be secure, death excepted, which
no one can guard against, though no great
misfortune to a single man. But anything in
the world to please you. It would be less trying to me if I could only occasionally escape
from time to time, just to draw my breath.
You know how difficult it was to get away on
this occasion; and without some very urgent
cause, there would not be the faintest hope of
such a thing. It is enough to make one weep
to think of it, so I say no more."




118      WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
His father and Nannerl visited Munich to
hear the opera. In the midst of festivities
came a command from the Archbishop for
Mozart to accompany his household to Vienna,
for the prelate wished to appear in great pomp
in the Imperial city. Mozart obeyed the summons, and thenceforth his life was led there,
for he never returned to Salzburg to live. It
gives an idea of the dependent life which a
nlusician led, though he were a man of divine
genius, when we read in one of Mozart's letters, written just after reaching Vienna: " Our
party consists of the two valets, the comptroller, Herr Zetti, the confectioner, the two
cooks, Cecarelli, Brunetti, and my insignificant
self. N. B. - The two valets sit at the head
of the table. I have, at all events, the honor
to be placed above the cooks; I almost believe
I am back in Salzburg! At table all kinds of
coarse, silly joking go on; but no one jokes
with me, for I never say a word, or, if I am
obliged to speak, I do so with the utmost gravity, and when I have dined I go away."  To
be reckoned by the Archbishop as a fit companion for his valets and cooks! But Mozart
shows in his words that though he sat at table
with them he would not make himself their
comrade. It was evident that the Archbishop




WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.   119
consulted only his own vanity, and Mozart very
shortly determined to cut loose from the service. To do this was hard, for it was also to
disobey his father, who trembled before the
Archbishop's power. Mozart had ever been a
boy in his filial obedience, and now when he
took this step contrary to his father's wishes,
but impelled by the keenest sense of honor and
self-respect, he grew, as we think, suddenly a
man. He seemed to his friends to be plunging into ruin, but in reality he was now just
entering upon his great career. He married
shortly after, and threw himself for support on
teaching and composition.
Now succeeded ten years of busy life. All
varieties of musical compositions came thick
and fast from his pen. The most dramatic of
musical romances, - " Don Giovanni," that fanciful and sweet play, "The Magic Flute," and
his symphonies that flow like changing streams
through woods and sunlit fields, - were products of this period. His life was brimming
with music and social pleasure.  Care and
anxiety indeed came upon him; with manhood
he left off some of his youthful exuberance of
spirit, and until the end he seemed always at
odds with riches, never free from petty embarrassmnent, but more than once there is an April




120      WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
scene of sun and rain chasing one another in
his familiar letters. Listen to him as he adds
a postscript to a letter to his absent wife:
"While writing the last page, many a tear has
fallen on it. But now let us be merry. Look!
Swarms of kisses are flying about —quick!
catch some! I have caught three, and delicious they are.....  Adieu, my dearest,
sweetest wife! Be careful of your health, and
do not go into the town on foot. Write to me
how you like your new quarters. Adieu! I
send you a million kisses! " And again in, another postscript, "Kiss Sophie for me.  To
Silsmag (his little boy) I send two good fillips
on the nose, and a hearty pull at his hair. A
thousand compliments to Stoll. Adieu!'The
hour strikes!  Farewell!  We shall meet
again!'"
These words were the last written by him;
they are quoted from the " Magic Flute," on
which he was then engaged. They intimate
what was passing in his mind, for the shadow
of death was creeping over him. Some time
before, a tall man, clad in sombre gray, had
called upon him to inquire whether he would
undertake to write a Requiem, but did not
name the person who ordered it. Mozart accepted the order, and set about it eagerly; but




WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.   121
before finishing it, was forced to visit Prague.
Just as he was setting out, the mysterious man
in gray appeared suddenly by the carriage to
demand the " Requiem." There was something singular about his manner, and that,
taken with the subject -- a funeral piece —
took strong hold of Mozart, and he gave
himself up to the task. We know now that
all the mystery was due to the wish of a certain count to get possession of this "Requiem," and to pass himself off as the composer. But Mozart was conscious of an ebb
in his life. Long before others would believe
it, and before any visible sign was seen beyond
a weariness under the cares and labors imposed
upon him, he saw the approaching end, and
declared that he was writing this " Requiem"
for his own funeral. Gradually his strength
failed, as he worked upon it, and he could not
leave the house. Then he could not leave his
bed; but still he labored, hoping to complete it
as a final account of his life; and so he did in
every material point. " In it," says his biographer, "he expressed, in never-dying powerful tones, his consciousness of guilt, and of
reconciliation with Heaven. In the innermost
depths of his heart he was conscious of his
human frailty, and expressed the deep peni



122       WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
tence of his heart in chords such as no mortal
ear had ever yet heard. It was also a great
consolation to him to remember that the Lord,
to whom  he had drawn near in humble and
child-like faith, had suffered and died for him,
and would look on him in love and compassion.
The day before his death, he desired the score
to be brought to him in bed (it was two o'clock
in the afternoon), and sang his part; others
took the soprano, tenor, and bass. They had
got through the various parts, to the first bars
of the Lacrimosa, when Mozart suddenly burst
into tears, and laid aside the score. The delicate organs of his bodily frame were already
fast decaying, so that even his cherished canary
was obliged to be taken out of the room, because the invalid could no longer bear its singing."
His wife's sister has written of his dying
days: " The last movement of his life was an
endeavor to indicate where the kettle-drums
should be used in his'Requiem.' I think I
still hear the sound."  Another messenger
than the tall man in gray had come, even
Death, and so Mozart was borne away in his
thirty-fifth year. But his life on earth was
finished. There remain many letters by himself and others, from which we know some



WOLFGANG AlMADEUS MAZART.   123
thing of his daily life; above all, we still hear
his music sounding forth. It can never die.
He moved through the mean things of life like
a divine being. He obeyed the voice from on
high which perpetually bade him sing! He
was music itself, ever youthful, - full of heavenly harmony.




THE RETURN OF ORPHEUS.
WHEN the world was young Orpheus sang
to it, and when the world grew old, Orpheus
came again and sang a second time. At the
first visit all were so enchanted that the rocks
and trees could not sit still, but jumped up
and danced about to the sound of the music.
That was when the world was young and foolish; no one was looking on and all did as they
pleased. When the world grew old, it was
wiser and did nothing without thinking about
it, and asking what its ancestors would have
thought, what its posterity was going to think.
Now it was whispered about that Orpheus
was to revisit the world. The world had not
forgotten his first coming; the Evergreens
took care of that. They stood sprinkled in the
forest and though the rest slept, they kept
awake, - they never forgot. All that had happened was intrusted to them  to remember.
Each year in the spring, they told of Orpheus'
visit, and at last, one spring, they added: " He
is now to come again, for when he left us he




THE RETURN OF ORPHEUS.    125
promised to return when the blood of heroes
should make the cold world warm enough for
his footsteps."
The rocks, the trees, the bushes, all heard
this and expected Orpheus, but they were not
quite certain how they ought to behave.
"When the world was young," they said,
" our ancestors danced, very likely, but the
question is- are we to dance P A great deal
has happened since those days; all sorts of
fiddlers have been fiddling, singers have been
singing, there has been no general dance, one
or two may have skipped a little, but they
make no rule; if reports are correct, they
were not always very reputable." This was the
common talk, but the matter was so interesting that there were many separate opinions.
"'What think you, neighbor?" asked the
Elm of the Oak. " Shall we dance? "
"Shall we stand on our heads?" growled
the Oak; " I have a better opinion of myself
than to think I shall engage in such foolery,"
and he thrust his knobby arms out and dug
himself deeper into the earth, for he meant to
get such a hold and make such a solid stand
that he never should be shaken.
" I see nothing to dance for," said the Willow; "I can't dry my tears so suddenly for




126      WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
every strolling player that chooses to pipe for
me."
" It is undignified to dance," said the Poplar. " How I should look!"
" Well, I should like to dance pretty well,"
said the Elm; " it is graceful exercise, but then
I don't care about it if the rest do not dance.
I should not wish to be conspicuous."
The Rocks said they would dance; they only
asked that Orpheus should play loud enough
to move them, and that he should play exactly
as he did when he came before. They were
perfectly willing to dance, but they must insist
on knowing the tune.  The Evergreens said
they should dance, as a matter of course; it
would be ridiculous not to; they were ready,
only let him come and strike up - they would
lead off.
Orpheus came with his lyre and sang. The
Evergreens immediately began to dance, but
they were out of time from beginning to end.
It was not the music that made them dance;
in fact, they led off before Orpheus had uttered
a note. When the Elm saw them she also began to dance quite gracefully, though she did
not listen much to the music. But she saw
the Oak clinching his knobby fists at Orpheus,
and she stopped, pretending that she had only




THE RETURN OF ORPHEUS.         127
been practicing some steps by herself, which
was true. The Willow had her griefs, and she
said, "'Tis better to sigh than be dancing."
The Poplar cried, " Hem! " and looked serious;
he was not quite sure about this dancing. The
Rocks were covered with lichens hundreds of
years old, and they said, -
"This is very different music from  what
moved our ancestors. We know about that
music; we have reduced it to perfect rules.
Keep to the rules and we will dance; not
otherwise," and they sat stiff.
Orpheus wept. "Will no one listen? " he
cried. " The ground is wet with the blood of
heroes, and I sing their souls into life." Once
more he touched his lyre and sang with sweeter
power. There was a stir in the forest. The
shoots that had lately sprung from the earth,
miniature trees, having the perfect structure
folded in their tiny forms, whirled in the joyous dance. The rocks that peeped from the
soil joined carefully in the movement.  The
earth trembled with excitement.  Above all
sounded the clear voice of Orpheus singing to
his lyre. He turned away from the old and
sang to the new. He sang and the world grew
young again; the young shoots sprang up and
waved their branches; the flowers opened their




128     WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD.
cups, and the sun filled them with golden
light; the air was fragrant with music.
A new song had been sung, a new dance had
been led, and when all was at the height Orpheus fled; but the world was young again.
Will it ever be different P




BEFORE THE FIRE.
9








"AS GOOD AS A PLAY."
THERE was quite a row of them on the mantel-piece. They were all facing front, and it
looked as if they had come out of the wall behind, and were on their little stage facing the
audience. There was the bronze monk reading a book by the light of a candle, who had a
private opening under his girdle, so that somnetimes his head was thrown violently back, and
one looked down into him and found him full
of brimstone matches.  Then the little boy
leaning against a greyhound; he was made of
Parian, very fine Parian too, so that one would
expect to find a glass cover over him: but no;
the glass cover stood over a cat, and a cat made
of worsted too: still it was a very old cat, fifty
years old in fact. There was another young
person there, young like the boy leaning on a
greyhound, and she too was of Parian: she
was very fair in front, but behind, - ah, that
is a secret which it is not quite time yet to
tell.  One other stood there, at least she




132         BEFORE THE FIRE.
seemed to stand, but nobody could see her feet,
for her dress was so very wide and so finely
flounced. She was the china girl that rose out
of a pen-wiper.
The fire in the grate below was of soft coal,
and flashed up and down, throwing little jets
of flame up that made very pretty foot-lights.
So here was a stage, and here were the actors,
but where was the audience?  0, the Audience was in the arm-chair in front. He had
a special seat; he was a critic, and could get
up when he wanted to, when the play became
tiresome, and go out.
" It is painful to say such things out loud,"
said the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound, with
a trembling voice, "but we have been together
so long, and these people round us never will
go away. Dear girl, will you P -you know."
It was the Parian girl that he spoke to, but he
did not look at her; he could not, he was leaning against the greyhound; he only looked at
the Audience.
" I am not quite sure," she coughed. "If
now you were under a glass-case."
" I amn under a glass-case," spoke up the
Cat-made-of-worsted.  "Marry me.  I am
fifty years old. Marry me, and live under a
glass-case."




"AS GOOD AS A PLAY."        133
"Shocking!" said she. "How can you? P
Fifty years old, too! That would indeed be a
match! "
" Marry!" muttered the bronze Monk-reading-a-book. "A matehi! I am full of matches,
but I don't marry. Folly! "
"You stand up very straight, neighbor,"
said the Cat-made-of-worsted.
" I never bend," said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book. " Life is earnest. I read a book
by a candle. I am never idle."
The Cat-made-of-worsted grinned to himself.
" You've got a hinge in your back," said he.
"They open you in the middle; your head flies
back. How the blood must run down. And
then you're full of brimstone matches. He!
he!" and the Cat-made-of-worsted grinned out
loud.  The Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound
spoke again, and sighed," I am of Parian, you know, and there is no
one else here of Parian, except yourself."
" And the greyhound," said the Parian girl.
"Yes, and the greyhound," said he, eagerly.
"He belongs to me. Come, a glass-case is
nothing to it. We could roam; 0, we could
roam! "
"I don't like roaming."
"Then we could stay at home, and lean
against the greyhound."




134        BEFORE THE FIRE.
" No," said the Parian girl, " I don't like
that."
" Why  "
" I have private reasons."
" What? "
"No matter."
"I know," said the Cat-made-of-worsted.
"I saw her behind.  She's hollow.  She's
stuffed with lamp-lighters. He! he!" and
the Cat-made-of-worsted grinned again.
"I love you just as much," said the steadfast Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound, " and I
don't believe the Cat."
"Go away," said the Parian girl, angrily.
" You're all hateful. I won't have you."
"Ah! " sighed the Boy-leaning-against-agreyhound.
" Ah!" came another sigh, - it was from
the China - girl - rising-out-of- a-pen-wiper, -
" how I pity you."
" Do youP " said he, eagerly. " Do you P
Then I love you. Will you marry me? "
"Ah!" said she; "but "" She can't! " said the Cat-made-of-worsted.
"She can't come to you. She hasn't got any
legs. I know it. I'nm fifty years old. I never
saw them."
s" Never mind the Cat," said the Boy-leaningagainst-a-greyhound.




"AS GOOD AS A PLAY."         135
"But I do mind the Cat," said she, weeping.
"I haven't. It's all pen-wiper."
"Do I care P " said he.
"She has thoughts," said the bronze Monkreading-a-book.   "That lasts longer than
beauty. And she is solid behind."
"And she ha  no hinge in her back,"
grinned the Cat - made - of- worsted. "Come,
neighbors, let us congratulate them.  You
begin."
" Keep out of disagreeable company," said
the bronze Monk-reading-a-book.
" That is not congratulation; that is advice,"
said the Cat-made-of-worsted. " Never mind,
go on, my dear," - to the Parian girl. " What!
nothing to sayP Then I'll say it for you.'Friends, may your love last as long as your
courtship.' Now I'll congratulate you."
But before he could speak, the Audience got
up.
"You shall not say a word. It must end
happily."
He went to the mantel-piece and took up the
China-girl-rising-out-of-a-pen-wiper.
" Why, she has legs after all," said he.
"They're false," said the Cat - made - ofworsted. "They're false. I know it. I'm fifty
years old. I never saw true ones on her."




136        BEFORE THE FIRE.
The Audience paid no attention, but took up
the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.
"Ha! " said the Cat - made - of- worsted,
"Come. I like this. He's hollow. They're
all hollow. He! he! Neighbor Monk, you're
hollow.  He! he!" and the Cat-made-ofworsted never stopped grinning. The Audience lifted the glass-case from him and set it
over the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound and
the China-girl-rising-out-of-a-pen-wiper.
"Be happy! " said he.
" Happy!" said the Cat-made-of-worsted.
" Happy!"
Still they were happy.




THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL.
IN  the White Mountain district of New
England, high up among the hills, is a little
valley, so retired that scarce any but enthusiastic trout-hunters have found it out, and so
lonely that one sees here and there deserted
farms, whose occupants had not courage to
stay in the solitude, but have fled to busier
haunts. Mount Osceola looks down upon it,
overtopping a company of hills that shoulder
each other, and Mad River tumbles headlong
out of the valley, rushing into the dark pine
woods. Thick forests are all about, and it
would seem a gloomy place to enter at nightfall, with only one or two twinkling lights in
the one or two houses, and the white road making its way to the little saw-mill, which stands
in a niche, carved out of the black woods, at
the further end of the valley. Gloomier still
would it seem to push by the mill into the
silent woods, following a foot-path little used,
and feeling the forest close behind one, as if




138        BEFORE THE FIRE.
shutting out forever the light of day and the
voices of men.
Yet, along this lonely path, leaving the mill
behind and going deeper into the forest, walked
an old man, with a bag on his back, upon the
night of the last day of the year. It was
Daniel Desmond, a hoary-headed mariner, who
for fifty years had followed the sea, being
shifted with his battered chest from one vessel
to another, sailing north, south, east, and west,
and had at last given up the pursuit, mooring
his old hulk at the foot of Mount Osceola, in
the loneliest spot of the lonely valley of the
Mad. For, back from the valley, was a clearing
in the forest which had been made long years
before by a man who thought it as good and
cheap a place as any in which to work and live.
He had built a small house there, had planted
a field, and put up a fence to keep out the world
and the world's stray cattle; but the place
grew to be so utterly desolate that at length
he fled from it, leaving the hoise and ploughed
field and fences to be inhabited by the squirrels, or perchance by bears and bob-cats. So
it had remained for several years. The forest,
seeing no one about, began by degrees to resumle its claim to the land which had been
forcibly taken fiom it. First the little trees




THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL. 139
came timidly across the edge of the clearing,
and, finding no one, not even a scarecrow in the
corn-field, they made up their minds to stay;
then the trees behind pushed them forward,
and so the forest again began to take possession
of the clearing, while the rain and wind and the
hot sun all attacked the helpless house, till it
began to crumble.
It was to this forlorn spot that old Daniel
was slowly making his way along the woodpath. It was dark above, for heavy clouds
were in the sky; it was dark all about, so that
he could scarcely make out the path with his
eyes; and it was darker than all in poor old
Daniel's heart. For that afternoon his shaggy
dog, Lion, sole house-companion, had strayed
away, whither he knew not. He stopped now
and then to whistle for his dog, but whistled
and waited in vain. He did not find him at
home either when he reached the crumbling
house, which he was making shift to live in;
and Daniel shook his head miserably all the
evening as he crouched over his fire, which
warmed his old bones, to be sure, but seemed
unable to send a particle of warmth into his
shivering soul.
But why was this battered mariner ending
his days in such forlorn fashion, and what mis



140         BEFORE THE FIRE.
erable fortune drove him to this lonely spot P
An idle reason indeed: but nothing better
could old Daniel answer, than that in this
valley he was born and here he spent his childhood; that, when he went away to be beaten
about on seas, he carried with him a blessed
memory of the spot, and ever his one dream
had been   whether frozen in the northern
ice, or tossed in torrid zone - to come back to
his New England home and end his days in
the valley of the Mad. So he had come, and
here he was living in the old house which his
father had built and fled from, and where his
childish memories clustered. It was not so
beautiful as he remembered it; but he clung
to it like the shipwrecked mariner he was, flung
up into these hills from the tossing sea.
As old Daniel sat by the fire, rubbing his
hands slowly over his head, he began to think
of his voyages, of the strange lands he had
seen.  Everywhere that he had been, to be
sure, he had thought it not half so beautiful
as the little home on the mountains; but
somehow, now that he was here, the old man
was restless to be elsewhere. He went to the
window and looked out, shading his face with
his hands. Nothing to be seen; it was all
black, and there was no sign of faithful Lion.




THE ENCIIANVTMENT OF OLD DANIEL. 141
" Dear, dear," he sighed to himself, " if only
I could take one voyage more and sail to some
new land, where all this trouble should be gone,
and things wouldn't be quite so black and dismal. O, this is a doleful New Year's Eve. It
don't look as if the new year were going to be
nmuch better than the old ones," and Daniel
fumbled about the room with his tallow candle,
putting things to rights before he should go to
bed. Even when he had gathered himself up
for a night's sleep, he continued to shake his
head, and mumble over the forlorn world which
he had to live in, when he was sure there was
one somewhere which was bright and pure.
But where was the bark that would sail to
such a world, and take in such a weatherbeaten, dreary fellow? If Daniel had been
asked, he would have shaken his head more
dolefully than before, and yet near it was; and
now indeed began a wonder. The mariner had
shut his eyes upon the old earth with its leafless trees and dingy ground, its gloomy forests
hemming in the open clearing, and the open
clearing itself, with its stubble and decayed
stumps and rotten fences. All that was out
of sight, not to be wished back; something
better was to come, and that right soon. For
now there came, without sound, but filling the




142         BEFORE THE FIRE.
place with light, a ship of silver, crescentshaped, without mast or sails or rudder, and
yet floating on the air, close by the hoaryheaded mariner.
" Come! sail with us, Daniel," he heard from
a voice, and wondering, but nothing loth, old
Daniel stepped aboard and away sailed the
silver ship through the air. He was not alone;
for as he sat, feeling a gentle warmth steal
through him there, he saw bright figures all
about, and one, more beautiful than the rest,
who had called him to the ship and now stood
beside him. It was Neonetta, the fairy of New
Year's night; this was her silver ship, and
these her attendants. The light grew brighter,
and Daniel's eyes got more open, for everything
now was distinct. They had left the dingy
earth; that and the old year had gone off together; they were sailing over a sea of cloud
which lay in billows beneath, while above the
bright stars were shining. There was no wind
to chill, and yet the ship sped on, cutting her
way over the billowy clouds.
But what were all the little attendants doing  Wonderful works they were at, to be
sure, for, looking behind, Daniel saw a bright
train of them, reaching over the ship's side
and receiving from little hands glittering balls




THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL. 143
of every hue; they tossed them as if in merry
sport, and a shower of the balls shot across the
silver ship. But beyond in the prow was another train of bright fairies, leaning over the
side and flinging down the balls into the deep.
Once, looking at the wake, the clouds parted,
and Daniel saw that the train reached far
down in a brilliant flowing line; he could see
them  flinging up the little balls, which grew
brighter and brighter as they neared the ship;
but, strange to say, as they shot along to the
fairies at the prow, they clung together, and,
from glittering balls of every hue, they became
starry forms of pure white. "These are the
white star-makers," said Neonetta, smiling, as
old Daniel looked wonderingly at her. "They
are busy now, for we are sailing to a new land,
in which I am to be queen, and the white stars
are to decorate the country. Are you not
weary of the old earth and the bare trees and
ragged ground?" Daniel nodded vehemently.
"Yes, yes," he mumbled, but could not hear
himself speak. "Well," she continued, "that
is gone. I knew you were weary of it, and so
I am taking you to my home. 0, it will be
glorious there, so pure and still!"  The little
lady waved her hands and faster flew the bright
balls, while the white stars danced through the
air, as if they, too, were glad.




144        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"What house shall we live in, Daniel P"
asked Neonetta, dancing about him. " Shall
it be in one with shining spires and glittering
domes, with stars for windows and crystals for
doors?"
"Let us have a good fire," mumbled Daniel,
who at this moment felt the wind from Neonetta's robe.
" No, no," she cried, looking faint; "but we
will have a soft white carpet, and, when we
walk abroad, soft white mantles over our
shoulders. But what shall we have to eat,
Daniel? We will pluck the boughs and shake
off the sweet fruit that grows on the evergreen. And then the music and the pictures!
Music so sweet, that it is like the chiming of
distant bells, and such pictures as never were
seen on the old, dingy earth." Again the little
lady flung up her tiny arms, and danced over
the silver ship. Faster flew the white stars,
and the long train of fairies ascended and descended in a flowing line of changing light.
The silver ship sped on, and now the billowy
clouds grew thinner, while above, the stars that
had shone, one by one went out before a clearer
light which began to spread and spread over
the sky.
" The new land!" cried Neonetta, dancing




THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL. 145
about old Daniel, who was now peering over
the ship's side. "Come with me out of my
silver ship," and she reached her hand to him.
He looked around: the shining fairies had
vanished but Neonetta was by him. He looked
once more. Neonetta was gone, and at the
same moment vanished the silver ship. Old
Daniel sprang up. It was dark about him, but
his old legs bore him, half groping, toward an
opening of light.  He looked beyond, and
there, far away in the distant sky, was sailing
the silver ship, now turned to gold. In crescent form, it was floating in the air and sailing
away, away, growing fainter and fainter. He
looked about him, and found himself in the
new land, for instead of the old, dingy earth,
there was a pure, white soil, stretching away
in gentle ridges. Instead of the naked trees,
which he had left in all their dismal barrenness, here were fair trees, laden with white
foliage, their boughs weighed down with the
heavy white fruit. He turned and looked behind him. There stood a little house, all
dressed in white, with a white robe flung over
it, that hung down from the roof and over the
window top. He looked above and beyond. A
mountain raised itself, like a good old man,
with splendid brow; while a forest spread
10




146        BEFORE THE FIRE.
around, like a great company of beautiful
maidens clad in snowy white.
The air was still, when a chickadee set up its
little note of cheer and welcome. Far off he
heard a wagon, with its load of wood. As it
moved over the new soil, a blissful sound rose
in the air, as if in this new land all toil was
sweet with music. Then, better still, he heard
a distant baying. Ho, ho! it cried, like a clear
bell; ho, ho! nearer still, coming through the
forest. Old Daniel looked again for the silver
ship turned golden, but it had gone, and in its
place bright colors of rose and violet filled the
sky, as if no clouds were to hang over this
beautiful earth, but glad hues of every kind.
He listened still, and heard now the voice of
Neonetta calling to him in the distance.
"Come!" she cried, "ere it is too late;"
and the voice, even while she spake, grew
fainter.  "Ho, ho!" sounded the baying,
nearer now and nearer. " Come!" cried Neonetta, in faint tones. " Ho, ho  - ho, ho! "
Only a moment more, Queen Neonetta! for
thy enchantment over Daniel. The sun will
rise, the cock will crow, good Lion will bound
across the snow-covered clearing. But, we
will not stay. Hark! there is Lion again.
Ho, ho!




THE NEIGHBORS.
WHEN Christmas comes in the winter-time,
as it has come ever since I call remember, the
earth is very apt to get a Christmas present of
a fall of snow; and if one were an old fence,
or a house-roof, or a patch of brown dry grass
that had once been green, one would wish every
Christmas to have the same present of a great
snow fall that should cover one up, so that
people would say, -" Really, how charmingly
that old fence looks;" or "How the snow
takes off the sharpness of that roof;" or, if
they were trying to be poetical, " See what a
soft ermine mantle hangs over the shoulder of
that hill!"  And yet, if the snow lay heavily
upon the house-roof very long, one would
think that there could be little heat for the
dwellers inside, else it would be melted off.
Everybody, however, does not keep a fire
burning all night in the house, and perhaps
that was the reason why two houses which
stood almost touching each other had heavy




148        BEFORE THE FIRE.
capes of snow on, the night before Christmas.
It was easily to be seen, for the moon was
shining brightly after the day's snow-storm,
and the house-tops looked wonderfully white
and cold. These two houses, though the snow
fell on both alike, were as different as two
men.  One, with its pointed roof, was like
a tall man with an old-fashioned hat on. It
stood in a dignified sort of way, as if it respeted itself, looking out in every direction
with windows set firmly in their places, or
perched, leaning upon their elbows, on the
roof. Each of the windows had its own private cap,-which it kept on all the while of
course, for its head was out-of-doors in all kinds
of weather; and the front door had, besides,
two pillars on which to lean. A flight of steps
led up to it, so that people who wished to enter
must climb up to it, and ring a brass bell-handle, and read FROME on a great door-plate.
There was a chimney, with a row of little
chimney-pots on top- a separate little hole
for each fire-place in the house: the range in
the kitchen sent up its smoke by a sort of private back-stairs, so as not to interfere with the
smoke from the parlor and the dining-room.
And the fence in front of the house had a brass
head on each iron spike, and they stood in a




THE NEIGHBORS.            149
row, glaring at one like a squad of policemen,
saying, " Keep your hands off the house, if
they're not clean "
It seems very strange, then, that upon one
side of this house the windows should all look
at the wall of the other house, which stood
separated from  it by not more than ten feet.
They did not indeed look into it, for their
blinds were all shut tight, but it was for no
lack of openness in the other house. This
had no blinds at all, and it had windows directly opposite the blinds, at which they stared
all day long, like eyes without winkers. The
house was not so high, however, as Mr.
Frome's, and had a flat roof, over which the
upper windows in the roof of Mr. Frome's
house could see very well if there was anything
worth looking at.  It was a squarish, shortnecked house, sitting on the ground, and one
could walk straight in by a door so flat that
when it was shut one could hardly tell it from
the rest of the house-front. Regular rows of
windows occupied the front and side, looking
as if they had all been sawed out after the
house was made. There was no felnce in front;
but the fence that separated it from the neighbor house was right against this house, or
rather the house looked as if it had been set




150         BEFORE THE FIRE.
against the fence, for the fence was older.
There was a name upon the door, spelled in
china letters -GRASE. So Mr. Grash lived
here.
At the time when our story begins there was
no light in Mr. Frome's house, but in a window of the second story of Mr. Grash's there
was a twinkling light, and shadows of persons
could be seen moving back and forth. There
was a light in the neighboring room also. It
was nearly midnight; the snow-storm which
had fallen all day had given place to bright
moonlight, but clouds had gathered, and there
was promise of a new snow-storm. Nevertheless, two humble neighbors that had come out
to see each other in the moonlight, remained
out-of-doors. They were two cats, upon the
roofs of these two houses. One was sitting on
the sill of a roof-window of Mr. Frome's house
- that was Mr. Frome's Cat; the other was
upon the roof of Mr. Grash's house  that
was Mr. Grash's Cat. They could talk very
easily across the narrow space that separated
the two houses.
"A still night, neighbor," said Mr. Frome's
Cat.
" Aye, you may well say that," rejoined Mr.
Grash's Cat.  "This snow does make soft




THE NEIGHBORS.            151
travelling. It's the only time when I wish I
were white, - snow-white I mean, for I have
some white," and he looked proudly on his fur.
" One makes dreadful shadows on the snow. I
say, do you think we should make less if we
were wholly white? "
"Well, I am not sure," said the other, reflecting. "But it's the moon you know that
makes us make shadows, and this is what
puzzles me. Why does not the moon make a
shadow too    That great round thing goes
across the sky as fast as a rat sometimes, but
we don't see any round shadow going down the
street. I've often watched for it," and he
looked puzzled. They both sat some time in
silence, but neither could answer the question.
Mr. Frome's Cat was still thinking about it,
but Mr. Grash's Cat had other thoughts. He
spoke again, -
"I say, does she ever leave the cover off  "
" The cover P "
"Yes, the cover; you know, the cook, in the
back-yard," said Mr. Grash's Cat, licking his
chops, and looking rather hungry.
"I am fed in the house," said Mr. Frome's
Cat with dignity.
" As if you did not go out and help yourself,"
said the other scornfully.




152         BEFORE THE FIRE.
"I have no need to," said Mr. Frome's Cat
coldly, "and we don't keep it in the yard."
" Don't tell me! precious fine you are with
your wall behind, so high I can't climb over.
How some people think they're too good for
their neighbors! " and Mr. Grash's Cat looked
spitefully across.
"Our neighbors were not of our choosing,"
said Mr. Frome's Cat.  "We hardly should
select such ungenerous — but, 0 dear!  I
knew we should quarrel if we got on to this
subject again. Come, it has begun to snow
again, let us part."
"' Ungenerous! " exclaimed Mr. Grash's Cat,
-" ungenerous! is not this our land, and did
we not have the right to build just where we
pleased on our own land? and if your house
happened to stand so near, say, was that our
fault  and if vour windows looked into ours
on one side, sayv, did we make your windows?
Ungenerous!"
" But, Mr. Grash," said Mr. Frome's Cat,they always called each other Mr. Frome and
Mr. Grash when they got excited talking about
the houses, -" but, Mr. Grash, our house was
built first "
" And could no one else build a house after
you, good Mr. Frome? "




FE — I I I W                                      I ml
Angola = —7:;: -7P
VIRM-N
all








THE NEIGHBORS.            153
"Nay, hear me, friend Grash. We built our
house first when there was no other house near,
and put windows upon this side purposely to
see the fine view beyond.  We tried to buy
your land, but you would not sell, and said you
had no thought of building; and then because
you claimed that our fence was set a half foot
on your ground, though the law showed it was
not, what should you do but out of spite build
a house on the very edge of your land, shutting
out our view on that side and obliging us to
close all the windows. I must say it was ungenerous; it was more, it was wicked! " and
Mr. Frome's Cat held up his paw and looked
the other way.
0, 0! " snarled Mr. Grash's Cat, "and
you are the upright, honest neighbor that went
to law about it, and tried your best to impoverish us, and then offered to buy our house -
0, 0! And your little boys have learned to
call us names, and to fling stones at me! Say,
was that wicked? "  And Mr. Grash's Cat
bounced up and down in a rage, with both
paws stretched out.
"You shall have a piece of my mind, neighbor," said Mr. Frome's Cat, getting up in
great excitement and standing on the very
edge of the slippery roof. " But, O dear!" he




154         BEFORE THE FIRE.
said, as his feet sank in the cold snow, " here
we are quarreling again over this old matter,"
and he returned to his shelter by the window.
"Do, pray, let us leave this horrid subject.
What a charming night! "
Mr. Fromle's Cat meant well, but he did not
have much tact.
"A charming night! " hissed the other.
"' Say, what is the piece of your mind.  O,
how grand you feel! "
" You're hungry, friend," said Mr. Frome's
Cat, soothingly. "Come, let us see what we
can fiind."
" And well I may be," retorted the other
fiercely, "with your high wall - 0! "
" Well," said his neighbor, eager to keep the
peace, "just jump across, and we'll go down
there."
Now Mr. Grash's Cat never had jumped
across before, but the temptation was so great
to the hungry fellow that he did not hesitate
more than a moment, and made the leap.
Alas! perhaps he was weak, perhaps the distance was more than he thought, - poor Mr.
Grash's Cat just jumped into the air and went
down, down, over and over, to the ground between the two houses. Mr. Frome's Cat saw
him disappear; Mr. Frome's Cat rushed to the




THE NEIGHBORS.            155
edge to look after his comrade; the roof was
steep, the snow slipped, and Mr. Frome's Cat
went down, down, over and over, to the ground;
both were in the air at once, but of course Mr.
Grash's Cat reached bottom first, and each as
they fell uttered a long scream.
At the sound, a window in Mr. Grash's
house opening upon the place, was thrown up,
and a head appeared.
" O dear! " said a nervous voice, "0  dear! "
and the head peering down, discovered the two
cats, who were now sitting together, rubbing
their heads to collect their wits. " Scat! "
said the voice; " Shm, shu! " and round the
corner darted the two bewildered cats, leaping
the iron picket fence.
The next morning was Christmas. The snow
lay heavily on the ground, but it had stopped
falling, and the sky was clear; the air was
sparkling with freshness, and it was a real
pleasure to be in it, to draw it into the warm
lungs, and send it out again in whiffs of vapor.
A little boy was shoveling snow in front of Mr.
Frome's house, and he seemed like a miniature
steam-engine, puffing at his work, and pitching the snow into the street with regular
tosses, while every now and then he would




156        BEFORE THE FIRE.
stop, as if the fireman to the engine had
opened a valve, and was to let off a little more
steam first. This was Tommy Frome, who
was clearing the sidewalk in front of his
father's house, while his little brother and
sister watched him fiom behind the window of
the dining-room, where they were waiting for
breakfast. Jack, who had begged hard to go
out and shovel snow, was kept in with a great
cold in his head, so that he was snuffing disagreeably, and had his handkerchief in a hard
round ball. Sally was perfectly well, and was
playing with one of her Christmas presents,
a Nuremberg India-rubber man, whose head,
being shoved down into his stomach, would
very slowly rise, as the air filled him from a
little hole behind, until it bobbed up, uttered a
little squeak, shook itself with another squeak,
and then held itself erect, with an anxious and
injured expression on the face.  Sally kept
knocking on the window for Tommy to see it,
but he could not hear it squeak, and so it did
not seem so droll to him.
At last the little steam-engine outside had
finished the work, and was coming into the
house with a great deal of stamping; and
kicking off his India- rubber boots, Tommy
Frome entered the dining-room, blowing great




THE NEIGHBORS.              157
blasts on his nose, which was as red as his
ears and his cheeks. His father and mother
were there by the fire, and breakfast was ready,
to which they all sat down.
c "Well, Tommy," said Mr. Frome, " did you
clear all the snow off? "
"Yes, sir-r-r," said Tommy, who was in high
spirits, "all on our sidewalk; but there isn't
much gone off Old Grash's sidewalk - not
much. I let him have some of ours."
"Grash-away! Grash-away! let bhib alode!
He lives with his wife, add his cat, add a bode,"
sung Master Jack, as well as he could, with his
organ out of tune.
"Jack!" said his mother.
"That's what all the boys sing, mother,"
said Sally, "and Old Grash shakes his stick
at them.  What makes them  call him Grashaway? "
"Because he's so cross," said Tom; " and he
had no business to build his house where he
did - had he, father? "
"Do," said Jack; "add I bead to burd it
dowd sub dight."
"I guess that will burn ours pretty quick,
youngster," said his older brother.
"Well, we could build ours again," said
Sally, " but he isn't rich enough to build his."




158        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"Children," said their mother, glancing at
Mr. Frome, "who wants to go to Aunt Martha's to-day P "
"Me! " said three bad grammarians in one
voice. So they fell to talking about Aunt Martha the rest of breakfast time, but Mr. Frome
said little. He felt uncomfortably; and, when
breakfast was over, he pushed his chair away
and sat by the fire, while the children played
and talked together. He was uneasy. Here
were his children growing up and catching at
his dislike of his neighbor; keeping the quarrel alive, and shooting, perhaps every day, little
irritating arrows of words at Mr. Grash, which
he himself would have been ashamed, of course,
to use. But yet, did he not have in his heart
the hard, cross feelings toward his neighbor
which his children put into words, while they
had no special grudge, but only caught their
father's dislike?
" Hush, children; we are going to have
prayers now," said Mrs. Frome, and she
handed the family Bible to her husband. He
took it, open at the place which she had found,
and still thinking of his neighbor, himself, and
his children, he read the story of the birth of
the Lord Jesus, of the angel that came to the
shepherds, with his wonderful words: "Unto




THE NEIGHBORS.            159
you is born this day, in the city of David, a
Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this
shall be a sign unto you: ye shall find the babe
wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger." And then, how the multitude of the
heavenly host burst into their song of praise,
perhaps at the very moment when, leaning
eagerly out of heaven, they saw the Babe
born upon earth. O divine song, that never
since has died away! for always there are new
voices to take it up, in heaven and on earth,
none singing out of tune, —but poor, feeble,
cracked voices of earthly singers chiming in
with the full notes of angels. Mr. Frome read
the words, too, that Christmas morning, and
then, as was their wont, the family kneeled in
prayer. Mr. Froine's lips uttered some words,
he scarcely knew what: they were but sounds,
for his heart was wandering away, thinking of
those joyful words, and what a life of sorrow
and suffering they ushered in.  "Yes," he
murmured in his prayer,;'"God so loved the
world; " and he thought within himself that
it was when God gave up His son that He bade
the joyful choir of angels sing. His voice
trembled; he fell into the Lord's Prayer, in
which the rest joined, and only when he uttered the words, " Forgive us our debts as we




160         BEFORE THE FIRE.
forgive our debtors," did poor Mr. Frome's
mind come back and throw itself fervently into
his words.
"Mother," he said hastily, as he rose, "I
am going in to see neighbor Grash. Tommy,
just bring me my boots, will you P"
"And do ask how Mrs. Grash is, John,"
said Mrs. Frome, looking very nmuch pleased.
"I saw the doctor's chaise at the door yesterday, and I am afraid she is sick. I would have
sent to inquire, but" - and she looked a little
shyly at her husband.
"Ahem!" said he, getting something out
of his throat, "you are right, you are always
right, Mary; it was wrong, it is all wrong; I
begin to see it," and ejaculating such short
sentences as he tugged at his boots, Mr. Frome
grew red in the face, and, kissing his wife, went
into the entry. He came back in a moment.
"Tom," said he,' can you act like a little gentleman P I want you to come with me and see
Mr. Grash."
" 0 bah! " said the boy.
"I'd go, Tobby," said Jack.  "Ask hib how
his cat is."
"Jack," said his mother, quietly, "Mr.
Grash hasn't any rude little boys to call us
names."




THE NEIGHBORS.           161
Tom hung back a minute more, and then, seeing his father waiting, he ran out and pulled
his boots up over his feet, and his tippet down
over his head, and so was ready, nodding back
to the rest in the window, as he and his father
went down the steps and on to the sidewalk.
At that moment the door of their neighbor's
house opened, and Mr. Grash stepped out into
the street. Mr. Fromie was flustered a moment. He had expected to ring the door-bell,
and he had not collected his thoughts yet.
"'Eh! ah!" said he; "O, Mr. Grash, a
merry Christmas to you - I wish you a merry
Christmas! " and he pulled at his' glove, and
thrust his hand out with the glove flapping at
the tip, for he could not get it off before Mr.
Grash had held out his hand in its mitten, and
had shaken it up and down a great many
times.
" Yes, indeed, a merry Christmas, Mr. Frome
-at least I hope so. Doing pretty well. I
say, do you think your wife? - You know —
the doctor said he'd come again — he hasn't
come yet - do you see him P " and Mr. Grash
looked anxiously down the street.
"Why, what - O! ah! Tommy, run into
the house at once, and tell your mother to come
quick -just as quick as she can —to Mr.
11




162        BEFORE THE FIRE.
Grash's. Tell her Mrs. Grash has a little boy.
Mr. Grash, I wish you joy, most heartily."
"Why, didn't you know it?" asked Mr.
Grash, looking amazed.
"I ought to have known it, being your
nearest neighbor, Grash, but really-I — I
was coming to wish you a merry Christmas,"
said Mr. Frome, turning a little redder, " and
I thought it would not be merry to me unless
I wiped out old scores."
" Well, now," said Mr. Grash, "I'm glad to
hear you say so, for last night, as I was watching and waiting, I turned it all over, and I
made up my mind that the first thing I'd do
this morning would be to go to you, and - and
— take it all back. Mr. Frome," he went on,
after a moment, "it was my wife's doing. She
said to me last night -says she,' If I die,
Simon, you'll make it all up with Mr. Frome
- won't you? You know we were the wrong
ones.' As if she was wrong, Mr. Frome!
Somehow, I can't feel this morning as I did
yesterday -or day before yesterday, I mean.
This sitting up all night confuses one so. I
want to be at peace with everybody. I feel as
if some one had been ringing bells or singing
songs."
At this moment back came Tommy with his




THTE NEIGHBORS.          163
mother, and by her was little Sally. Poor
Jack stood behind the window, his ball of a
handkerchief up at his face, now blowing his
nose and now wiping his tears, because he
couldn't go over and see Mr. Grash's baby, but
must stay in the house for fear of catching
more cold. Mrs. Frome shook hands warmly
with Mr. Grash, and little Sally came boldly up
and said,
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Grash!  Mother
says I can't see the baby, but here is something I'll lend her. I can't give it, you know,
because it was a present to me this morning.
You must do so;" and so saying, Sally held up
the Nuremberg India-rubber man, and shoved
his head into his stomach, and then gravely
watched Mr. Grash to see what he would do
when the head popped up. Mr. Grash laughed
louder than any one had laughed yet, and she
was perfectly satisfied.
"There!" said she, triumphantly, "'give
that to her! give that to the baby. I mean,
show it to her," for as Mr. Grash took it, Sally
had a sudden fear she might never see it again.
" I'll send it back by your mother," said he;
" but it is a little boy-baby, my little girl."
" O, I thought it was a girl," said Sally, a
little bit disappointed. " Well, never mind,"




164         BEFORE THE FIRE.
she spoke up quite cheerfully; " I've got two
brothers, and they're both boys."
"Mr. Grash," said Tommy, "I'd like to
clean off your walk. I like shoveling snow."
"There's a little man! " said Mr. Grash,
who was finding it quite hard to get back into
his house again, what with his new friends and
their offers of neighborliness. So the door
shut behind Mr. Grash and his neighbor Mr.
Frome, and his neighbor's wife; and the two
children remained outside, Tommy shoveling
snow, and Sally watching him, while Jacky,
whose tears were dried, was now rubbing his
thumb up the window-pane, and making what
was music to him.
At the back of Mr. Frome's house was a
high wall, shutting in the yard. A gate
opened in it, but it was closed, and by it outside sat two cats. They were Mr. Frome's Cat
and Mr. Grash's Cat.
"Perhaps, if we scratch a little harder, she
might come," said Mr. Grash's Cat, looking
wistfully at the gate.
"My claws are rather tender," said Mr.
Frome's Cat; " I think I could mew better. I
wish the wall were not so high."
"Don't speak of the high wall, my dear




THE NEIGHBORS.            165
friend, said Mr. Grash's Cat. " You make me
feel so ashamed of myself. To think that I
should ever ""Not another word," said Mr. Frome's Cat,
raising his paw playfully. " A high wall shall
not separate us, who are neighbors. Hark "
At that moment the cook opened the gate, and
both cats at once ran in. The gate was shut
after them, and so nothing more could be seen.
But something was heard. It was a sort of
scraping sound on a tin pan.




GOOD AND BAD APPLES.
THERE was a little apple-tree near the garden wall, which was called Rob's apple-tree,
because it was set out on the very day when
he was five years old, and he himself with his
own little spade helped fill in the earth round
the roots, and stamped it down, while Quick,
his dog, barked at him.
"You needn't laugh, Quick," said he, "for I
am to have all the apples that grow on this
tree;" and then he ran off to quarrel with
Quick, for they both liked that exceedingly.
Not far from the tree was the plaster statue of
a young man leaning on a hoe, - Old Hoe, as
Rob called him, - though he was not so very
old, and yet he leaned with such a wise air,
and looked abroad so seriously, that it was generally said in the garden, - It is Old Hoe who
has scraped up the earth - everything grows
because he made the ground ready - and now
he has nothing to do but to watch the trees
and flowers, and think about them;" and




GOOD AND BAD APPLES.        167
when Rob and Quick and the gardener were
gone, Old Hoe thought aloud as usual: —
"So, here is a new-comer, and it is to bear
apples  is it P It has a very serious task before it. It takes a great deal to make an apple. It must rain just so often, and the sun
must shine just so many days, and the wind
must not blow too hard, and it must not hail
when the blossoms come. It is a wonder that
there are ever any apples at all; and then,
they are picked and put in a basket. Seems
to me it is hardly worth while to go through
so many troubles, just to be picked and put in
a basket."
" But what am I to do P " asked the young
apple-tree.  Old Hoe did not answer; he
never was known to join in talk with others.
The world might hear, if it liked, when he
spoke out, but he had too many thoughts in
his head to allow him merely to make conversation. The sun shone, the rain fell, the wind
blew, there was hail and snow and ice, and by
and by six blossoms came upon the little appletree; and after the blossoms came just two
apples, for the other four blossoms came to
nothing. Two rosy apples! the little tree was
very proud of them.
"Ah! two apples," said Old Hoe one day;




168        BEFORE THE FIRE.
" they are not very large either. Seems to me
it is rather a small affair for the wind, and the
sun, and the rain, and this apple-tree, to work
so hard and only make two apples.  Why
should not everything make everything bigger
than itself? " and Old Hoe stared dbwn the
garden. A hen just then laid an egg under
the hedge, and was off telling her neighbors.
"' Now that hen made an egg," Old Hoe went
on; "' but seems to me the egg ought to have
made the hen." He was puzzled, but nobody
would suspect it, for he looked very grave.
The little apple-tree, meanwhile, was lifting up
her head bravely, and holding out her two apples att arm's length, on opposite sides, so that
they could not well see each other. They could
talk, however, though they had not much to
say. They were twins.
"Brother," said One to the Other, "how
do you grow to-day? Do you feel pretty mellow? "
" I can't yet feel very warm," said the Other,
" but then the sun is not very high. How delightful it is to be getting riper every day. I
only hope we shall not be picked too soon. I
should like to be perfectly ripe first."
"Well, brother," said One, with hesitation,
"I - I do not perfectly agree with you. I be



GOOD AND BAD APPLES.         169
gin to think that we have made a little mistake, and that there is something besides getting ripe and being picked and put in a basket.
In fact," said he, speaking more confidently,
"I know that there is something better, for I
am already beginning to enjoy it."
" Why, how can that be? " asked the Other.
" We get the sun and the air and the sap, and
so we grow warm and ripe. Come! is there
anything better P what is your secret? "
"It is not easily told," said One, mysteriously, "but you shall hear something. Yesterday afternoon, as I was beginning to dread
the night, I heard something on the twig, and
pretty soon felt it on my stem; it came'slowly
down until it was firmly on -me.'Who may
you be?' said I, a little angrily, I must confess.' Do not be disturbed, good sir,' said a
soft voice;' I am a friend come to visit you.
You will be the better for me, I assure you. I
am Tid, the worm.' I had never heard of him
before, but he was so soft and comfortable in
his ways, that I knew he was a friend at once,
and so I welcomed him.' It is lonely enough
here,' said I,'for my brother never can come
to see me, and my only amusement is when
the wind blows, and I get a chance to rock
back and forth, and that is sometimes a little




170        BEFORE THE FIRE.
too hard.'' Just so,' said Tid.' I have been
waiting for you some time on the grass below,
hoping some windy day you might fall off and
come to see me, for it is very hard work climbing so high. I have waited long enough, and
now I am here, glad to get to my journey's
end.' At that, Tid stood on his head, I thought.'What are you doing, Tid' said I.'I am
going,' said he,' to bring you a new pleasure.
Have a care; don't joggle me off.' Brother,
those were his exact words."
"Well," said the Other, " and what is the
new pleasure. Is it to walk round on you and
keep you warm? "
"Better than that," said One. "Do you
know, if you could look round here, you would
n't see Tid P "
"Not see him! has he gone then?"
"Yes, yes," said One, bursting out with it;
" he has gone in! he has gone in! "
C Gone in!"
"You know I told you I thought Tid was
standing on his head; so he was; and he began to make a little hole in me, not far from
the stemrn, and put his head in, and so, deeper
and deeper, till now, my dear brother, Tid is
entirely inside! "
"Well," said the Other, "do you call that
pleasant?"




GOOD AND BAD APPLES.          171
"Pleasant!" cried One. "Growing ripe is
nothing to it. Why, there is Tid, comfortable
little soul, burrowing and burrowing, and the
further in he goes, the easier it is for the sun
to get inside, you know; but the warmth is
not the great pleasure; it's the tickling! the
tickling! Tid is tickling me all the time, and I
sit here and laugh."
"Dear me!" said the Other, "and Tid is
doing all this for you; and how does he like
it? "
" There! I just hear him talking to himself. Hark!"
"Well, what does Tid say?" asked the
Other.
"He says, -' Munch, munch! I must be
getting toward the core. I have not had such
a feast this long while. I came just at the
right time. The apple and I will get ripe together. I shall go on, too, after picking-time
comes.' There! do you hear that? You see
Tid and I are not going to stop when I get
ripe."
" I don't know about this," said the Other.
"Why, Tid's hollowing you out-isn't heP
and suppose he leaves nothing but your skin? "
"All I know is," said One sharply, " that I
get a new delight all the while, and don't put




172        BEFORE THE FIRE.
Off my pleasure till I am picked and put in a
basket."  The Other was silent, but he kept
thinking, and the more he thought, the more
sure he was that he should not wish a visit
from Tid. That went on for several days, and
they agreed less and less whenever they fell to
talking.
"Halloo! " cried One, one day, "what do
you think?  I am  getting popular.  Tid's
friends missed him, and now they have come
- three more, uncommonly like Tid. They
have all gone in, too, and each by different
holes."
"I must speak out," said the Other. " I
am certain that it is all wrong, and I do beseech you, brother, to get rid of Tid and his
relations. There is no time to lose."
"Indeed! " said One. " I understand you
perfectly; if, now, Tid had visited you — but
we will say no more;" and so for several days
nothing more was said; nothing by them, that
is, for Old Hoe at length spoke out:" Seems to me strange that those apples dd
not do anything to get ripe. They just hang
and hang. I could hang, but should I be the
better for that P Seems to me if they were to
get down and roll round on the ground, they
would be doing something, - would be getting




GOOD AND BAD APPLES.         173
on with their ripening. There is the gardener;
if he were to stand still all day, would the
garden take care of itself?"
The gardener was at this moment coming
up toward the tree; perhaps the twins saw
him; at any rate One called out with a faint
voice, -
" Brother, a word with you. I feel exceedingly weak."
"Cheer up, cheer up!" said the Other.
"We must be quite ripe now; we shall soon
be picked and put in a basket."
"Ah! you are very well; but as for me, I
must confess it, I have been growing weaker
every day.  Tid and his relations have been
all through me, and I cannot tell why, but I
feel very disagreeably. Somehow all the pleasure is gone, and I have headache perpetually."
Just here the gardener came up to the tree,
and Rob and Quick came running to him from
the other side of the garden.
" Daniel, are they ripe, do you think P May
I pick them? " asked Rob.
"Well, Master Rob," said he, "you'll not
get two; one is all worm-eaten, but t'other is
a rosy, ripe apple." He picked them both and
tossed one away, but the other he gave to Rob.
Quick darted after the apple that was thrown
away; he snuffed at it, but let it alone.




174        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"Here, here, Quick! " said Rob: " That is a
bad apple. This is a good one," and he ran
off, holding it up, while Quick bounded after
him. The gardener, too, went off, and no one
was left but Old Hoe.
"This is the end- eh P " said he. " One is
thrown away and the other is picked; it should
have been put in a basket. It is pretty hard
to have so much trouble, and then not get all
one's deserts. Why was it not put in a basket P "  The apple thrown away had rolled
quite near Old Hoe, and he now saw it. "So
this was a bad apple! Why, what had it done P
it had all the rain and sun like the other, and
it was picked. It was not put in a basket, but
neither was the other. I don't understand."
"I understand," said the apple. "If I had
joggled Tid off when he first came, as I might
have done, all would have been well, but now
it is all over. O dear, they are all going about
again! and I have such a headache."  In a
few moments Tid and his relations had put
their heads out of their several doors.
"CWhat's this. " said Tid. "We were all
living peaceably. What have you been doing
to shake us about so P I nearly had a fit. Aha!
I see; friends, we are on the ground once
more. Come, I like this. I was beginning to




GOOD AND BAD APPLES.          175
dread climbing down the tree, and there's not
much left here. But we'll finish what we have
begun," and, so saying, all crawled in again.
Old Hoe heard this also, but was too astonished to do anything but lean on his instrument and stare off into the garden. Perhaps he would have been more puzzled if he
could have followed Rob with his apple. Rob
ran into the house, and fetching a string from
his pocket, he tied one end to the stem of the
apple, and so hung it over the fire, twirling' it
round and round. The apple was a little dizzy
at first, but in a moment was perfectly delighted at such a dance as he led; the pleasure
he had felt when the wind blew him was nothing to this. Then the heat of the fire began
to warm him and to creep deliciously through
and through; why, the brightest sunshine had
never so made him glow. The little apple
laughed and shook with merriment; he could
not keep in, and actually burst his sides out
with joy, all the while humming a tune, being
the first time he had ever sung in his life, and
this was the song that Little Apple sung:"All summer long
I sang no song
Upon the green-leaved tree:
But let the sun
Sing, one by one,
The summer songs to me.




176             BEFORE THE FIRE.
"The songs I hid
My seeds amid,
Until they eager grew:
My lips, alas!
They could not pass,
To sing themselves anew.
"Then bright flames leapt
To where I kept
My pretty songs in cage:
They burst the bars
With glad ha, ha's!
And mocked at my old age.
"Out flew the songs,
The summer songs;
And now they sing to me
The joys I knew
All summer through,
Upon the apple-tree."




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.
CHRISTMAS always falls on the twenty-fifth
of December, even if it is leap year, which
joggles the almanac so, and sometimes the
twenty-fifth is Sunday; and so it happened one
year that in the little village of Blessington,
Christmas and Sunday and the twenty-fifth of
December all fell on the same day; and more
than that, little Jacob Olds's birthday was on
the same day; and when I tell you that little
Jacob was exactly, to a day, one year younger
than his brothers John and Peter Olds, you
will see what a great occasion it was when the
twenty-fifth of December, and Christmas, and
Sunday, and little Jacob's birthday, and John's
birthday, and Peter's birthday, all happened
together: and 0, one thing more - Mr. and
Mrs. Olds were married on Christmas eight
years before, and this was leap year. I suppose
it is not very often that such a Christmas happens.
The evening before this Christmas, John
12




178        BEFORE THE FIRE.
and Peter and little Jacob were playing about
their father and mother just before bed-time.
The pretty room was nicely furnished, for there
was Mr. Olds with his newspaper, pretending
to read, and Mrs. Olds with her sewing, pretending to sew, and Peter and John and little
Jacob playing about like three little kittens.
Little Jacob finally climbed into his father's
lap and pretended to read the newspaper too.
There was a long column of print all about the
financial difficulties of Austria, and Jaky read it
aloud to his father somewhat thus, with his fat
finger moving over the lines: —
" On Christmas morning children have presents from their papas and mammas. Sometimes they are in stockings, but ours are on a
big table. Some boys like books, but I like a
sled. I think my papa will give me a sled," -
here he had nearly reached the bottom of the
column, he read so fast, and so he ended up,
-" and we wish you all a merry Christmas.
Yours truly, Jacob Olds and Company."
" O, is that in the newspaper? " asked Peter,
who had been listening.  "Why, that's my
father's name."
" Pooh, you goose," said John, who was exactly of the same age, but always treated Peter
as if he were years younger, " that's Jaky. He
made it up."




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    179
" O," said Peter, who was not very quick,
"I thought he was reading. Mamma, what
is Christmas, any way?  It isn't Sunday, is
it? "
" I know," said John. " It's the day when
presents are given. You have to say'Merry
Christmas' to everybody, and the one who gets
up first and says it, is the best fellow."
" Then I'll get up first," said Peter. "You
wake me, will you, mamma P "
" Hoh,"  said John, "you're great.  If
mother wakes up first she'll say it."
"Any way," said Peter, "we're going to
have a great dinner. I heard Becky say so,
and she says folks always have a great dinner
on Christmas."
"Becky knows ever so much," said little
Jacob. She knows a lot she won't tell. She
knows something about Christmas that's a secret, I guess. I said Christmas was my birthday ""It's my birthday too," said Peter, who
wanted to have everything that anybody else
had.
" Well, it's mine, too," said John. "Anybody'd think you owned it. Does Christmas
always come on Sunday, father? To-morrow's
Sunday."




180        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"It hasn't anything to do with Sunday,"
said Mr. Olds. " It only happens so."
"Becky says," went on Jacob, " that she's
always glad when Christmas comes on Sunday,
and when I asked her why, she said because
somebody she knew about was born on Christmas, and liked Sunday. I don't think that's
much."
At this moment Becky herself, the old
nurse, appeared in the doorway to lead the
children to bed. They went,frolicking upstairs, and Mr. and Mrs. Olds were left alone.
Mrs. Olds stitched on in silence for a moment,
and then looked timidly at her husband, who
sat behind the newspaper.
" My heart misgives me, Jacob," said she.
"I don't know, I sometimes think it would be
better if the children were to know- to know
something about what people generally know
- what they read in the Bible."
" Becky hasn't been telling them any stories
out of the Bible, has she P " asked Mr. Olds,
impatiently. " I told her when she came, that
if I ever found her telling religious stuff to my
children, she should leave at once. I'm not
going to have her putting nonsense into their
heads. I intend they shall grow up rationally,
and make up their minds for themselves, without any prejudice."




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    181
"I don't think she has," said his wife, with
a doubtful look on her face. "You see how she
checked herself when Jaky asked her about
Christmas.  She feels pretty badly, though,
about it."
" Let her," said Mr. Olds, pushing his spectacles hard down on his nose. "It's not her
concern, at least."
Becky had taken the three children to the
room in which they all slept in their little beds,
and had tucked them in, and then, as was her
wont, had got down upon her poor old knees
and prayed hastily within herself that the Lord
would bless the darlings, and send somebody to
teach them; while the children, as usual, kept
still, because Becky was looking under the beds,
as they thought, to see if anybody was there,
and their little hearts were always in a little
fright till Becky got up again and kissed them,
and told them that they might go to sleep, for
somebody was watching over them, and would
keep them safe; and as they always found
Becky there when they woke up, they had no
doubt she was the Somebody, and Peter when
he heard Becky say somebody was watching
over them, secretly thought that Becky herself
climbed up on the bed-post and sat there all
night, where she could see them all, and couln
keep off danger.




182        BEFORE THE FIRE.
But this night the children were wide awake,
and begged Becky to stay and tell them a story,
or sing a song. The poor old thing had her
head full of Bible stories and hymns, but she
had been forbidden to tell them to the children,
and so she had to fall back on the days of her
childhood, when she lived in a little village of
England.
"Tell us what you used to do when you
were a little girl," said John.
" Sing us a song," said Peter.
"I know," said little Jacob; " tell us about
Christmas, Becky. Tell us about the man that
had his birthday then, and liked Sunday. You
know "" Who was it P " asked Peter.
" It was somebody," began poor Becky, at
her wit's end how to tell what she longed to
tell, without disobeying, and so making a sad
mystery of it all.
" 0, was it Somebody," cried Peter, " Somebody who watches over us P But you're a
woman, Becky."
"The dear child," said the puzzled old body,
" so I am. If I was only a man, like old Parson Dawes that used to be " 
"Tell us about Parson Dawes," struck in
John, who thought they were not getting on
with a story.




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    183
"Well, I will," said old Becky, suddenly
brightening up, "and I'll just tell you about
what Parson Dawes did when I was a little
girl. Parson Dawes he was a good man, a very
good man, but he hadn't no children of his own,
and so says he one Christmas time to the chorister,- that's my father, children" -
"0 Becky, you're making up," said Peter;
"you haven't got any father."
"' But I had one, Peter, when I was a little
girl."
"Was it Somebody?" asked John, who
thought that Becky was always making believe
when she spoke of Somebody.
"The dear children," murmured the old
woman. " Says he, says Parson Dawes to my
father,'Simon,' he says,'they used to have a
custom for children to go about Christmas Eve
and sing carols.  Now, you just teach the
children to sing one, and I'll go round with
the children myself and sing it.' He was a
nice old man, Parson Dawes, but folks thought
he was rather queer, p'raps because he didn't
have no children of his own. So my father, he
taught us children a carol which Parson Dawes
he gave him; and sure enough we went round,
and Parson Dawes he went with us, and we
sang, and we sang - 0, it was beautiful," and




184            BEFORE THE FIRE.
nurse Becky, forgetting everything except
what she was remembering, and  forgetting
her own poor cracked old voice, piped out to a
sweet air the words:"' God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,
Was born upon this day,
To save us all from Satan's power,
When we were gone astray.
"' In Bethlehem, in Jewry,
This blessed babe was born,
And laid within a manger
Upon this blessed morn;
The which his mother, Mary,
Nothing did take in scorn.
"'From God, our Heavenly Father,
A blessed angel came,
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tidings of the same,
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.
"' Fear not, then said the angel,
Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour
Of virtue, power, and might;
So frequently to vanquish all
The friends of Satan quite.
"'The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.   185
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm, and wind,
And went to Bethlehem straightway,
This blessed babe to find.
"'But when to Bethlehem they came,
Whereas this infant lay,
They found Him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay,
His mother Mary kneeling,
Unto the Lord did pray.
"'Now to the Lord sing praise,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood,
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All others doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy!
For Jesus Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day."'
"And did Parson Dawes sing it all with the
children? " asked John.
1" Indeed he did," said Becky, warming with
the recollection.  "We  just went from  one
house to another a-singing, and Parson Dawes
he carried a stick and pounded on the ground
when we sang. He was just daft-like, when
we was a-singing, and he took to his bed that
very night, and so he died."
This was quite unexpected, and Peter began
to cry.




] 86           BEFORE THE FIRE.
" What made him die P " said he, whimpering. " What made Parson Dawes die? I didn't
want him to die."
Little Jacob had said nothing, but his busy
little head was trying  to  put together what
nurse had said and sung.
" Nurse,"  said  he, "do  please  sing  that
again. That part about the shepherds."
So Becky sang again:"'The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm, and wind,
And went to Bethlehem straightway,
This blessed babe to find.
O tidings of comfort and joy!
For Jesus Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day.
"'But when to Bethlehem they came,
Whereas this infant lay.
They found him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay,
His mother Mary kneeling,
Unto the Lord did pray."'
"But what made them  go to  Bethlem P"
asked John.  " What's Bethlem P "
"Why, it's where the babe was," said little
Jacob. " Don't you see P "
"The little babe that was born, was Jesus




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    187
Christ the Lord," said old Becky reverently,
clasping her hands and lifting up her face.
" And He was the Lord of glory who had come
down on earth to live, and He was born a little
babe in a manger, and when the shepherds
they came, they found the little babe a-lying in
the manger; and the little babe grew up, and
He healed the sick, and He taught us about
God and heaven, and then wicked men killed
Him, and then He died for us —poor little
children," - broke out old Becky, choking
down her sobs; "and I wasn't to tell you, but
I couldn't help it if I was to leave this night
-there!" And the old nurse threw herself
down on her knees, and wept and prayed aloud
that the good Lord would teach the little ignorant ones, and tell them about Jesus when
Becky left.
" O, don't go," said Jaky, " don't go, nurse.
We don't want' Good Lord;' we want you. I'm
going to sing that over again," and he tried to
sing the verse that had been sung last. He
came pretty near it, and the other children
took hold with great eagerness, and insisted
on singing it too. They had sweet voices, and
pretty soon old Becky with her cracked voice,
and the three children, were all singing together.




188          BEFORE THE FIRE.
But Becky began to be troubled, and said
she must not stay any longer, and that the
children must go to sleep. So she kissed them
once more and went out softly. The children
could not go to sleep, they were so excited.
" It was a secret," said John.  "She said
she wasn't to tell. I guess father and mother
were keeping it for a surprise."
" I guess it was Somebody that was born,"
said Peter. " And then He died, just like Parson Dawes."
" I wish we could have heard them all sing,"
said little Jacob; "it must have sounded like
what the shepherds heard."
" I say," said John, in a hurried whisper.
"Let's us."
" What? " said little Jacob, starting up.
" Let's us sing," said John.
" Well," said Peter, beginning,"'The shepherds at those tidings' " —
"No, no," said John, impatiently.  "Peter,
Peter, I don't mean here, but let's play we
were Parson Dawes and the children. I'll be
Parson Dawes and you be the children, and
we'll sing, just as they did."
"O do," said little Jacob eagerly, and he
bounced out of bed. "Johnny, Johnny, we'll
put on our things and go out, and nobody will
hear us, and then we'll sing."




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    189
So the three children dressed hurriedly in
the dark, Peter much wondering in his puzzled
head whether John, when he got through, was
going to take to his bed and die, like Parson
Dawes. They groped about, talking to each
other in loud whispers, and putting on their
clothes in all sorts of new ways. At last all
were dressed, except that Peter could not lace
his shoe, so he let the lacing go dragging after
him.
"We can't get our hats," said John. " I tell
you what. We'll take blankets."
So each of the children took a blanket off
the bed and wrapped it round himself and over
his head, and so with suppressed giggles the
three little blanketed figures stole down-stairs
and out-of-doors. There was no snow on the
hard ground; there was no moonlight either,
but the bright stars were shining as they
stepped forth, shutting the door noiselessly behind them.
"Parson Dawes had a stick," said Peter,
"and he pounded with it when the children
sang. You haven't got any stick, John."
" Yes, I have," said he triumphantly, showing a hearth-broom which he had concealed
under his blanket.  "I thought of it.  I'm
Parson Dawes. Now, children, when I begin
to pound, we must all sing."




190        BEFORE THE FIRE.
They were standing under the window of the
room where they had bade their father and
mother good-night. The curtain was dropped,
but a bright light was behind it. In vain, however, the children sang, and Parson Dawes
pounded. No one came to the window.
"Papa! mamma!" shouted Peter.  "See
us! we're Parson Dawes and the children."
"Sh! " said little Jacob. "That isn't the
way. Let's go to Mr. Lirry's."
Mr. Lirry lived next door, and again did
Parson Dawes and his choir sing and pound in
vain. They tried the next street. A wagon
drove by, and the man in it stopped and turned
to look at the three queer little figures.
"I'm  afraid," said Peter, beginning to run
down a side street. John and little Jacob were
not afraid, but they ran after him, and the man
in the wagon drove off in another direction,
but they thought he was chasing them, so they
all ran in good earnest; but the noise of the
wheels died away, and they came to a halt by a
stone wall.
"0  Peter, what made you run P " said John,
all out of breath.
" Where are we P " said Peter. But it was
so dark, and they had got so bewildered with
the run, that the poor little things could not
tell.




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    191
"We must turn round and go back," said
John, clinging to his hearth-brush, and determined, like a brave little fellow, that he would
defend them. They began to sing again, and
somehow the stars shone so brightly, and the
music sounded so sweetly, that they walked
along without fear, and eyen Peter began to
chatter about many things.
" This is just the night," said little Jacob,
"to find a babe in. I shouldn't wonder, no,
I shouldn't wonder one bit, if we were to see
some shepherds, and should find a barn, and
there in the manger would be a babe. Only
think of it. Wouldn't Becky be glad P "
"She said there was a star over it," said
Peter, "a bright star, and it was right over
the place. I don't see where we are, and I'm
cold."
" I see a barn," said little Jacob. " Yes, I
see it plainly, and O! what a bright star; and
it is growing brighter too."
And indeed just at that moment it did seem
as if a particularly bright star shone above the
barn. The children were all alive with eagerness as they came up to it.
"What if we should go right in and find
him there!" said little Jacob, his eyes starting
out of his head. "Johnny, we must sing the
song."




192        BEFORE THE FIRE.
Then they stood by the barn and sang the
verses, Peter holding on to little Jacob, and
John striking the ground with his stick like
Parson Dawes. They lifted the latch of the
door and peered in. It was darker in there
than out, but it was warmer, and so, creeping
in, they closed the door after them. Peter
clung close to little Jacob, and now as they
stood there, their little hearts beating, a light
began to fill the place gently, and their eyes
becoming accustomed to the darkness, they
began to make out things. There stood some
oxen, and there too were some sheep, all lying
in their pens and stalls. The light that came
was the rising moon, which rose higher and
higher, sending its light through a great
easterly window. The children crept up to a
manger, and peered eagerly and yet timidly
over.
" Perhaps he has not come yet," said John.
" Let's wait."
There was a hay-cart standing on the barnfloor half filled with hay, and into this the three
little children clambered and lay close together,
waiting till the Child should appear.
It was about the time that the three children
were clambering up into the hay-cart that Mr.
and Mrs. Olds, who had been taking little naps




L
m
J
~                 ~                                  IlItt~ ~'4~ ~t~1tIllIll!lt~








THREE WISE LiTTLE BOYS.    193
all the evening, thought it as well to go to bed
once for all. Mrs. Olds indeed had felt that
she would gladly go and sleep off the uncomfortable thoughts that began to visit her.
"Jacob," said she, "it was eight Christmases
ago that we were married."
"Well, Rachel," said he, good-humoredly,
as he took off his spectacles, " I expect you will
give us a first-rate dinner in honor of the
day."
" Yes, and it's the children's birthday, too,
and Christmas. I wonder what sort of a notion
they have of Christmas? "
"A  very correct notion," said Mr. Olds,
restlessly, - "a day of frolic, of giving and
receiving presents, and eating plum-pudding.
They shall have a merry Christmas."
"  Won't they come to ask why it all happened
on Christmas-day " continued the mother,
thoughtfully.
" Well, wife, they'll learn it all by and by,
when they study history; and they won't have
any nonsensical notions about it."
At this moment Annie, the maid, came to
say that Becky, the nurse, would like to speak
to the master and mistress, if she might, and
right behind came Becky, with her eyes very
red, and her hands twitching at her dress.
13




194        BEFORE THE FIRE.
" Come in, Becky; what is it? " said Mrs.
Olds.
"Please, ma'am, I must a-go."
"Why, don't we treat you well? " asked Mr.
Olds in surprise.
" 0 Mr. Olds - I could'nt help it, ma'am;
but when those darling children asked me
about Christmas, and I got to telling them
about the hymn which we children used to
sing with Parson Dawes when I was a little
girl, I couldn't help it, sir; but 0, I told them
about the Babe that lay in the manger, and
how the shepherds heard the angels sing, and
the Wise Men of the East, how they came and
brought presents; and 0, Mrs. Olds, I couldn't
a-bear that the darling children shouldn't hear
about the blessed Jesus, who said,' Suffer little
children to come unto me,' and you don't let
them go; and I thought, says I, if the Lord
asks me, Becky, why didn't you let them come P
what made you a-hinder them, - and so I told
them, and now I'll go, sir, as I heard you said
I must;" and the poor old woman, who had
rushed through her words which she had been
all the evening making up her mind to say,
quite broke down, and sobbed into the lap of
her great gown.
Mr. Olds walked up and down the room un



THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    195
easily, and Mrs. Olds, half ready to cry and
half ready to be downright angry with Becky,
stood still by the fire.
"I'll see you in the morning," said Mr.
Olds, giving his coat a twist, and buttoning it
about him, and then, as Becky left, he turned
to his wife, -
"Come, Rachel, we'll go to bed; but first
we'll look in on the children, to make sure they
haven't been spirited away by some of Becky's
invisible friends," adding a worried little laugh.
They took their light and went up-stairs. They
entered the room.
"Merciful Heavens!" cried Mrs. Olds, and
Mr. Olds roared, —
"Becky! "
The whole house was roused and in a tumult.
The servants crowded into the room, and a
great wailing was made. Mr. Olds, raising his
voice above the din, while his wife was dumb
and white, ordered quiet, and striking Becky
on the shoulder and holding her at arm's length
away, he bade her tell him where the children
were.
"Please God," said the old woman, "I left
them lying awake in their beds, and I have not
been in the room since."
" She's been in her room crying like every



196        BEFORE THE FIRE.
thing the whole evening," spoke up Annie, the
maid. There was silence a moment, and then
Mr. Olds said, -
" None of you leave the house."
It was hardly necessary to say this; not one
scarcely dared to leave the room, but Becky
said meekly," Please, master, I must go. I must find the
children."
Mr. Olds said nothing, but went out of the
room with his wife. He put on his coat, and
she mechanically dressed herself, and together
they went out of the house, but not alone, for
Becky had followed, bearing a lantern in her
hand. They went from one house to another,
and the neighbors joined them in the search,
till the whole village was astir.
"Neighbor," said Mr. Lirry, "about what
time was it you might have missed your children P "
" Nurse took them to bed at seven. It is now
eleven."
" About seven-and-a-half o'clock, or it may
have been eight, Mr. Olds, I heard some children singing outside the window, and I says to
Mrs. Lirry,' There are children singing;' but
then it stopped, and when I went to the window
I heard nothing. I remember the time, for




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    197
Henry just afterward started for Compton. It
was just before the moon rose. Henry said he
should have a good moon when he came back.
I thought it was he when you came in. There
he is now," and a wagon drove toward them,
and the horse was reined in at such a strange
concourse of people.
"Henry," said Mr. Olds, huskily, "have
you met anybody? My children are lost."
"What! John and Peter and Jaky! Stop!
what time was it? " and then he told how as
he was driving off he heard some voices singing,
and he stopped and listened, and saw three
figures in a sort of whitey-brown covering, who
chased each other down the Morris road, and
he went on.'That's them, no doubt," said Mr. Lirry,
cheerfully. "They're taken care of at some
farm-house, you may be sure; nothing but
honest folks live down there. Come, Henry,
jump out, and, Mr. Olds, you and Mrs. Olds
take the wagon and drive down that way, so's
to bring them home nicely."
"No," said Mr. Olds. "We don't know
how long we may have to look. Henry's horse
has been to Compton and back, and is tired. I
shall harness my horse in the carryall and take
everything that may be needed. Becky, go




198         BEFORE THE FIRE.
back to the house and get cordials and blankets.
Give me the lantern - Rachel, you will come
with me."
They turned back, and were soon by the
house again, when Becky went in, but Mrs.
Olds would stay by her husband. He carried
the lantern, and they went out to the barn.
" Rachel," said he, as she clung to his arm,
4" it could not be that our children should suffer
any harm on Christmas. I'm not superstitious,
but it's Christmas, you know." Just then the
clock struck twelve in the clear air, and at once,
too, the bells were merrily rung, to usher in
Christmas Day.
"0 Jacob," said she, bitterly, "what right
have we to expect God will take care of our
children P  Hark! " and she seized his arm
convulsively. They stood dumb upon the threshold of the door.
"They found a babe "
It was little Jacob who had suddenly waked
at the sound of bells, and had sung the words
that were last on his lips. It was their father's
barn to which they had come back in their
wanderings. He sang both verses clearly.
" Rachel," said Mr. Olds, "I dare not go
in," and he sank down on the floor. But at
that moment, the other children waking, began




THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS.    199
talking and crying together, and Mrs. Olds,
opening the door, cried, as she looked into the
darkness, -
"My children, my children! "
"Here we are, mamma," spoke up little Jacob.
"O, I thought perhaps the babe had come.
Do you really think he will come to-night?
Nurse told us about him, but it was a secret.
There was One who was found just so, when
the angels sang to the shepherds, and He was
good to people, and He died."
" And Johnny was Parson Dawes," broke in
Peter, who was crying, and was very sleepy.
" Why didn't you hear us when we sang  "
said John. " We sang real loud, and I pounded
with my stick. This is the way we did," and
the children, now wide awake, and standing on
the barn-floor, sang once again their Christmas
carol. And Becky, who had come out, said
nothing, and could not even sing with them in
her old cracked voice.
The next day was Sunday and Christmas.
The three wise little boys did not know much
about the King of the Jews whom they went
to worship. But they went, nevertheless, and
they carried, though they did not know it,
some very precious offerings.




TOM AND JOM.
THERE were two horses that drew a street
car over rails in the city. They looked exactly
alike, except that one had a white spot over his
tail, and this was the only way that the stablemen and driver could tell him from the other,
and yet they were quite different. The name
of the one distinguished by the white mark
was Tom; the name of the other was John.
So the driver and the stable-men called him;
but he was rather deaf, and, like deaf people,
apt to seem a little dull. He thought his
name was Jom, and that the driver, and stablemen, and Tom, who was always next to him,
called him by that name.
They had travelled together, Tom and Jom,
as long as either could remember, and were
getting to be somewhat old; still they jogged
on in the same track with a rattling car at
their heels, day after day. They went down
one street and up another, and into a third for
a very long way; and after stopping a short




TOM AND JOM.            201
while, started off again, and soon were in the
first street again; and down that they went,
and up the other, and so round and round, only
at noon stopping for a lunch, and at night
stopping for rest; the next day they started out
and got into the middle of the track, and the
car was hung on to them, and off they jogged
again, rain or shine, hot or cold, down the
street and up the next, and into the third.
As Tom and Jomin moved along, they wagged
their heads, and shook their tails a little; but
they could not see each other very well, since
they wore old-fashioned blinders.  So they
looked ahead. Yet they could talk to one another for all that. Tom liked talking best in
the evening, when it was quiet about them,
and he did not have to raise his voice so much;
but Joni liked rather to talk in the day-time,
when carts were rattling about them, because,
like other deaf people, he could hear better
then. So it was that one day when they had
started out on their regular journey, they fell
into conversation.
"Well," said Jom, "we seem to be going
again - eh, Tom P"
" 0 don't talk yet," complained Tom. " Do
wait till evening. It's so noisy. Besides, I
feel so stupid always in the morning."




202        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"Yes," said Jom, who was a little apt to repeat himself, — "yes, we seem to be going
again. We've got a good long day before us,
a good long day."
"Just hear him," groaned Tom. "I say,
John!" he shouted.
"Well? " said Jom.
"Don't you wish it was night? "
"You needn't speak so loud. I hear well
enough in the day-time. Why, do you think
we shall get there then - eh, Tom P It looks
like it. We've been going so long now, we
must be'most there. Let me see: yesterday
and day before, and then day before that, and
then the day those men were trying to get up
those two long black things, that always seem
to be going just ahead of us. O, no doubt we
are almost there!" and he waggled. his head
sagely.
"I never did see such a -!" cried Tom.
"You don't suppose it will be any different tomorrow, do you?"
"Why yes, if we get there."
"But we sha'n't get there."
"I don't know about that; we've been agoing now pretty long."
" But that's just it, John. Do we get ahead
any P?"




TOM AND JOM.            203
"Look here, Tom; look at my feet. Don't
they step out a little farther along each time?
It makes me almost dizzy to look at them. As
sure as my name's Jom, we shall get there,
depend upon it; yes, depend upon it —eh,
Tonim? " and Jom tried to look round his black
spectacles at Tom.
"It's no use talking to that John," Tom
muttered to himself.  "If he thinks he is
going anywhere where he won't have to begin
and go all over again, his name is Jom  and
not John. I wish this old thing behind us
would stop forever. I don't see why they fasten
it on us. We don't do anything with it. And
then it keeps stopping so, and it has such a
horrible rattle."
Just then there was a sharp ring at the bell,
and the brakes were put on.
"Hoh! " said Jom, who was tired of keeping his tongue still. " It's stopping to think,
Tom —stopping to think. That's a queer
chattering sound it makes. I wonder what it's
going to do next? Ah! there it goes again,"
for the bell rang, the brakes were set free, and
off they went.
"Tom," continued Jom, when they were
once more well under way, " I've something to
tell you."




204         BEFORE THE FIRE.
"I wish it was dinner-time," cried Tom;
" you always have something to tell me. I wish
I was dead - I do. I'm a perfect slave. I remember when I was ridden for pleasure; yes,
ridden about by little boys. They never hung
one of these dreadful, jingling, rasping, heavy
things behind me; and I could see out of the
side of my eye, too. I don't care.  I want
some dinner."
" But, Tom," said Jom, mildly, "that was
a long while ago; we're going to have something better now, something better- eh,
Tom? "
" Something bitter! " said Tom, sharply.
" Yes, that's it, that's it," said Jom, reaching over playfully to caress Tom, "something
better, something better."  But the driver
jerked the rein, and called out,
" Heh there, John; mind now."
" Singular! " said Jom to himself; "whenever I want to rub my nose on Tom, there is
the queerest hitch at the back of my head.
But, Tom," he continued aloud, "really, now,
I've something important to tell. Want to
hear - eh, Tom? Do you remember that day
the thing behind got tired, and couldn't move
for a good while? "
"I remember how I thought we never
should get home."




TOM AND JOM.             205
"Well, as we were standing, there was a
vegetable cart near by, and I talked with the
horse. He was a good, plain sort of horse.
He didn't seem to think much, though, of the
vegetables he had.  I said how green they
were. He said he couldn't see.them himself,
but he didn't like to smell them. He was used
to grass. Just think, Tom, he had grass at
home; and he wasn't such a very fine horse,
either - not such a very fine horse. You used
to have grass, I think you said  "
"' Of course I did," said Tom.
"Well, he said that near where he lived
there were - what do you guess P eh, what do
you guess, Tom P "
" I don't guess anything."
"No, that wasn't it; they  were — car
horses, just like us! What do you think of
that P "
"Well, we're not the only wretches."
"' 0, but they were eating grass," said Jom,
and he raised his upper lip, and tried again to
look round his black spectacles at Torn. " Now!
Do you think we never shall get there?"
"No, we never shall; sure as your name's
John."
" Well, sure as my name's Jom, as you say,
I know we shall. I feel it every time that




206        BEFORE THE FIRE.
thing behind us begins to rattle so, and then
stop to think. Sometimes, too, when I am not
so deaf as usual, I hear a little tinkle sound
behind. It seems to say,' grass!'"
" Heigh ho! " said Tom. " Here we are at
last. Now for dinner; and thank fortune I
sha'n't have to listen to old Jom, as he calls
himself, for an hour now."
The two horses were put into their stalls, and
given their dinner. There was some talking
going on about them; and presently, to Jom's
surprise, he was led out of his stall. Where was
he going? He went out of the stable, into the
street, and then a man in a wagon took the
halter-strap that was about his neck, and off
they started, man and wagon, and behind, Jom,
who felt unusually bright. He listened for the
thing behind him. He could not hear it; and
on they went without stopping, so that he was
almost out of breath. They passed a vegetable wagon standing by the side of a shop.
"What! so you're going, too P" asked the
vegetable horse, turning his head and recognizing Jomn.
"Ye-ye-yes," nodded Jom, his head going
up and down, as it always did when he was in
delight.
" I'll see you to-night," called out the vege



TOM AND JOM.            207
table horse after him. But he did not see him.
Jom was going into the country, but into another part. When the sun was going down,
they came to a pretty house with a grassy slope
before it. Children were playing about, rolling
over the hay-cocks, and laughing in great
sport.
"There he is! there he is! " they cried
together, as the wagon came up, and they
crowded down to the farmer.
" Is this really our new horse P " they asked.
The father came up.
" Well, Coleman, he has a good character -
has he P "
" O, bless you, sir, they say they never
touched a whip to him. He's as gentle as a
lamb. He's a bit stupid, sir, I'm thinking."
"No, I'm not stupid," said Jom, gravely.
" I'm deaf."
But they did not heed him.
The children came closer, and patted him
timidly. Jom raised his upper lip, and shook
his head up and down, and said, " Come closer,
children."
"What's his name, Mr. Coleman P " asked
the oldest.
"It's Jom," said Jom.
" Well, I don't believe his mother ever gave
him any," said the farmer.




208        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"Let's call him June. It's the first day of
June now."  So they agreed to call him June.
" Jume P? that's not exactly it," said he to
himself, "but it will do. How I wish Tom was
here.
"Curious! " said the father to the farmer;
" how much this old horse looks like one I
once had. The only difference that I can see
is that that one had a white spot over his tail."
"That was Tomn," broke in Jom, eagerly,
who heard the last few words.
" I used to ride him when I was a boy;
but he had a bad temper, was a fretful, impatient horse, and we sold him."
" 0, then it wasn't Tom," said Jom to himself.
" Now, please, put me on his back! " cried
the oldest; " and me," pleaded the next; " and
me," "and me:" so old Jom was soon walking round delighted, with the children on his
back; and he smelt the sweet grass, and even
ventured to put his nose down and nibble a
little.
Happy Jom! Poor Tom!




THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN.
WHEN the stars are shining on a December
night, and that night is the last of the year
that runs from Christmas to Christmas, then
is the time for new thoughts to be born; everything is transparent, everything that sounds
has a clear ring to it.  One looks over the
country, and the trees seem watching for what
the gray dawn may reveal to the world; and if
one must walk down city streets, there, too,
the very houses stand higher, as if to hear
what may be sounding above; and the church
spires listen to catch the first note. As twelve
o'clock comes on, the stillness deepens; every
click upon the pavement sounds like the beating of a stony heart. What will come? what
will be seen and heard when the new year begins on Christmas Day P
The top of Trinity spire would seem to be
the best place for a watchman at such a time.
From that dizzy height, he could peer off over
the water, or over the land, following the lines
14




210        BEFORE THE FIRE.
of twinkling lights below, or up into the sky,
ready for the first breath of sound or glimpse
of heavenly sight; and then from that perch
he could make his voice dart down and into the
belfry, and down by other voices, till glad
hands should pull at the chiming bells to summon all who might be listening and waiting
and watching, on Christmas Eve.
But on one memorable Christmas Eve, memorable for our John the Watchman, there was
no one thus lifted up above the common streets,
or who can say what good news might have
been sounded over the city? and yet - would
he have seen what John'saw? Now, John was
a watchman- that was his business. Every
night when the gas was lighted, John put on
his great watch-coat, pulled his cap well on,
kissed the children and Mary his wife, and with
a stout brown paper parcel in his pocket, which
Mary had stowed there, set off for Church
Street, to keep watch over a great warehouse.
How much money there was in that ware-.
house! not in gold, and silver, and copper, but
in stone, which rose, story above story, up toward the sky; and inside, in cloth, and wonderful fabrics of every kind. All day long,
scores of clerks went about in it, selling goods;
or sat and stood, silently pinned to desks, like




THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN. 211
dead butterflies all in a row, as they added up
columns of figures, till their heads ached, and
found out every day how much money the
warehouse was worth; and every day, grayhaired, sharp-eyed old gentlemen sat where
they could see the row of butterflies, and
looked over their shoulders, and found out how
much they owned, - for they owned the warehouse; and then when the gas out-of-doors
was lighted, they took the pins out, and the
butterfly clerks went home, and the old gentlemen went home, and the porter locked all
the doors, and he went home; and then John
came, and he stayed, — till the porter came
back next morning.
The first thing John the Watchman always
did, was to go round to all the doors, and try
them, take hold of the handles, and pull and
rattle them; and Peter the Inside Watchman
- for there was one inside and one out - Peter
would hear it, and say to himself, -" Good!
there's John: all right! " Then when John
had tried all the doors, he looked at the windows, to see if they were fastened; and he
poked his stick into all the gratings, but that
was only because it seemed a safe thing to do,
for what could happen about a grating that a
stick could poke into? Then he settled into




212        BEFORE THE FIRE.
his great-coat, felt of the bundle in his pocket,
and now he was all right for the night, and he
began to walk up and down, down and up,
round the square, back and forth, always
changing his course, so as to turn up unexpectedly everywhere, and be always on the spot,
should any one be so bold as to try a door with
a false key, or think to take out a light of glass.
A quick robber he would be, who came round
the corner and did not find John the Watchman at that post.
Now, on this night, John settled himself as
usual into his shaggy coat, and began his
steady beat over the flagging. There was no
snow on the ground.  It was a clear, cold
night; the bright stars were shining in the
heavens, which spanned the earth with a pure
blue arch; blue indeed, this night, as any one
could see who looked up. The air was still,
and every sound that stirred came sharp upon
the ear. Broadway, not far off, seemed to be
a procession of sounds of every sort and kind,
while just about John's walk, it was long before the street was clear,- so many people
went briskly by, and carts and omnibuses clattered past. It was a lively evening, and John
watched the sights about him, and wondered
and wondered, - what this one had in his bas



THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN. 213
ket -how many children that old gentleman
had- whether he had anything in his pockets
for them. You see John's mind rather ran
upon children. He had two, twins, a girl and
a boy, John and Mary, just his own and wife's
names, so they were called Little John and
Mary Little. It is hard to get away from these
twins, now that we have begun to talk about
them; but we must: we have nothing to do
with them to-night, except as we look into our
John's — John the Big's —mind, for in that
mind are stowed the twins. They are safe in
bed now at home, and safe in John's mind at
the same time. But it is extraordinary how
fast they grow! Now, children grow when
they sleep, every one knows that; and while
the twins, just a year old, are laid in their little bed, Mary is watching them, and John the
Watchman is watching them in his mind, off
by the warehouse. As they look steadily at
them, how fast they grow! It is only eight
o'clock now, and John is seeing in his mind's
eye - for that is what looks on in the mindJohn is seeing a great John and Mary: a stout
young man, who has grown up in three hours,
like Jack of the Bean-stalk; a wonderful young
man, who has been at college, and knows so
much - dear me! John the Watchman begins




214        BEFORE THE FIRE.
to wonder whether son John will not think his
father dreadfully ignorant, and a foolish old
man. And he sees Mary, now Mary the Tall,
a fair young woman, as beautiful as her mother,
moving about so gracefully, that the old house
looks very homely for so charming a maid to
live in; and John sighs to himself, and then
starts with a laugh, and in a twinkling, John
the Wise and Mary the Tall are back in their
cradle again, with their thumbs in their
mouths. They have been growing just in the
same way, as Mary looks at them.
The passers in the street gradually were
fewer and fewer: the changing noises in
Broadway died down; the lights, except in the
street lamps disappeared one by one, and still
John kept his pacing by the great warehouse.
He looked up now and then at the windows of
the hospital which stood near by. He often
looked there, and tried to fancy what the people behind were doing. He would see forms
pass and repass, get up and sit down, and he
knew that behind those stone and brick walls
there were many poor sufferers, who tossed
restlessly through the night, and wished that
morning would come, - morning, that brought
nothing but a change of pain. He could see
a light in one of the windows now.  There




THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN 215
were people moving about in the room, slowly,
and it seemed to him very gently. He saw a
woman pour out a draught by the light, and
carry it -to the sufferer on the bed, he did
not doubt; and John fell to thinking how
many people there must be, rich and poor, who
were sick that night, and he was well and
walking about. John was a simple sort of a
man. When he thought of this, he looked
up for a moment, and thanked God that he was
well. Then he began to think about Little
John and Mary Little. What if they should
be taken sick, and this very night! and he
went on and prayed to God to take care of
John and Mary.
Click! click! click! a sharp tap three times
on the sidewalk. The same sound again. John
the Watchman knew what it meant. He must
stay at his post, but all about came hurrying
the city watchmen, with their clubs in their
hands. He heard a noise, cries, terrible words,
sharp blows. It was confusion; but he knew
that there, down the street, a fight was going
on. Presently a squad of men came up the
street, dragging a fierce, ragged man, who
gesticulated and shouted; behind, came shortly
another body of men, bearing on their shoulders a wounded man, while an angry, cowardly




216        BEFORE THE FIRE.
gang of men, women, and boys hung about, or
turned and fled, when it seemed as if they
would be pursued. Tramp, tramp, they went
past John the Watchman.
" What is it? " he asked in a low tone.
"Stabbing!" said one of the men, and
on they went, the wild man screaming, the
wounded man groaning, as he was borne painfully along.
John trembled as they left him. He could
not help it; he was not a coward —let any
one try the warehouse and see! but John had
just been thinking about Little John and Mary
Little. He thought of them again, and shuddered. He seemed to see them in that crowd.
He looked up at the warehouse. It was bolted
and secured at every point. There was money,
he knew, behind those stone and iron walls.
He was set there to watch, because wicked men
there were, who would risk life to rob the warehouse. He heard the screaming man, whom
the officers could not quiet, as they dragged him
along, and of a sudden it seemed to him that
the city was full of wicked men and women.
And this was Christmas Eve, and how long
it was since He had come to save the world.
More than eighteen hundred years, and was
this all?  How could he, with his fatherly




THE VISION OF JOHN THE VWATCIHMAN. 217
heart, keep Little John and Mary Little from
ending like this P John was a simple man; he
prayed to God to keep the children from sin.
Let them be sick and suffer, if need be, he said,
but keep them from sin.
John looked earnestly up and around. He
saw the bolted warehouse. There was all that
money; and yet people, if they could go in
and take it all, would not be made righteous
by that. There was the hospital. Good people
built it and watched in it; but they could not
keep their own children from sickness. And
John whispered to himself, -No! they could
not keep their own children from sin. There
stood the dim -outline of a church. People
could go in and out: did that keep them right?
Poor John. began to be dizzy, as he thought
of these things.  " Why, what can keep us
right P." he cried aloud. " God is so far off.
He sees us and hears us, but we can't see Him.
How can I be sure that Little John and Mary
Little will be right, and keep right P " and he
saw the twinkling stars, and the clear blue sky,
and the thought rushed over him,- Only the
pure in heart shall see God.
" Lord God! " he cried. "How long? how
long "
Did the blue sky open? was there a move



218        BEFORE THE FIRE.
ment among the stars? John the Watchman,
resting for a moment from his tramp, leaning
against the warehouse door, heard no sound,
and the street and hospital were there still;
and yet, in the street, above it, in heaven or on
earth, who could tell? he saw the form of One
like the Son of Man. He did not fear to look
upon Him, for every line in that face and form
drew his eyes. He saw Him pass, and touch a
poor man bending over a heap of garbage, who
looked up into His face, and straightway
caught, in faint resemblance, the same look,
and John for one moment glanced at the ragpicker with the changed face. But back he
turned to the One, who passed now over the
threshold of a church. He saw Him enter.
He saw the bowed heads of the multitude;
and when they looked up, though He was gone,
their faces gave back a little of the kindling
glory. Once more he saw Him lift the latch
of a humble house, and enter there. O joy!
it was John's own house. There sat Mary,
bending over the sleeping babes. He saw Him
look upon the mother, and then upon the children. Did He smile? from the little faces
came a smile. There was no solitude when
He was gone; He took avway no blessing with
Him. Down through dark streets John saw




THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN. 219
Him pass, lighting the way as He moved.
Men, and women, and children gathered
around Him. Alas! for those who shut their
eyes, and turned again to slumber. Did they
know that he was there? Yet he left a light
in the place, - He left faces of holiness. Ever
and ever John saw Him  pass and repass;
brighter and brighter shone the light about
Him. The city's hum sounded, yet He did
not go; there was a vast moving, hither and
thither, of busy men and women; the streets
of the city were full of boys and girls, playing
in the streets thereof; and yet, go where they
would, their eyes were still turned upon Him.
He went where each went; they were walking
beside Him.
Was this heaven? was this earth?  John
the Watchman looked through it all, and, as
his eyes peered more steadily, solid shapes held
them. A light moved in a casement, forms
flitted back and forth. He was aware of familiar objects. The hospital was before him. He
stood firmly upon the sidewalk, and looked
anxiously at the lighted window. There he had
seen the ministering woman, and felt the sick
man to be. Now he could see plainly that
there were several in the room. He saw them
kneel by the bedside.




220         BEFORE THE FIRE.
"It is his last moment," said John to himself. They knelt, and then all rose but one, -
the woman, - and she kept her place.
"Lord Jesus, receive his spirit," murmured
John.
Hark! on the kneeling woman, and on
John the Watchman murmuring his prayer,
struck the sound of chiming bells.
Still here! still here! they joyfully rang.
Lo, He cometh! In clouds, in clouds!
Louder and louder pealed the bells, while
full in John the Watchman's heart sounded
the glad tidings - He is the life of the world.
Men shall look upon Him. and live.  The
Jesus Christ of Galilee and Jewry, - He that
was lifted up - He would draw all men unto
Him.
Christmas morning had risen.




THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD.
IN the middle of the garden was a lake, and
in the middle of the lake was an island, and in
the middle of the island was a bower, and there
sat a Little Girl. No hands had made the
bower, but some rhododendrons grew in a
circle and dropped their flaming flowers upon a
mound of earth, which was the Little Girl's
seat. There was room within the bower for a
great many visitors, and through the opening
in front one could see, or at least the Little
Girl could see, over the water, and out toward
the mountains that stood in the wide world.
She could see down the slope, too, that led
from the bower to the lake, and thus she saw
the procession that wound up the path to where
she sat. She watched it come and her heart
beat lightly, for she knew that now she was to
hear stories; yes, each one in the procession
was to tell a story - a story about the wide
world where they lived. And off on the lake
she could see a tiny boat - only a speck in the




222        BEFORE THE FIRE.
distance -that had spread its white sails and
was coming toward her. Were there more
story-tellers in the boat? that she could not
tell; but nearer came the troop winding along
the path.
Tra-la-la! tra-la-la-la! the Columbine horns
were sounding; Thrum-thrum! droned the
Burdock-leaves; Pweep-weep! whistled the
cold Indian-pipe, and the Pea-pods burst in
with their snapping Pop! pop!
They were coming, they were close by! and
the Little Girl clapped her hands as the music
stopped, and a kid and a kitten skipped up to
the bower, and tumbled a little courtesy to
her.
" Your name is Kid, and yours'is Kitten,"
said the Little Girl. " Tell me, Kitten, what
they do in the wide world where you live."
"0," said Kitten, "we play. Shall I tell
you a story? Yesterday we played we were
playing. T'other Kitty- that's not me, but
the Kitty that didn't come to-day —T'other
Kitty and I had a ball, and we played that we
were playing with this ball. It was all in fun,
you know: we only played we were playing. I
tossed it to T'other Kitty, and she tossed it to
me; then I tossed it to her, and she tossed it
to me; and then I tossed it to her, and she




THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD. 223
tossed it to me; and then I played I tossed it
to her, and she played she tossed'it to me; and
then I played that I was a Kitty tossing a ball
to T'other Kitty, and she played she was a
Kitty tossing a ball to me; and then I played
that I was a Kitty playing that I was tossing
a ball that played it was a ball ""    0! " said the Little Girl; "' and what
came next? "
" And then T'other Kitty went away, and I
played that I was playing "Just then the Little Boy who had come up
in the procession put his head into the bower.
"'1 Mayn't I tell my story? " said he.
"No," said the Little Girl.  "You must
wait. I am going to hear the Kid now. Kid,
Kid, what can you tell me?"
" Shall I tell you where I went yesterday? I
saw a rock, and I went skip, skip, to reach it.
It was a steep rock, it had little jogs in it, and
I skipped from one jog to another, till I was
a-top of it."
"And what did vou do then?"
"I saw the kid " — began the Little Boy,
eagerly.
"Hush! What did you do then, Kid?"
" O, I skipped down from one jog to another,
and then I went skip, skip, home again."




224        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"I have so much to tell ""Little Boy, you must wait. Now ""Chip, chip!" twittered the swallows that
came flying into the bower, and darting in and
out. "Chip, chip! we know what the world
is. We have flown about it. You go up into
the blue, then you skim along, and there it
is!"
" But what is the world like? Can you tell
me no story P " asked the Little Girl.
c" Yes, yes, we know. We have flown about
it. You go up into the blue, then you skim
along, and there it is."
" I have a secret," said the Little Boy.
" By and by, Little Boy."
" But it is about the swallows. I have been
with them."
" Be quiet. I feel quite sure that I shall now
hear something worth hearing. Hush, music.
Ant! Bee!"
"We have no time to idle, but we tell you
a story," began the Ant and Bee together. " It
may do you good. Listen! There were once
two ants and two bees. One ant and one bee
played all the time. The other ant and the
other bee worked. all the time. Do you see
those corpses? that is an ant and that is a
bee. Do you see that tree   There is a store




THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD~ 225
of honey in it, and there is an ant-hill at the
bottom. That is ouR honey, and ouR hill. We
are the other ant and the other bee. Good
by."
"But stop!" said the Little Girl. " You
have told me nothing of the world where you
live."
" That is ouR honey and ouR hill," said the
Ant and the Bee as they went off.
" I have been there. I can tell you," began
the Little Boy.
" That is ouR honey and ouR hill," said the
Ant and the Bee in the distance.
1" Hark! " said the Little Girl, putting her
hand behind her ear.
"That is ouR honey and ouR hill."
"I can just hear them," said she. " Dear
me, I don't think I quite understand."
" I will explain "" Stand aside, Little Boy, we will explain."
There were three this time, that camte up together, but they were of different sizes. The
Cow was the largest, and the Mouse was the
smallest, and the Rabbit came in between.
Nevertheless, it was not easy to say which was
the wisest. They stood in a row, and the Cow
began:"As soon as I have finished swallowing I
15




226         BEFORE THE FIRE.
will tell all about it. Everything that is worth
knowing comes with me. I do not take it all
in at once, but I try it. I test it, and if it is
worth keeping I swallow it. I heard what the
Ant and the Bee said, and'I took it in; but I
have not swallowed it yet. You may be sure
that it is worth something if I swallow it."
" But at least you can tell me a story, Rabbit," said the Little Girl, as the Cow now went
on swallowing.
" Certainly," said the Rabbit, "certainly. It
shall be a fable. No story is of value except
it be a fable. A story — something made up
out of one's head about nothing - bah! it is
only fit for children."
"And yet," - began the Little Boy.
"Patience, Little Boy. I think I will hear
you Soon."
" A fable," went on the Rabbit, - "a fable
has a meaning. It is about the world. It is not
a story, for it has a moral at the end, and who
ever saw a story with a moral at the end P " and
he looked round with his pink eyes at the company. The Mouse, who had been sitting upright in order better to be seen, went forward
and whisked his tail.
"A fable," he piped, "is like; a mouse. It
has a tail."




TIlE STORY THAT NEVER [WAS TOLD. 227
"How dare you? " said the Rabbit.
"And a story is like a rabbit. If it has a
tail it is driven inside. The tail is everything.
A fable has a tail. A story has no tail."
The Rabbit was very angry.
" A tail! " he exclaimed. " A tail! what is
a tail? Have I a tail, and am I nothing? Is
a tail everything? a tail! indeed! a tail! "
" But I have not heard your fable," said the
Little Girl timidly. " I wanted a story, but if
a fable is so much better "" I know a fable " - eagerly began the Little Boy.
"I know about you, sir," said the Mouse
quietly. I advise you to wait.  If you have
not succeeded in having your say yet, you never
will get it. Your time is gone by. You belong
to the Little Boys. Do you know how old I
am?" he added sharply, looking with his
keen eyes into the Little Girl's face.
"I think you are old enough to teach me a
good deal."
"Humph! Do you see this stone I am sitting on?  Under that stone there are some
beetles. Under the beetles there is the earth.
Under the earth -- what?" and he looked
round on the company. No one answered.
"What P?" he repeated. "What is under
the earth?"




228         BEFORE THE FIRE.
" I've swallowed it! " said the Cow, who had
been chewing all this time with her eyes half
shut.
" Dear, dear," said the Little Girl. " What
was it? "
"A tail! " mumbled the Rabbit. " A tail
everything!"
" What is under the earth P " demanded the
Mouse; and the Cow only stood still and said
nothing.
"Let me see," said the Little Girl, putting
her hand over her eyes; " it was about the Ant
and the Bee."
"Yes," said the Cow, "that was it. I swallowed it."
"And you said it would be worth nothing
unless you swallowed it P "
"Yes," said the Cow; "that is it."
"Then tell me about it," said the Little
Girl, getting a little impatient.
" It's gone," said the Cow. " I've swallowed
it."
" You can get nothing out of her, do you
not see P " said the Little Boy. " Surely now
you will listen to me! "
" Not so fast, Little Boy," spoke up a harsh
voice, which was followed by a succession of
little subdued cluckings, and a great Rooster




THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD. 229
rose up before them, followed at a respectful
distance by a hen and eleven chickens.' I am here, Little Girl."
"Then speak out," said she, "and tell me
what the world is. I want no more stories;"
and the Little Girl seemed to speak almost in
the tones of the Rooster himself.
"The world! The world is a dunghill. I
scratch it!" and a heap of dust flew over the
hen and chickens behind him. "There is a
living in it. But what of that P It is good
for nothing except to rule over. You have the
island. I have the world. When I like, I
shall kick it behind me. It is nothing. I
scratch it." And another little cloud of dust
flew over the humble hen and chickens, while
the Rooster set up a defiant crow.
There was silence.
"Alas!"  said the Little Girl weeping;
"' what has become of the boat? I saw it until
now coming toward me, and I felt sure that it
would contain something better than these.
Little Boy, can you see the boat? "
"Come with me," said he, "and you also
shall see it," and he took her by the hand and
led her down from the mound and out of the
bower. As she came forth the music which
had been so long silent, struck up faintly.




230        BEFORE THE FIRE.
"Tra-la-la! thrum! pweep! pop!"
But the Little Boy opened his mouth and
sang. The words were not many; they were
simple, too, but the music of his voice made
them of worth. And as he sang, the Little
Girl listened and they went further away from
all the story-tellers, down toward the shore.
Then he told her stories.
He told her of a happy day when the sun
shone bright, and he was dancing over the
fields, and suddenly a new light that was not
from the sun, fell upon a rose which he was
plucking, and he would not pluck the rose.
Then he told her how he was once floating
down the river in a boat, listening to sweet
music, when one of the notes seemed to wander off from the rest, and to rise and rise until
it touched the sky, when the sky opened,
and as the little note was lost to hearing a
great company of heavenly sounds received it.
And then he told her how he had once gone
down into the bed of a stream and found gold,
gold so precious that when it was crumbled it
turned into land and houses, and bread and
drink, and the poor had been fed and clothed,
and the sick and suffering had cordials and
comforts. But there was another story still
which he told, of what he saw as he lay at night




THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD. 231
and watched the stars. He saw them come
forth one by one, and he began to count them,
and as he counted them they disappeared one
by one, and when the last was- gone there
shone forth another star above him, which was
so near that it seemed to him he could touch
it, and yet so far away that its light seemed
forever travelling toward him.
" Will you hear another story? " asked the
Little Boy. " It is my last. In the middle of
the garden was an island, and in the middle of
the island was a bower, and there sat a Little
Girl. The Kid and the Kitten sported before
her to make her think that the world was all a
frolic; the Swallows flew about her, for the
world was all an idle flight to them; the Ant
and the Bee left their hoarding to show her that
the world was a hollow tree full of riches; the
Cow and the Rabbit and the Mouse came together to wag their wisdom, and show that the
world was nothing but something to think
about; the Rooster came to make her see that
the world was only good for anything as it
made her proud, and so as she looked and
looked the Little Girl became blind. Then she
wept but she could not see, and then the Little Boy kissed her eyes " —
"Ah! " said the Little Girl, " I see now."




232         BEFORE THE FIRE.
"What do you see P" he asked.
" I see you, Love."
"And nothing else P" said Love, sorrowfully.
The Little Girl did not turn her eyes, but
she looked up and said joyfully, -
" I see the boat that once I saw."
" Come! " and he took her by the hand as
they went toward the boat.
" Can I leave the island P " said she, looking
back wistfully.
"You have not heard all of the stories yet,"
said he smiling.
" Then I shall hear more from you! "
They entered the boat and sailed away over
the water.  More stories were told on the
island, but there was one story that never was
told. It was the story of what befell the Little
Girl who sailed away. Eye hath not seen, nor
ear heard, neither hath entered the heart of
man to conceive what happened afterwards to
the Little Girl who sailed away.




ROMANCE.








ROSE AND  ROSELLA.
IN the King's garden were all manner of
strange and beautiful plants. One might wander over it, and fancy he had visited all quarters of the globe, for there was nothing so
rare but the Gardener would obtain it, and
give it, if need be, a house all to itself in the
great garden; and not content with having
what he found, he was perpetually seeking to
produce some new kind of flower, which one
would search the world through in vain to find
elsewhere. Everything was wonderfully contrived, everything was under the most perfect
care; and in the palace, when the guests were
tired of dancing and feasting, they would say,
"Come, let us go into the garden, and see
what new thing the Gardener has."
The Gardener himself was there, all day long,
walking about the paths, dressed in a flowing,
flowered gown, with a pruning-knife in his
hand, looking so sharply at each plant, as he




236            ROMANCE
went by, that one could easily see it would fare
hard with them if they did not mind him. The
guests would follow after and look at the
plants he stopped before, and smell, and shut
one eye, and look grave, but they never dared
pluck a single bud.  The King said openly
that he cared nothing for flowers after they
were gathered, and so he never plucked any,
though of course he could, for it was his garden.
Now there was in the garden one plant
which was reckoned above all the rest in value.
It had a house over its head, and was watched
by the Gardener more closely than any other.
Thither his feet always turned when he took
his tour; and the guests, those who were wise,
would look at each other and say, -" Well,
shall we go and look at the Rosella?"  The
King even, would inquire in the morning how
the Rosella fared - the mock Rosella, he would
sometimes explain good-naturedly, looking at
the Princess, - but that was when the Gardener was not there, and the King was familiar.
The Rosella was a rose, a rose so wonderful
that there was not another in the kingdom,
and so not another in the whole world, that
could for a moment be compared with it. The




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          237
Gardener had therefore given it the name of
the Princess Rosella, the only one in the royal
family beside the King and Queen. The Princess Rosella was as peerless among women as
the flower Rosella was among roses, and a decree had gone forth that no one in the kingdom
should bear that name, and that it should not
be bestowed upon any flower or bird, so that it
passed into proverb- -Worthy to bear the name
of Rosella.
The King and Queen had selected from the
neighboring princes, one of high renown and
great possessions, whom they were willing to
accept as the Princess's suitor, and the day
was at hand when the ceremony of betrothal
was to take place. Rosella, indeed, had never
beheld the Prince, but she had heard for
months of the Prince's famous horses, of his
chariot, of his buglers, and of the magnificent
palace to which he would one day conduct her,
where she would rule the court. The King
had a fancy that the betrothal should take
place on the day when the consummate flower
of the Rose should unfold its petals; it was to
be worn by the Princess, and the world should
then behold such splendor of beauty as never
before was known, when the Princess Rosella,
loveliest of the lovely, should appear before




238             ROMANCE.
the court, adorned with the Rosella Rose, most
glorious of glorious flowers.
Every one watched eagerly for the promise
which the Rose should give of the final flowering forth, and every day tidings were brought
of what new growth and expansion were observed, until at length it was announced by
heralds that on the morrow the betrothal would
take place in the presence of the great court,
and all who were to take part were bidden
prepare for the festival.
II.
On the morning before the betrothal, the
Rose, silently breathing and unfolding, stood
in its sheltered home, guarded from sea-winds,
and bathed in a gentle atmosphere tempered to
its need. What more could flower desire P
what higher place could be given it on earth P
opening its heart to the tender air about it,
and borne at last upon the bosom of the
most splendid of the daughters of earth. Yet
thoughts, fancies, feelings, memories were
wrapped in the opening leaves, quite other
than seemed to befit this favored flower.
Its silent surroundings were broken now by
footfalls drawing near, and entering the house
came the Gardener, and with him a young




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          239
man who had never before been in the presence
of the Rose. They stood before it, and the
Gardener said, -
"Behold,  Master Philip, the Rosella."
The young man bowed.
"Hear her history. I found her a paltry
rose by the sea-shore, growing carelessly with
so many others, not to be distinguished by ordinary eyes. However, I had not formed the
King's garden for nothing. I saw in the thin,
impoverished flower a germ of something
fairer, and I resolved that human art should
not fail of transforming the wild, country rose
into a flower meet for kings' palaces. Whatever art and experience could give me I laid
before this plant. When you see this bud
fairly open, then, Master Philip, if you have
eyes, you will read in its leaves sixteen years
of sun and air and earth made obedient. Reproduce the rose you cannot, but I have called
you in that you may preserve for the world
something of the glory of the Rosella Rose
when it has passed away. Bring also, your art
to the feet of this Rose, and lay on your wood
if you can, some faint portraiture of its transcendent beauty. Your time is short; to-morrow at mid-day, the Rose-bud now unfolding
must be plucked by my hand, and given to the




240            ROMANCE.
Princess as she goes to receive the Prince her
betrothed."
The young Painter, for such he was, answered lightly;" Have no fear, Master Gardener, the Rose
shall grow again on my panel," and he sat
down before it, humming to himself. Again
were steps heard, and now came the King and
Queen, who were taking their morning walk,
and must needs regard the Rose. The Gardener made his obeisance, and proceeded to
explain the presence of the young man who
was working steadily on.
" It is a humble friend of mine," he said, in
a low tone, "who has shown some skill in
painting, and whom I have employed to make
a picture of the Rosella Rose, that I may have
something to show when the original is gone.
He is a worthy young man whom I can trust
here."
The King nodded and advanced to where
the Painter sat.
" Work on, young man," said he. "Don't
mind me. A king is a king, and a rose is a
rose. Now I dare say you will make this handsome. Pluck a rose, leave a rose, rose it is
still."
"You know, perhaps," put in the Queen,




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          241
"that the Rose is to be worn by the Princess
at her betrothal  That takes place to-morrow,
I suppose. Dear me! how the world goes
round; I shall be glad when it is over," and
the Queen, who was heated, fanned herself
with a peacock feather fan.
" Expect nothing, and nothing will trouble
you," said the King, sagely.  "If now, we
were to begin to wonder what would happen
if the Princess should decide to have her own
way, when the question was asked, what folly
it would be. Easy come, easy go. Knock an
apple down with a stick and eat it; climb the
tree and the wormn has ate it. When the stone
begins to roll, get behind it."
"Well, I never can answer you," said the
Queen; " but it don't make things go right to
let them take care of themselves. Come, let
us look after Rosella."
The couple went away, and the Gardener
looked at the Painter carefully.
"There are some things," said he, "that
even kings do not know. Gardening is one,
and - pictures are another."
"Well," said Philip, with a laugh, "one
may not be a king, and yet be ignorant. Does
the Princess also pay visits to the Rose? "
"Hark! there she is coming now. I think
16




242             ROMANCE.
I will go for a watering-pot," and to the Painter's surprise, the Gardener went hastily out
of the little house just as the Princess entered
it. As she entered, Philip rose and bowed,
and then stood until the Princess said: -
"Go on, master; we all obey the Rose
here."
Philip took his place again before the panel,
and as he worked, the Princess looked over his
shoulder.
"When you paint that flower," said she,
" do you think all the time what a fine thing
it will be to have painted the Rosella Rose?
Is it that makes you work so diligently P "
" O, I never find this irksome; though, to
tell the truth, I should not probably have
chosen this flower; but the Gardener set me
down before it."
" And the Gardener will put the picture in
his gallery, I suppose," said the Princess,
mockingly.
" Is it strange that he should wish to keep
some likeness of the flower which he has
reared so carefully P
"O, that is well enough, I suppose. But
tell me, do you see any beauty in that Rose P
I do not. I think it is detestable."
"No flower," said the Painter, looking at




ROSE ANID ROSELLA.          243
Rosella's beautiful face, now flushed with some
secret temper, "no flower can be wholly ruined
by man, when the rain and sun and kindly
earth make up the great sum of its nourishment. Look at those leaves; the color is
deepened, but human art had not done it,
without nature had been willing to lend her
aid."
"I think it is detestable," repeated the
Princess, petulantly. " It grows uglier to me
every time I see it. It looks as if the Gardener fed it with wine every hour. And yet,"
she added, sighing, " all the roses in the garden look in the same way. Tell me, have you
ever seen anything different? Every one here
goes about the garden with his hands up at
every frightful green and yellow thing."
The Painter drew forth from a case a little
painting which he laid in the Princess's hands.
She looked long and wistfully at it. It was a
picture of wild roses. Green flags rose to the
eye, about which gathered a few solitary roses,
open to sunlight, wind, and rain, their shelllike transparency deepening into a more glowing hue, as if along their tender veins ran at
times the warmest life. They laid their faces
against the broad flags, or peeped merrily at
each other from behind them. Nothing of the




244             ROMANCE.
country about or beyond could be seen; -but
the background of the picture had in it faint
touches of color, now deeper green, now purple, now hazy distance, that made one, looking
at it, begin to fancy, according to pleasure,
the sweetest and most mysterious landscape.
She laid the picture down and went quietly
out of the little house. Philip returned to his
task. He was busy with thought, as his hands
moved at work, and did not notice that the
Princess returned, and was watching him.
His lips began to move, and soon, half to himself, half aloud, came the words of a song:" Marina, Marina, my rose by the sea,
Come back, come back, come back to me."
The Princess touched him on the shoulder,
then drew her hand hastily away.
"If you can paint such flowers, why do you
paint this rose? ":" This also is a rose."
" This a rose! how unlike the Rosella!"
"Both like and unlike, lady. Once, years
ago, as the Gardener tells me, this Rose which
he cherishes. so jealously, lived simply and
freely in some pasture, or beside some brook.
He saw in it the germ of a rich and elegant
flower, and he brought it hither, resolved that




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          245
it should some day excel in beauty and fame
all the roses of the land. Behold the Rosella!
You see only the Gardener's toil and art; but
look more closely at this open bud beside my
picture, and see if you cannot discover some
recollection in it of its earlier days."
The Princess obeyed. As she looked steadfastly the Rosella seemed, in her imagination,
to drop, one by one, its costly robes, to give
back all that had been expended on it, to recover its lost simplicity and native freshness;
looking no longer at the picture, but only at
the flower she had despised, the Princess began to see faint outlines of a country where it
seemed to dwell. Perhaps a humid veil before her eyes was the mist which seemed to
rise over a stretch of sea; perhaps it was the
remembrance of Philip's little picture which
spread before her sight green meadow lands,
and a rippling brook overhung with wild roses.
"Where did you paint this? " she at last
asked.
Philip began, "Lady" — when steps were
heard, and the King and Queen again entered
the little Rose housp.
"Well, Rosella," began the Queeal, "we
have searched for you this hour, and now we
have at last reached you."




246             ROMANCE.
"Yes," said the King, "we have found her.
Now there are no more troubles eh P Keep
what you find, and forget what you lose."
" A pretty way, indeed," said the Queen, in
a hNat. "What comfort could one take then P
Rosella, we must go. There is so much yet to
be done, and that great assembly to-night. I
wish in my heart it were over."
" Or never begun," suggested the King.
" No, indeed; of course it must be begun;
but there is an end to everything."
" I am not so sure of that," said the King,
walking off behind them.
Philip remained by the Rose till the sun
went down. He was loath to leave it, and as
he went away from it, a strange feeling began
to possess him. He scarcely knew why, but
it seemed to him he would rather remain by
the Rose than meet again the mistress of the
Rose.  But once more in the free air, he
stepped forth into heightened life. "'Nay,"
said he, to himself, " I will have all, nor stop
like a fool content to dream over the likeness
of the thing itself."
Could he now have revisited the Rose, with
the finer sense which some have, he might
have observed its perturbation and listened to
its sighing.




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          247
Alone in its treasure-house, the Rosella
Rose, cherished with constant care, and separated from all meaner things, kept folding
and unfolding its leaves, as thoughts rose and
fell within its bosom. It needed not the words
of the Gardener and their repetition by the
Painter, for it to know that its secret life was
something more than the Gardener had given
it. But when Philip's picture was placed beside it, there stirred within its depths the old
nature never yet driven forth by the Gardener's art. Again the sea-breeze sent strong,
sinewy life through its fibres, the meadows
stretched out under the blue sky, the little
brook that coursed through them rippled under her living roots, and the tiny cock-boats
which the children launched danced gayly down
the stream; the children's laughter glanced
through the bushes, their voices sought one
another, and now pushing aside the twigs and
osiers with their hands, their pretty faces
peeped into the water, and looked up into the
gentle roses that looked down on them from
the bush.
III.
In the palace at evening the guests were
all gathered, the lights shone brilliantly in
hall and gallery and vaulted room. The music




248             ROMANCE.
sounded far or near, as it obeyed the will
of the band-master, who seemed to follow
with his notes the passing footsteps of the
throng who swarmed in and out. The King
and Queen were there on the dais, and the
Princess by them. The betrothing Prince was
not there. He was with his retinue outside
in camp, for he had not yet seen the Princess, and was not to see her until the morrow.
But gentlemen from his court were there,
who spread marvelous tales of all the splendid preparations that had been made for the
Princess when she should finally enter her
new realm; and it was whispered that the
Prince would be a most obsequious consort,
who would gallantly bow before the Princess at
every step of her grand career. She was glorious indeed to look upon; rich in all the splendor which could be arrayed on her queenly form,
and richer still in the deep color which ebbed
and flowed in her restless face. Yet now and
then a strange light stole into her eye, and
it was as if she looked through the shadowy
forms thronging around her, beyond the thin
walls of the palace; but the soul thus sent
out on its journeying came back again; the
light died down, and some royal word fled
from her lips which shot a courtier and made
his face tingle with the wound.




ROSE AND ROSELLA.         249
"She is magnificent to-night," they whispered to one another.
"May the Prince prize her magnificence,"
thought the wounded courtier.
"Yes, splendid enough," was the response
of one; "thank Heaven, we shall soon hear
the end of Rosella."
"Plucked and thrown away at last," said
another, jestingly. " The Rose and Rosella -
will they have the same fortune'"
In the quiet of the night, Philip walked
into the dark recesses of the garden, and
hearing a brook, moved toward it, resting at
length upon a rude bench beneath a willow,
past which flowed the little stream, falling
noiselessly over a sandy bed. As he watched
and listened, his memory seemed to slip along
with the movement of the waters, forth from
the garden and the day into the world, out
among other lands where he had wandered,
to the place of his childhood, and from that
faint remembrance, his mind travelled down
again over his varied years to the King's
garden and to the Princess Rosella.
A hand was laid on his shoulder and quickly
withdrawn. He rose to his feet.
"Sit down, Master Philip," said the Prin



250             ROMANCE.
cess, "and I will sit beside thee; I could not
rest and I came here. This is my seat; I sit
here often and look at the brook. It is a
strange brook; I know not why it should
flow over a sandy bed; it should have pebbles
to flow over, and then it would sing. Did
you ever hear a brook that flowed over pebbles  "
"Lady Rosella," said the Painter, looking
still into the brook, "such simple things as
I have seen and known have little charnl for
those that dwell in this palace or walk in the
King's grounds. Yet something  there  is
which belongs to all. This brook itself, so
I must think," and he lifted his eyes as if
he would search for its outlet -"this brook
surely is the same which flows by my home,
and loses itself in the meadows by the great
sea. Beside it I have walked; I have listened
to its voice; I have launched my childish
craft in it and parted the bushes to see how
the cockle boats fared, and found roses, such
as I have painted in my picture, looking down
into the water. But I did not know till now
that the brook issued, from the little spring
above us here and flowed through the King's
garden and out into the world."
"Tell me more of your home aird of the
sea-shore."




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          251
"The sea breaks upon the coast in long
waves, and summer and winter one hears its
unceasing fall; now violent and stormy, beating at the beach as if it would find entrance
to some hidden world, now gently, as if laying
down its weariness upon a friendly bosom.
A promontory juts out like a great boar's
head into the ocean, and there I have stood
at the going down of the sun and looked
westward over the marshes, where the tall
reeds rise out of the muddy waters, and the
wide waste seems aglow with some wondrous
life which flames forth only as the day passes
into the night."
"And who live by this strange place? "
"A few simple fishermen and sea-farers;
my own parents were such; now they are
gone, and there remains one only whom  I
care much to visit. He is my dearest earthly
friend. He moved my soul with poetic words
when the sea and the sky and the reedy
marshes moved me with their language. He
dwells alone, and in that little gathering of
plain people, he is the voice that utters their
best thoughts, and to him  they come with
their troubles and their joys; he says not much
to them, but by and by they learn from him
a song which is now to them their own heart,
beating in words."




252                  ROMANCE.
" Sing me one of his songs."
"I think of one that came to  him  in this
wise. There was a fisherman who had a child,
and the child died; and he thought to himself,
-the living sea is better than the dark ground;
so men bore the child out beyond the tide and
buried it there, garlanded with the roses that
it loved to play with, and old Egbert, who
knew how the fisherman yearned for his child,
wrote these words. It was said, too, that they
were less what the poet thought for the fisherman than  drawn from  his own grief, for he
had lost a child, years before, whose death
and burial he never had seen."
Philip sang:"   wave, uprearing on the sands,
Thou hast ridden hard, hast ridden far;
Bring me no word from foreign lands,
Drop me no light from distant star:
Out of the depths of the sunless sea,
Bring back my little one to me.
" 0 wave that ripplest on the beach,
Thou laughest low, thou laughest light;
Bring me no mocking sea-sprite's speech,
Sing me no song of moony night:
My child lies low in the silent sea,
Bring back her tender voice to me.
"I sent her away with the roses red,
I kissed her cheek, and kissed her hand,




ROSE AND ROSELLA.            253
And she has made her curtained bed'Neath dark sea-waves on flinty sand.
Come forth, come forth from the midnight sea,
O little child, come back to me."
"And has he then a word for every troubled
heart P "
" He has words for all, for he has never
shut his love up within himself, or suffered
any unworthy object to draw  it from  him.
Nevertheless, those whom  men drive from
them he receives, for he sees in them not that
for which men thrust them forth, but that
which is the beginning of heaven in them."
" The moon has risen, the night is nearly
gone," said the Princess; " come with me a few
steps that I may show you the beginning of
this brook."
They rose from  the seat, and climbing a
little knoll, came to the spring from which the
brook set forth on its journey; but as the water
rose to the ground, it fell over a rocky steep,
and was caught for a moment in a marble
basin, and then, falling over its sides, slipped
down a smooth stone to its channel, and so
went moving onward. By the light of the
moon they could see the figures which nature
and art had drawn upon the marble. A clinging moss was slowly forming over it, and




254             ROMANCE.
the grass was growing rank above it, while
on the sides of the basin had been sculptured
laughing Loves that formed an encircling,
merry company.  In  the moonlight they
seemed alive, dancing in speechless merriment
to silent music. The two stood by the fountain, listening to the fall of the water, and then
slowly returned to the rude seat by the willow.
The Princess stood looking into the water in
a reverie, and then, turning to Philip, said, -
" The old man of whom you spoke - does
he still live P "
"' Yes, lady."
She drew her robe about her and half turning away, spoke again," Master Philip, shall you paint to-morrow
in the Rose-house? "
c" Yes, Lady Rosella."
"'And when you have finished your work
you will go away? "
" There is nothing that should keep me here
but your command."
" I would that I might send something to
old Egbert. He would not care for the Rosella
Rose? You know I despised that."
" He would despise nothing that came with
love. "
"To-morrow, then, I will send him  the
flower. Good-night."




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          255
She had spoken with her face averted, but
now she turned full upon him. In the clear
moonlight her eyes rested upon him with a
soft, gentle look. She even smiled, as she had
not smiled that night, and then turned away.
He took a step as if to follow her.
"Do not come with me," she said, "I must
go to the palace alone."
He watched her retreating form, till it was
hidden in the shadow and he saw her no more.
IV.
A clash of cymbals! a beating of drums!
a blare of trumpets!  On the roof of the
palace the flags are flying, banners waving
back and forth, and long pennants stream
gayly out, striving to detach themselves, as it
were, and fly over the palace and garden and
camp, to see what wonderful sights are filling
all eyes.  In the camp without the gates,
horses stand champing their bits and impatiently pawing as they hear the distant drum
beat, and the gentlemen and attendants are
busy preparing for the joyous entrance into
the royal domain.
Philip, painting the Rosella Rose, heard the
music and distant shouts. It was mid-morning, and his work was not yet done, but at




256            ROMANCE.
noon he knew the procession of maidens would
come, attending the Princess Rosella, to gather
the wonderful Rose. So he worked diligently
on, wondering meanwhile to himself how the
Princess would manage to give him the rose
from the bush which he was to bear to Egbert.
The Rosella Rose herself must have been
aware that her hour was at hand. Slowly she
unrolled her leaves, receiving the warm breath
and the occasional gentle, moist shower which
the Gardener, ever attendant, bestowed upon
her. She was not alone, for these two were
there, and yet each, intent on his occupation,
were witless of the solemn movement, deep in
the heart of the Rose. Was its hour really
comling?, It was the consummate production
of nature and art; when it was gathered and
placed on the bosom of the lovely Princess, the
sharp pang which separated it from the plant
was to be the token of an end to each. For
itself, it was to linger a short hour in its place
of glory, but the plant was to be burned and
pass out of existence. Nevertheless, a sweet
sense of future good possessed it which left
far behind the momentary glory.
" You must now go," said the Gardener at
last to the Painter, who was putting a final
touch to his painting. " The Rosella Rose is




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          257
at length to receive its glorious reward." He
stood with his hands clasped behind him,
holding his pruning-knife, for though in state,
he could not be himself without his insignia
of office.  "For these many years I have
watched and tended the Rose. I confess to a
feeling of regret that it is now to pass away
forever, but then it is to receive the highest
honor, and that is much. I believe too, Philip,
that I am to be knighted. Hark! they are
coming."
Philip left the Rose-house, but lingered by
it, in the shrubbery. The Gardener stood
beside the Rose, as its faithful guardian, to
abide by it to the end. The sound of music
was heard, faintly and in regular cadence;
light measured foot-falls sounded nearer, and
then, winding with the path, came the little
pageant. Maidens in sweet company bore, some
plaintive music-reeds, some silken banners.
They were without adornment, but their beauty shone forth, heightened by the green foliage, and by the darting hither and thither of
the golden orioles that flew above their heads.
In the midst moved the Princess Rosella, clad
not in white as were the rest, but in a pale
sea-green robe which floated from her in waving folds. She was in the midst of the pro17




258             ROMANCE.
cession, which parted at the door-way, leaving
her to enter the little bower alone. It had
been granted the Gardener as a special favor
that he should sever the Rose from the bush
and present it to the Princess, and accordingly
he stood beside it with his knife, awaiting her
coming. She entered, and bowing to the
Gardener, said, -
"Wilt thou, Master Gardener, give me to
wear the Rose which thou hast nourished so
long and carefully  "' Princess Rosella, most beautiful of women,
I adorn thee with a new grace, the mingled
gift of nature and art.  Wear it on thy
bosom."
"And is it mine to hold and to bestow, laying it in whatsoever hand I will?"
"Princess Rosella, who now bearest the
Rosella Rose, it is thine without recall, to hold
or to bestow."
The Princess left the bower, adorned with
the glorious Rose. There burst forth from the
lips of the maidens, receiving her again, a
joyous song, and with twittering of birds and
music they moved toward the palace, where
the grand ceremony was to be observed, the
Princess Rosella to be betrothed to the Prince
Gladiolus, and to lay in his hand as token the
Rosella Rose.




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          259
The Painter lingered about the Rose-house,
but its glory was gone, and he, too, moved
toward the palace. Something drew him
away, however; some feeling which led him to
turn his back on all the gorgeous pageantry
and to seek again the willow and the secluded
seat overhanging the brook.  In the broad
daylight there was a different look about the
place, and Philip, remembering her word of
the night before, said to himself, "Let her
carry the flower herself, if she will. There
was no daylight on her promise." He kept on
by the brook-side, watching its course and following its little turns. He was leaving the
palace and all behind, and in his heart he felt
a strong desire to go back to his old home.
Thither he bent his steps.
At that moment the procession of maidens
had reached the palace court. Music flowed
from every turret and tower, rising and falling
like the waving flags which sprang into the
air. From  the gate on the other side advanced, at the same time, the cavalcade of
Prince Gladiolus, in crimson and golden trappings, with loud, joyous blare of trumpets and
resonance of horns. The court-yard was a
wondrous fold of rare beauty and mighty
valor. Upon a throne sat the King and Queen.




260             ROMANCE.
The King smiled good-naturedly, as if the ceremony would otherwise be too full of pomp, but
the Queen's eye wandered restlessly over the
gathering, fearful of some misplacement or
calamity.
The Prince and Princess advanced to the
foot of the throne, and stood face to face. For
the first time Rosella looked upon Gladiolus,
and saw his royal bearing and courtly grace.
A herald advanced.
"Good masters all, loyal subjects of our
Sovereign Lord and our Sovereign Lady, gentlemen of the court of the puissant Prince
Gladiolus, hear our words. The Prince has
sought the hand of the royal Princess Rosella,
fairest of women, and would lay at her feet his
kingdom, his crown, and his own royal person. The law of the land is just and righteous.
The King commands the betrothal, and the
royal Princess shall bestow upon the kneeling
royal Prince a guerdon of her devoted affection, whereupon he shall rise and seal his
troth with a token of his knightly honor and
royal protection. The law of the land is just
and righteous. Hearken to the forfeit. It is
declared now, as it ever has been declared in
the realm, that no princess shall receive a
suitor against her will and consent; but if any




ROSE AND ROSELLA.           261
noble princess be contumacious in the presence
of the sovereign and court, then shall her
robes of state be stripped from her, and she
shall be cast forth from the presence of the
noble and mighty.  O King, live forever."
Loud from  the mouths of trumpets  and
horns burst the glad music, high above the
sounding drums and clash of cymbals rose the
fine melody of the stringed instruments, and
then, as the soft flutes breathed a blessing, the
King rose from his chair of state, saying: -
"Kneel, Gladiolus; receive the guerdon."
"Rise, Prince Gladiolus, untouched by my
hand."
It was the Princess Rosella who, with hands
clasped before her, spoke low. There was a tumult in the crowd. " What said she " " " Does
not receive him. " " Abandons all. " were the
questions that passed from lips to lips; and
hushed voices whispered, " See the Prince! "
Gladiolus had risen at the word, and with
face aglow and eyes of fire, struck his hand
upon his sword, while his gentlemen flashed
their poniards in the air and cried, " Treachery! treachery!"
"Take her away! take her away!" cried
the Queen, in a paroxysm of anger. "Take
her away! She is no child of mine that would
disgrace me thus! "




262             ROMANCE.
"Let her go! let her go!" said the old
King, turning uneasily from one side to another. " Get her out of the way. Don't let
me see her. Don't let me see her any more
at all."
The court-yard was in an uproar, some declaring one thing, some another. The courtiers who had looked significantly at one another during the occasion, now said openly,
that, Princess or no Princess, they had hated
her from the beginning, and knew that evil
would come from her in some shape. The
Prince and his retinue rode angrily away, and
bitter threats of open war were flung on every
side. The musicians slunk away, and the banners and streamers and flags drooped heavily,
as a sultry, motionless air enveloped the place.
Most angry of all was the Gardener, who
exclaimed bitterly,"Is this the end of my years of toil and
care P To be thrown away on a shrewish, lowborn girl, who has laughed at me and jibed at
me, morning and night. Curses on her head.
May she make her bed in mire, and on the
sands of the sea-shore! "
He ran to the Rose-house, and madly snatching at the cherished bush, though its thorns
pierced his quivering hands, he bore it into the




ROSE AND ROSELLA.           263
open air, and flung it with fury as far as his
frenzied strength could impel it.
There was a gathering by the palace of some
who were curious to see the expulsion of the
Princess, doubting not that some ceremony
would take place, not indeed so brilliant as
ftat which had been interrupted, but even
more pleasing to them.
" There she is! there she is! " at last was
tht cry, as the great door of the palace was
opened and a figure came forward, passed the
poital, and stood outside for a moment. The
door closed behind her, and a pale, beggarly
clad maiden, with her hands clasped over her
bosom, stepped forth, descended the staircase,
and moved down the garden. Rosella, for she it
was, seemed heedless of the curious gathering,
only watchful, apparently, that the Rose which
she sheltered on her bosom, received no harm.
Yet while every eye was turned upon her, none
did more than whisper. No voice was raised,
and the ranks divided as she passed through
the midst of them. In the days of her grandeur Rosella's queenly mien awed the people,
but now there was another spirit in her presence which hushed them and kept them bound
by a gentle spell. None followed her, and she
looied not behind but kept on, past the Rose



264             ROMANCE.
house, to the willow and to the bench by the
brook-side. Here she sat her down for one
moment, here she kneeled on the green turf,
and, rising up, began to follow the windings of
the stream,, on, on, beyond the garden, beyond
the palace park, on into green fields anl
through dark woods.
The day was drawing to a close, but the h)t
air which had weighed heavily on the earih,
was now full of ominous portents. Low rtnmble of a gathering storm broke on the ear,
and added to it was the sullen roar of the distant sea. Deep answered to deep, and sudden
bursts of wind swept over the plain and hulled
forward a flying figure by the banks of the
brawling stream. On she sped, the wind driving her pitilessly, mocking her distress by
whirling suddenly about and confronting lIer
struggling form. On she strove, and caught
again by the eddying gust, was dashed forward
through bending grass. Drops from the heavy
cloud above came one by one, first witl: a
startling splash upon her face, then quicker,
quicker, quicker, pelting her with a cruel glbe,
till she stooped beneath their thick-falliag
blows. Yet on she struggled toward the deep
baying sea, which sounded like some migity
monster waiting for her as she was drihen
toward it.




ROSE AND ROSELLA,           265
And now full before her was the broad
ocean, behind her still the driving storm.
Where was refuge for her? what harbor from
sea and storm into which she might drag her
wearied body? She could not tell, and yet a
dark form was before her; she lifted her poor
voice and cried, —
"Father Egbert!"
Suddenly, as when in the darkness a light
appears in the window, a voice answered, -
"Who calls me P "
Rosella followed the voice, herself speechless.
"Who calls me?" he asked again, and his
voice was like a lantern flashing in the darkness before a wanderer.
" Who calls me P I am here."
Rosella, trembling, drew nearer to the voice,
trusting in it. A strong arm reached out
toward her, and found her, and drew her in,
and shut the door. Rosella and the Rose
were sheltered.
The morning light shone on the sea that
ran lightly upon the shore. It glistened in
the grass and bushes that were still hung
with drops of rain. What eye that looked on
the scene but saw a world of beauty, the




266             ROMANCE.
mirror of perfection; yet what voice could
speak that perfection? None indeed, though
perchance there were some, who, walking
then through this scene, shed from their
thoughts the breath of desire which was
redolent of words needing not to be spoken.
From the sea, by the brook-side there walked
two, old Egbert and the maiden Rosella.
" Dear daughter," said he, "it was along
this path that I led your little feet on that
day, years ago, when the King and Queen rode
by. Can you remember this place P "
"I do not know; some faint recollection
comes to me. Was there a brook near by?"
"Even here, for we are come to it," and
so saying, they parted the bushes and looked
into the rippling water.
" It was here," said the old man, " that I
left you playing with little Philip in the
brook, whilst I went back to the cottage.
Bitter day that did not bring you back, but
the weeping boy alone, who knew only that a
man dressed in gold and scarlet bore you
smiling away."
Rosella stood playing with the Rose which
she held in her hand.
" Let us bury it here," said she, and stooping down by a cluster of rose-bushes, they




ROSE AND ROSELLA.          267
gently opened the moist earth. Rosella took
the Rose which she had borne, still flushed
with beauty, and laid it softly in its bed, as if
it might suffer from rude handling. They
stood for a moment smiling down upon it.
The morning was in them, and their hearts
were opened to receive the breathing of the
Rose.
The Rose, in its earthly bed, lay looking up
to them, and the breathed fragrance sought
them:"Now I am  laid in my old home by the
nestling of the pleasant waters, in the hearing
of the mighty sea. For this was I not gathered P Dear life that is to come to me —I
know not what it shall be, but it must be
well; it was well even in the King's garden,
though I knew not how; deep in the stirring
of my heart I felt an old life that was never
quenched, and now I know that there is that
coming which shall keep the old good and
build a greater on it."
At this moment there was a disturbance
in the water; they looked and saw a dark
object floating down the stream, swaying to
one side and the other.
"It is a bush," said Egbert.
"It is the Rose-bush!" exclaimed Rosella,




268             ROMANCE.
who recognized its familiar form. It was,
indeed, the Rosella Rose-bush, which, flung
by the Gardener's rage, had fallen upon the
brook and travelled through the night thus
far, when it was arrested.
"Why not plant it here with the Rose?"
said Egbert.
"Why, so we will," said the pleased girl,
and she stooped down.
And now they covered the Rose at the roots
of the bush, and turned away, gathering the
delicate wild roses from the crowded bushes.
" Wear this now, Marina," said the old
man, and he placed a rose in her bosom where
once Rosella had rested.
The brook flows on into the sea, and still
overhanging its waters are the bushes with
their burden of flowers. Children play again
in the rippling stream, sailing their tiny
boats, and freighting them with the wild
roses.
" Come, Rosy," says a child, "let us gather
some of the strange roses."
"Why, they are not strange in our house,"
replies the little girl. "We have a fresh one
there every day."
It was to the bushes about, that this Rose



ROSE AND ROSELLA.          269
bush with its burdens was strange. What
flower, so like themselves yet with a sweet
richness which they knew not, had crept in
among them? The traveller, richly laden
with wonderful memories, comes home, and
unburdens first his older, sweeter memories;
so the strange rose by the brook-side breathed
not of the gorgeous life once investing it,
but of the earlier days; yeti still there clung
to it a fragrance and a color which came not
from the brook-side, from the marsh, or from
the sea.