LIBRARY Of CONGRESS. 
 
 Ciiap. _.. Copyright No.,__. 
 
 U9 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
STORIES FROM MY ATTIC. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 '*DEEA3I-CHILDREN " AND "SEVEN LITTLE 
 / FRIENDS." J^ 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 
 BOSTON: 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 
 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street. 
 1897. 
 
^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 r 
 
 ^'^V 
 
 
 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. 
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 By HORACE E. SCUDDER. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Company. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 The Attic ....... i 
 
 IN THE WINDOW SEAT. 
 
 Looking at a Picture 9 
 
 Hens . . 22 
 
 A StOKT that I MEAN TO WEITB .... 25 
 
 An August liTiGHT .28 
 
 At Christmas Time , 34 
 
 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 The Sleepy old Town of Bruges .... 89 
 
 WiiJi an illustration from a photograph. 
 
 The Battle op the Golden Spurs ... 54 
 
 Sir Walter Scott , 61 
 
 With an illustration of Sir Walter's Study, from a photograph. 
 
 The Singing of the Seieens .... 73 
 
 Francis Hubeb 78 
 
 With a portrait 
 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 The Music Party ....,,, 87 
 
 Wolfgang Amadeus %ozart XIO 
 
 With a portrait. 
 
 The Return of Orpheus 124 
 
 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " As good as a Play " 13j 
 
 The Enchantment of old Daniel ... 137 
 
 The Neighbors - . , 147 
 
 With an illustration by ff. L, Stephem. 
 
IT CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Good and Bad Apples 166 
 
 Thkee Wise Little Boys 177 
 
 With an illustration by Courtland Hoppin. 
 
 Tom and Jom . 200 
 
 The Vision of John the Watchman . » • 209 
 
 Ti;i»i Stoky that neveb -was told . . , 221 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 Rose and Rosklla. • 335 
 
STOEIES 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 cush- 
 ioned window-seat, where the world can get at 
 me only by toiling up-stairs, while heavenly vis- 
 itors, 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 
 Jiave 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 ! 
 
2 STORIES FROM MY ATTIC. 
 
 The ceiling is not high, and on the street 
 side it slopes toward the floor, suddenly stop- 
 ping, however, as if it were afraid to go any 
 further, lest it slip off altogether. The win- 
 dow 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 ray 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 
 
 grouud ; but now I saw what it had hidden — 
 a green cemetery, and just beyond the top of a 
 church tower that looked like a blunt pencil, oi 
 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 ba34. 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, offcener 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 hehind 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 si^ch times I often clambei 
 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, 
 forlopn books, poor relations and meanly clad, 
 that lead a wretched life in the dark behind 
 the other books, poked out of sight and some- 
 times left for months leaning their heads 
 against the wall. There is one old fellow, a 
 fat dictionary in shirt sleeves, that has been in 
 all the backyards to the very top of the book- 
 shelves. 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 ashanted 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 
 fijar, and as 1 study there comes a whiff of 
 
THE ATTIC. O 
 
 music from the room below, and many a time 1 
 slip (lowu 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 comfort- 
 able iron chair, and I feed it with coal, and dust 
 about it, and sweep up around it, and some- 
 times 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 mar- 
 bles on the Temple of Apollo at Bassae. The 
 marbles are very large ; these casts are very 
 
6 STORIES FROM MY ATTIC. 
 
 small, but there is a prodigious amount of life 
 going on over them — horses and men strug- 
 gling together and so tangled up that I never 
 have quite made out which 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 ofi" 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 so- 
 ciety ; I will gather those that seem most fit- 
 ting and so go out from my little attic. Heaven 
 send those who sit there after me as pleasant 
 hours as 1 have had, and so forth we go, my 
 Uttle book and I. 
 
IN THE WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
LOOKING AT A PICTURE. 
 
 Eight o'clock in tJie Evening. 
 
 It is snowing' and blowing out-of-doors, and 
 I have drawn the red curtain across my win- 
 dow, 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 howl- 
 ing 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 WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 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 from the Strand, and called 
 Fountain Court. There are a great many such 
 courts in London ; one sees a dark passage- 
 way not much larger than a man^s body, 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 water, 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 be- 
 come 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 pic- 
 kures became more wonderful as he grew older. 
 
LOOKING AT A PICTURE. 11 
 
 He paiuted 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 ha}'^, 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 WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 men would admire, and give him great sums 
 of money for. Once he wrote about him- 
 self, — 
 
 " 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 wonder- 
 ful than the stars. So Blake, as if he had 
 been with Job and his friends, put into pic- 
 tures 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 ; hut 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 out- 
 side 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 man ; 
 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 mj mother died I was very young, 
 And my father sold me while yet my tongue 
 Could scarcely cry, " Veep, 'weep ! Veep, 'Aveep ! ** 
 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, anc that very night, 
 As Tom was a sleeping, le had such a sight : 
 
1 4 IN THE WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 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 bad 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 w ar 
 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 receiye 
 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 kissed 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 ChildreD'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 roice. 
 Making all the vales rejoice ; 
 
16 IN THE WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 Little lamb, who made thee ? 
 Dost thou know who made thee ? 
 
 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 liappy, even 
 though he had such beautiful sights before 
 him; many times he was harsh and bitter, 
 ofteuer 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 tnrned wist- 
 fully 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 William Blake, she enters in. 
 
 Eleven o'clock in the Morning. 
 
 That w^as 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-of- 
 doors. I look over the roofs of houses and 
 see churches that rise higher, and from the 
 street below comes the sound of children play- 
 ing 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 
 
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 omni- 
 buses 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 be- 
 neath 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 bnilt tiers of wooden seats, 
 and there came filing in troops of children, 
 who climbed 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 
 Df 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 or- 
 ange 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 piire 
 song rose from 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 
 aeard from great choirs, — Hallelujah I for the 
 Lord God omnipotent reigneth: the Jdngdom oj 
 this world is hecome the hingdom of our Lord and 
 p/ Ws Christ, and He shall reign forever and ever, 
 
20 IN THE WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 King of hings, mid Lord of lords. Hallelujah I 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 sing 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 THUESDAY. 
 
 '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 aa 
 
 snow, 
 Till into the high dome of PauFs 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. 
 
 Kow 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 cliilclren must be siDgiiig to-day. I do 
 not see the churches ; I do not hear the chil- 
 dren playing in the street; I am under the 
 dome of St. Paul's : a mighty Hallelujah is 
 rising. 
 
HENS. 
 
 At CacJcUng-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 my 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 remember a delightful evening 
 when I was out driving by the banks of the 
 Charles Kiver, in Massachusetts. We came to 
 a spot which was hemmed in behind a hill and 
 bounded in front by the river, while on the side 
 was a thick wood ; the place was flat grass- 
 laud, and looked like a small camp. It was, in 
 fact, a camp of hens. Only the most venture- 
 some 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 sun- 
 down, and the hens and crowers had all gone 
 to roost, while those that had broods were 
 
HENS. / 23 
 
 BDiigly 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, ^Ye 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 at- 
 tention 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- 
 
H IJS THE WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 legged. A hen is a gentle-looking creature, 
 and seems to be so foolish that if a carriage is 
 coming 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 away ? I have 
 seen this, and I have read, as, no doubt, some 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 can 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 
 
 The Hour of Bells and Crackers. 
 
 I HAYE 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 graA^el walks. Now that 
 I am grown up, I have a garden four feet 
 long and nine — inches broad; but as the root 
 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 THE WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 Just now, lookiDg" 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 morning- 
 glory 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 
 down ; and here I mean once for all to do jus- 
 tice to the much-abused Rocket-stick, which is 
 always being laughed at and treated contempt- 
 uously, 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. 
 1 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 blos- 
 soms. 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 powder- 
 horn 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 liad 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 Mus- 
 cle, 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 our- 
 selves the rest. At last we came to one por- 
 tion 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 bridle- 
 path 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 A UG 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 strag- 
 gle 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 bob- 
 tails. 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 un- 
 flinchingly 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 heen rainhig 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 him, till he was ready to turn 
 on his heel. So w^e walked along the hilly 
 path, full of sport, when lo ! just as I was call- 
 ing out in my loudest voice, " Bohert ! Robert ! 
 toi que faime/' a veritable bob-cat crossed the 
 path. We all turned to each other and whis- 
 pered emphatically, — " Bob-cat ! " We list- 
 ened — we heard the fellow go crunching 
 through the forest and meaouing in the dis- 
 tance ; we sat on a log, but in vain ; six eyes, 
 he 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 
 camp here in the hut? It could not be more 
 than five uiiles further, two hours of daylight 
 were left, and we surely could get through ; so 
 oif we started again, watching the path care- 
 fully, 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 aucl we always seemed to be 
 just ou 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 rea- 
 soning sagely that the brook was going straight 
 to Saco Kiver, which ran by the road we were 
 making for, we stepped into it and went knee- 
 deep 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 stum- 
 bled 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 
 «ighed out. We stumbled on in the miry dark- 
 
32 IN THE WINDO W-SEAT 
 
 iiess. We halted for Grasshopper to feel tlie 
 path ahead with his feet, when he would hollo 
 to us, and we would go to his voice, letting 
 him start off again on fresh discovery. Fi- 
 nally, not even patient hunting seemed of any 
 avail ; we appeared to he in the path, and yet 
 at its end. We leaned against a fallen tree 
 and took counsel together. Should we follow 
 our compass and push through the woods ? It 
 could not he 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-hark. Little Muscle had some news- 
 paper, 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, 
 ;ind we broke these down, and, after patient 
 hibor, 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 onr 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 ov 
 the corduroy. I slept beautifully on a chip ioif 
 
AN A UG UST 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 pat- 
 tering?" 
 
 " 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 min- 
 utes we were wet through, and so were all our 
 things. We walked ^\q miles by the path, 
 and then came to the road. It rained the rest 
 of the day. We went to bed at Old Craw- 
 ford's, and pushed our clothes outside the 
 door; and in the afternoon I read the news- 
 paper aloud, while Grasshopper mended my 
 trousers beautifully, and Little Muscle went to 
 sleep. 
 
AT CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 Midnight. 
 
 Through the frosty pane, I make out the 
 Bhining" stars, and in the dead of night, when 
 others are sleeping, I keep watch. When one 
 is ont-of-doors in the middle of the night he 
 is surprised to see how differently everything 
 looks, especially in moonlight. The build- 
 ings 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 times to be standing tiptoe or 
 
AT CHRISTMAS TIME. 3* 
 
 the earth, on its extreme outside, and peering 
 up into 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 watch- 
 men 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 be- 
 yond his engine as it dashes through the dark- 
 ness. 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 mind- 
 ing 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 hill- 
 side 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 multi- 
 tude — no man could number them — praised 
 
36 IN THE WINDOW-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 mov- 
 ing along in the distance, His outline growing 
 fainter, was going out into the cold and dark- 
 ness to pray to the Father ? 
 
 '•' 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, 
 Erom 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 clay 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 com- 
 ing, 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, ring- 
 ing out the bright music. High up in the 
 Belfry of Bruges, which rises so lofty above 
 
iO AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 Les Halles in tiie 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 aud hospitals. 
 
THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 41 
 
 with glorious paintings, stand massively by 
 fchemselves, 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 them- 
 selves comfortably as if for a long nap, and a1 
 each door-step a knot of vromen 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, de- 
 cided 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 uutil 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 neg- 
 lected houses to the grand square and to the 
 Belfry itself. There is room enough here to 
 Bee it, but for a good look the houses opposite 
 
42 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 from wliicli our picture was taken by a photog- 
 rapher, are best. Look now at this Belfry 
 tower. It is only ten feet less than three hun- 
 dred 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 para- 
 pet 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 win- 
 dow ; 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 but- 
 tresses, or stone braces, which span the dis- 
 tance between the turrets and the tower. A 
 second stage brings us to the top of the first 
 and original tower, with its four shorter pin- 
 nacles, and so we descend to where it meets 
 the roof of Les Malles ; 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 
 
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 coun- 
 try 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 Bel- 
 gium, 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 ! 
 
14 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 It would not be possible for anyone 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 lists, which are guarded by leathern cover- 
 ings ; and though great force is required, — 
 sometimes being equal to two pounds' weight 
 on each key, — musicians have acquired mar- 
 velous skill in playing" on these colossal instru- 
 ments ; 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 
 3ne 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, accord- 
 ing 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 pro- 
 duced by a lever connected with the comb, as 
 it were. And just as the airs in the musical- 
 box caji be changed, so those in the Belfry can 
 be and are changed, — once a year, I think, — 
 by altering the relation bet^v^een the pegs and 
 the hammers. 
 
 Look out now through the great open case- 
 ment, 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 
 Jie north and northeast. South thirty miles, 
 lies the town of Courtray ; soutlieast is Ghent, 
 twenty-seven miles away, and other smaller 
 towns dot the great field. Below lies the towp 
 of Bruges ; and now we are so far away from 
 aumau voices and to-day's news, that, stand- 
 
46 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 lug 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 Lom- 
 bardy 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 numer- 
 ous 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 littL> law quite so good as a strong 
 irm and sharp weapon, and those who had the 
 
THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 47 
 
 power kept it for their own pleasure. lu the 
 clays of feudalism, the king or emperor claimed 
 to own all beneath him, — 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 em- 
 peror 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 TEE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 irom the Earl the privilege of living peaceabl}* 
 at home. The various towns had a commou 
 interest, and therefore they were leagued to- 
 gether 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 war- 
 making 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 magis- 
 trates, and to manage their own local affairs. 
 More and more these great towns came to be 
 self-dependent. They acknowledged the su- 
 premacy of the earls, but in reality they ruled 
 themselves. They fortified their cities, and 
 built these belfries for watch-towers ; they 
 nung a bell in them to call the citizens to- 
 gether in case of danger, and by various sig 
 nals to give warning or to tell news. 
 
THE SLEEPY OLD TOWN OF BRUGES. 49 
 
 " And hear ye not the hells ? 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. Hotels de Ville they are 
 called, in which the citizens met ; and to have 
 a bell and pnblic hall were among the first 
 privileges which a town demanded in any bar- 
 gain with its lord. Thus it was that the belfry 
 was at once a servant of the town, and a con- 
 stant 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 fel- 
 lows treat with that lord almost as an equal. 
 As the towns grew stronger, they grew more 
 self-reliant, and more proud, too, of the com- 
 monwealths 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 oe too magnifi- 
 cent for their wealth, nor too grand to show 
 
so AT THE STUDY-TABLE. 
 
 their pride : they were tlie 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 them- 
 selves 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 as- 
 sembly of all the burghers to compel him. 
 Any one ringing the towu-bell, except by gen- 
 eral 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 kep/ 
 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 be- 
 tween them, fierce rivalry of trade and blood, 
 each town seeking to ruin its neighbor wdiile 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, possess- 
 ing 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 muttfdl 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 shrew^dly 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 Eng- 
 land, and, passing to America, established 
 itself so firmly that every shock felt here 
 makes sorrowful the friends of liberty in 
 Europe. 
 
 We have 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 may 
 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 Bel- 
 fry'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 after- 
 ward, — though to this day the Dragon can be 
 seen twinkling in the distance upon the Belfry 
 of Ghent. The town of Bruges is sleepy in- 
 deed, 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 BATTJLE 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 
 Frauce ; 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 Eng- 
 land, 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 clej)ot for the Mediterranean 
 trade in the north, it was the Exchange of the 
 greafc mercantile countries. So, whenever 
 there was a rumble of war in Europe, Flan- 
 ders looked two ways at once. Its Counts 
 sided with France, if she was strong, or re- 
 belled against her, if she was weak, while the 
 wary Burghers looked more carefully to Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Thus it happened, that at the beginning of 
 the fourteenth century, when a great change 
 was taking place in the life of Europe, Flan- 
 ders 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 com- 
 mon cause with them, and by a trick got pos- 
 session of the Count and shut him up in Paris. 
 At the same time he sent an army to protect 
 Flanders, which meaut, to protect Flemish 
 riches from going anywhere except into the 
 French king's pocket. The governor ap- 
 pointed by Philip was his queen's uncle, Chat- 
 illon, who at once began governing the coun- 
 try after the fashion of those days, not for the 
 
56 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 benefit of the couDtry but of the governor. 
 He took from the burghers the power which 
 they had been using of managing pubhc af- 
 fairs, and then laid a heavy tax upon the work- 
 men of the cities. This was a very different 
 state of things from what the towns of Flan- 
 ders 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 giv- 
 ing 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. Espe- 
 cially the craftsmen began to move, the rich 
 burghers being more cautious by fear of losing 
 their property. 
 
 The first outbreak arose from Chttillon inso- 
 lently casting into prison certain deputies who 
 had appeared in behalf of the trades to com- 
 plain 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 into the struggle and hegan 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 pur- 
 pose, 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. 
 
 fciuued ; twelve hundred knights and two thou- 
 sand foot-soldiers fell, and Ch^tillon had to 
 ride for his life. 
 
 Everything now was at stake. These men 
 of Bruges had flown at the French power. 
 Could the popular rising become a national re- 
 sistance ? 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 from 
 compulsion, Ypres, Men port, Berghes, Furnes 
 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 inso- 
 lent 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 Flemings 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 ; tliat is, the communion was par- 
 taken 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, pro- 
 posed at first to flank them. The proud 
 knights, thinking it almost disgraceful to be 
 fighting at all with these low tradesmen, fol- 
 lowed 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 canal- 
 ditch, 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 re- 
 ceive 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 victori- 
 ous 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 no- 
 bility, 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 after- 
 ward, when the French defeated the Flemings 
 in another battle, they were eager to take 
 iown these trophies of their former disgrace. 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Walter Scott, the roost celebrated story- 
 teller 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 boun- 
 dary, 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 be- 
 gan to try the withered leg, to stand upon it, 
 then to walk, and finally, to run ; and so, al- 
 though 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 lABLL. 
 
 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 com- 
 panions 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 coun- 
 try, with its ravines and passes, had been the 
 scene of perpetual conflict between neighbor- 
 ing 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 to- 
 gether, 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 gen- 
 erous love, which every hearty Scotsman or 
 Scotswoman could draw from, for the amuse- 
 ment and instruction of children. One could 
 not take his stand anywhere in field or on hill- 
 top, without having his eye fall on some spot 
 which had its story, told in the homely, pictur 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 63 
 
 esque dialect of tlie people ; and every one 
 told aud listened to the stories about men who 
 bad died years before, as if they themseives 
 had been actors in the scenes. 
 
 It was in this country, and amoug these 
 people, that Walter passed his childhood and 
 boyhood, rambling everywhere, listening- to 
 every one, seeing everything, and putting all 
 away in his great roomy 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 ; lie 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 be 
 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 wild- 
 ness 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 hig 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 65 
 
 compauions 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 dil- 
 igently as if he were engaged in the lighter 
 task of writing' a letter to his chosen friend, 
 William Clerk. His good sense and straight- 
 forward honesty led him into habits of industry 
 and close application, which were of inestima- 
 ble 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 al- 
 most 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 liv^e 
 as he could not by his profession, for which he 
 had no strong liking, and now his taste for lit- 
 erature became more fixed ; it w^as evident to 
 himself, before it was to his friends, that writ- 
 ing 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 knowl- 
 edge, 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 es- 
 pecially books of romance, was his chief busi- 
 ness. 
 
 There followed in succession the poems : 
 '' Marmion," " Lady of the Lake," " Vision 
 i»f Don Roderick," " Rokeby," " Lord of the 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 67 
 
 Ihsles ; " 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, ^' Waver- 
 ley," grew out of the same great fund of ma- 
 terial which had been accumulating in Scott's 
 mind ; but it was in his own eyes a more haz- 
 ardous proceeding to publish it, than it had 
 been to publish " The Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel." 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 in 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 man turning out such a prodigious 
 amount of work, that there was a stout dis- 
 cussion 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 con- 
 stantly 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 3 
 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 ex- 
 cept to make the present pass quickly ; — but 
 we will let him tell his story : — 
 
 "After carousing for an hour or more, I ob- 
 served 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 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 69 
 
 now it won't let nie fill my glass with a good 
 will.' I rose to cliange places with him ac- 
 cordingly, 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 g'oes 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 so- 
 ciety.' — ' 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 vol- 
 umes of ' Waverley.' Would that all who 
 that night watched it, had profited by its ex- 
 ample of diligence as largely as William Men- 
 zies ! " 
 
 As Scott's popularity rose with each suc- 
 cessive novel, so his prosperity increased, and 
 be 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. 
 
 wliich should be his own, and, like the houses 
 of his ancestors, be the gathering place of all 
 his friends and kinsmen, where he could dis- 
 play a hospitality as broad as his generous 
 nature desired ; and where, too, he could re- 
 alize 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 Abbots- 
 ford, 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. Here 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 ? 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 Ballan- 
 tyne, who was a printer at Kelso. He induced 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 71 
 
 him to come to Ediiiburgli, and used his in- 
 fluence 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 w^as in effect a partner of his in a great 
 and growing business. Scott wrote the books 
 which Ballantyue printed, and his mighty in- 
 dustry 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? But over confi- 
 dence, 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 es- 
 cape the obligation laid upon him by the failure 
 of Ballantyue, 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 
 aonor forbade him to disregard. He was to 
 
72 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 roll off a load of five hundred thousand dol- 
 lars. Look at this man ! nearly sixty years of 
 age, " lonely, aged, dejjrived of my family — 
 all but poor Anne," as he writes, when fast 
 folloAving 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 fail- 
 ing 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 
 Ufe. 
 
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 
 nad 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 sing- 
 ing, 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 biud 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 coarse. 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 w hereon they rest. Me only would she 
 have to hear their song. But tie me wdth 
 stuhborn ties that I may stay fast hound, 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 iu turn ; while 
 I was yet speaking, our good ship, flying for- 
 ward, 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 iu 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 hound me hand and 
 foot, erect upon the mast-frame, with the ropes 
 well knotted to the mast. Again tliej 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 
 from 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^ whatso- 
 ever Cometh to life in all the springing earth." 
 
 These were the words borne on their heav- 
 enly 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 Seireus uor the melody of their 
 voices, my trusty comrades drew out the wax 
 with which I had estopped their ears and 
 loosed me from mv fetters. 
 
FRANCIS HUBER. 
 
 There is an old familiar story called " Eyes 
 and no Eyes/' which tells how two hoys, who 
 had each a good pair of eyes, took the same 
 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 remark- 
 able 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 ? 
 
 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, and he cared so 
 much for study and reading, that he very un- 
 wisely 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 
 
^%^: 
 
 ->.^- 
 
FRANCIS HUBER. 79 
 
 of the mooD, 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 sleep- 
 ing 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. Be- 
 fore 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 mar- 
 riage. Huber, in despair, used all the remain- 
 
80 AT THE STUDY TABLE. 
 
 ing* light in his eyes to get such a vivid knowl- 
 edge 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 helieviug 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 twen- 
 ty-five, the law allowed her freedom, she 
 married Huber, and thenceforth was insepar- 
 able from him, reading to him, writing for 
 him, and, most of all, observing for him. 
 
 For this was 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 
 
 fcific world, and have never been proved false. 
 He bad his wife, he had also a sagacious and 
 devoted servant, named Francis Burn ens, and 
 finally his son Pierre grew up to observe for 
 him, and to become himself famous for his 
 study of ants. Ruber's life in the country had 
 made him fond of Natural History, and his in- 
 terest had been increased by reading ; more- 
 over, he had a neighbor named Charles Bon- 
 net, 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. Ruber's mind became intensely 
 occupied with this subject. Re 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 Ru- 
 ber once said, smiling, to a brother naturalist, 
 " I am much more certain of what I state 
 
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 dif- 
 ferent people brought to him. " He discov- 
 ered," for instance, says one of his friends, 
 "that the nuptials, so mysterious and so re- 
 markably 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 coniSrmed, 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 
 3are 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 
 much more, is recited as the discovery of Hu- 
 ber. 
 
 Now who saw all this, Francis Burnens or 
 Francis Huher? Bees had been seen by peas- 
 ants ever since the world began, and yet Hu- 
 ber, who had no eyes, was the first really to 
 see them. Burnens was indefatigable in fol- 
 lowing 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 grow- 
 ing 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 uiade 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 to- 
 gether. 
 
 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 know- 
 ing; 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, two 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, rat- 
 tle, whistle, bells, penny trumpet, and drum. 
 Each of these instruments has its appointed 
 part, and a good interpreter of the music fan- 
 cies 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 
 ^very orchestra has its faults, thougli few main* 
 
58 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 fcain 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 enjoy- 
 ment ; 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 Pro- 
 fessor's daughters that there was an entire 
 mould of ice-cream left, which could not pos- 
 sibly 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. He noticed the stringed instru- 
 ments 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 be- 
 hind him and stood upon the step outside, but- 
 toning 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 button- 
 hole of his coat and looked up at the witching 
 eight. 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 pos- 
 sess, 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. 
 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 be- 
 come so entirely absorbed in the contemplation 
 of the delightful nature of sound, as he stood 
 thus watching the moon, that when he sud- 
 denly and fervently uttered this wish, he had 
 his wish granted. No sooner had he spoken 
 the word than he was conscious of a remark- 
 
TEE 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 w^hich 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 
 usi'jg his faculties so far as they could be used 
 when the senses were gone, — with this addi- 
 tion, 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 up- 
 right upon the door-step, was drawn involun- 
 tarily 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. In- 
 deed, 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 music-writer's brain and found life through 
 the medium of his instrument, they were like 
 a great multitude of people, each with a separ- 
 ate temperament. But the student was only 
 dimly conscious of their presence, since he also 
 was a sound, and like them had existence with- 
 out sense. He diifered 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 mo- 
 ment 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 
 a 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 
 snough, 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 the 
 picture. 
 
 " I must confess," said he, naturally fastidi- 
 ous 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 dispropor- 
 tionate 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 re- 
 membered that he was in a sick-room. His 
 eyes and ears were, in fact, all that he was 
 Ijjarticular about, especially as he cousideret' 
 
94 WREN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 fcliat lie 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 be- 
 fore he had known to be present by a sort of 
 attraction to them, he now was able to distin- 
 guish. 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 per- 
 sonality, 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 comple- 
 ment. It is the aspiration of all such, driven 
 out of the mind where they had been first wel- 
 comed, to return again to their old haunts ; 
 nor do they obtain rest until they achieve 
 their purpose. Perhaps for months or even 
 vears they wander desolately about, separated 
 tftch from the dimidium animce suw, yet do 
 they sometimes receive a fresh welcome ; what 
 
THE MUSIC PARTY. 95 
 
 wonder then, that reaclQiittecl, 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 per- 
 sonages 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 in- 
 closed 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 stu- 
 dent, 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 lack- 
 ing 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, light- 
 hearted ones. A deep-mouthed one would 
 start from the rendezvous on the violoncello 
 and go rumbling through the air, meeting 
 some fellow from the lower keys of the piano, 
 and they w^ould move in company ; on their 
 way they w^ould fall in with a delicate, gossa- 
 mer-clad sound from the violin, journeying 
 with one like a silver hell in note from the 
 upper keys of the piano. They went mostly 
 in pairs, hut 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 them- 
 selves 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 cir- 
 cled 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 per- 
 
 7 
 
eS 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 en- 
 tered a cabinet picture by Lambdin of a little 
 girl sewing. Ail 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 re- 
 fined perceptions as sounds have would not 
 have been altogether agreeable ; but their as- 
 pirations 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 dif- 
 ficulty, for though his sound-nature held sway, 
 bis soul-nature made feeble protest, thinking 
 fco itself; " I am denying myself! " 
 
THE MUSIC PARTY. 9& 
 
 " 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 every- 
 thing that goes on in the room." 
 
 " Hurrah ! hurrah ! on ! charge ! " 
 
 " What's that ? what's that P " asked the 
 student. " 1 know that voice." 
 
 " It's only 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 be- 
 fore 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 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 iug, and, for a wonder, we are all together 
 still; I propose that we now celebrate onr 
 good fortune." 
 
 " That pleases me/' said the sound that in- 
 habited the portrait of the Professor's grand- 
 father, " 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 stu- 
 dent's neighbor. "Have you no manners? 
 That was a good suggestion. Let us take 
 turns and let the sound that proposed it, be- 
 ing 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 
 «ill ; his lot was humble though he came of 
 g'ood 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 recollec- 
 tion 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 th€ 
 
THE MUSIC PARTY. 101 
 
 portrait of Mozart was now called upon and 
 fclius spoke ; — 
 
 " There was a child that was a dwarf. His 
 fatlier had cast him aside hnt his mother loved 
 him slill. He was the first-born and had his 
 father's face, but most his mother's. Then fol- 
 lowed 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 nar- 
 row 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 
 RS 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 dis- 
 tinct, and so all were satisfied. The student 
 also heard one, and this also was to him as au 
 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. brave sword ! has it cut 
 these two ? wait and see. 
 
 " Then comes the battle. How the sword 
 fares ! how the enemy fall ! 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 
 fou began all over again." 
 
 " Is not our turn come ? " asked the chil* 
 
THE MUSIC PARTY. 103 
 
 dren-soiinds, and then tliey told amusing 
 stories : one of how he was overturned in a 
 sleigh ; another of going bird's nesting ; an- 
 other 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 appro- 
 priate. 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 
 tvorst 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, astouislied at the coincidence 
 of the other stories with fancies which he him- 
 self had at some time possessed, was more 
 amazed, even to agitation, upon hearing this 
 little song. His memory, which had heen ex- 
 cited almost to a human state, assured him 
 that the very words had heen composed hy him 
 that evening, during- the performance of one of 
 the pieces. His mind, affected hy all these 
 thoughts, was no longer passive ; it struggled 
 with his sound-nature, and a sad and perplex- 
 ing contest arose. His agitation must have 
 been* apparent, for his neighbor, who had fre- 
 quently 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 con- 
 nection, I find, and there is something peculiar 
 about his nature which makes me desire to 
 know more." At this the student-sound could 
 no long'er restrain himself, and more to him- 
 self than to the rest, gave expression to his 
 disturbed consciousness : — 
 
 " I am," he said, " from the Septuor of Bee- 
 thoven, 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 com- 
 pleter 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 nie. It is as if I had 
 been in turn each who has spoken or sung. I 
 know not why, I am not happj. I feel or- 
 phaned ; 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 satis- 
 fied." So he slipped out of the figure in the 
 Death-bed of Calvin which he had occupied — • 
 the syndic with the handsome leg — and es- 
 sayed to reach the violin. But ther^ was 
 movement elsewhere also. The various sounds 
 that had contributed to the evening's merry- 
 making, upon hearing the student's voice, 
 recognized, as his neighbor from the first had 
 done, a presence toward which they were 
 drawn. His 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 per- 
 fection 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 ana the music receiver's mind ; and it 
 was the dim recollection of having given birth 
 to these fancies that now so perplexed the hap- 
 less 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 at- 
 tracted 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 unat- 
 tainable. His sound-nature was too control- 
 ling 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 de- 
 graded 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 
 Boul grew more and more conscious of ita 
 
108 WHEN MUSIC IS BEARD. 
 
 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 — 1 
 had larger life. I lived in a student. I was 
 not thus beaten about, homeless and unsatis- 
 fied. 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 fer- 
 vent 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 congre- 
 gation of sounds within praying to be allowed 
 to accompany it. Fragments of melodies en- 
 tered for a moment the soul, but were not re- 
 tained. Doubtless these followed still, long 
 after it was conscious of their presence. It- 
 self, as before, found its way through the key 
 
THE MUSIC PARTY. 109 
 
 hole, aucl entered as mysteriously as it had left 
 the body of the student, which was standing 
 upright on the door-step, the right hand but- 
 toning the upper button of the great-coat, 
 while the head was turned upward toward the 
 moon. 
 
 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 lias 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 com- 
 mon to look with distrust upon precocious chil- 
 dren, 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 mu- 
 sician was plainly an exception to these ex- 
 amples ; 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 of 
 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 Arch- 
 bishop of Salzburg, a town lying between 
 Munich and Vienna. He was an educated 
 
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART. HI 
 
 mail, 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. Ac- 
 cordingly, he was in the service of the Arch- 
 bishop, and occupied the position of Hof- Kap- 
 ellmeister, 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 pound- 
 ing to bring some sound out ; for he was 
 pained by discords, and would only strike har- 
 moniously. Indeed, scarcely had he begun to 
 express himself like other intelligent children, 
 Dy words and meaning actions, before he 
 showed that he had much music in him that 
 
112 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 would come out. He would catch quickly 
 what was played to him, and play it correctly 
 himself; he would even iuvent 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 hand, he 
 would insist that the playthings should he 
 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 say- 
 ing No, his eyes would fill with tears. 
 
 There was one other study besides music 
 which took hold of him, and that was arith- 
 metic. The floors, and walls, and chairs, and 
 tables were covered with figures which the im- 
 pulsive 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 
 eould teach him nothing, for whatever they 
 
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART. 113 
 
 told him of music, that he seemed to know 
 already. Nevertheless the ho}' studied hard, 
 practicing and composing, and led a happy 
 life between his clavier, his jSgures, and his 
 childish plays ; they all seemed to be the same 
 thing. When he was seated at the instru- 
 ment 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, w^hen 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 w^orld 
 how w^onderful 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 i^lace, 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 them to the knowl- 
 edge of such persons as would be likely to 
 notice and help them. They took short jour- 
 neys first, to Munich and Vienna, and encour- 
 aged by the great attention which they re- 
 
114 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 ceived, tliey set out on a tonr which occupied 
 them three years, duriug which they visited 
 Paris and Loudon, and travelled through Ger- 
 many, Holland, France, and Switzerland, the 
 father all the while carefully educating his 
 children. On this tour the children per- 
 formed wherever there was a court, — Wolf- 
 gang playing the clavier, the organ, and the 
 violin ; singing, playing, and composing ex- 
 tempore ; 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 do- 
 ing 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 be- 
 fore a gentleman who tells how " While play- 
 ing 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 snuff- 
 boxes, 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 jeal- 
 ousy 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, in order that, when they were asked 
 about him, they might say, " 0, we have 
 never heard him ; we do not wish to encour- 
 age a mountebank," knowing very well that 
 they could not thus speak of him after hear- 
 ing 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 friend 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 ox* 
 
116 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 pressious of admiration he used, confirmed all 
 that I have stated above. He ended by sayings 
 ' 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 compos- 
 ing, 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 vis- 
 ited 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 
 ivonderful music, and sufl'ering no trials oi 
 
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART. 117 
 
 rexatious to drive liim from freely using* the 
 gift which God had bestowed upon him. But 
 at twenty-five he was called to Munich to com- 
 pose 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 mauhood, produced in this opera some- 
 thing new ; for though other operas had been 
 wa-itten .before it, this, w^ritten in a few weeks, 
 is the " basis of all the music of our day." 
 It brought him friends, and filled the young 
 composer wdth high hope of a future career, 
 unchecked by the petty tyranny of the Arch- 
 bishop of Salzburg. " I should rejoice," he 
 writes to his father at this time, " were I to 
 be told that my services were no longer re- 
 quired ; for with the great patronage that I 
 have here, both my present and future circum- 
 stances \vould be secure, death excepted, wdiich 
 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 try- 
 ing" 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 tc 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 citv. Mozart obeyed the sum- 
 mons, 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 
 musician led, though he were a man of divine 
 genius, when we read in one of Mozart's let- 
 ters, written just after reaching Vienna : " Our 
 party consists of the two valets, the comp- 
 troller, 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 grav- 
 ity, and when I have dined I go away." To 
 be reckoned by the Archbishop as a fit com- 
 panion 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 
 eomrade. 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 ser- 
 vice. 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 washes, 
 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 plung- 
 ing 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 fan- 
 ciful and sweet play, "- The Magic Flute," and 
 his symphonies that flow like changing streams 
 through woods and sunlit fields, — were pro- 
 ducts of this period. His life was brimming 
 with music and social pleasure. Care and 
 anxiety indeed came upon him; with manhood 
 be left ofi:' some of his youthful exuberance of 
 spirit, and until the end he seemed always at 
 odds with riches, never free from petty embar- 
 rassment, but more than once there is an April 
 
120 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 isceiie of Sim and rain chasing one another in 
 his familiar letters. Listen to him as he acids 
 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 de- 
 licious they are Adieu, my dearest, 
 
 sweetest wife ! Be careful of your health, and 
 do not go into the towai on foot. Write to me 
 how you like your new quarters. Adieu ! I 
 send you a million kisses ! " And again in an- 
 other 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 
 uame the person who ordered it. Mozart ac- 
 cepted 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.'^ Tliere was some- 
 thing 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 cer- 
 tain count to get possession of this " Re- 
 quiem," and to pass himself off as the com- 
 poser. 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 biog- 
 rapher, "he expressed, in never-dying power- 
 ful 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 tne deep peni- 
 
J 22 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 tence of his lieart 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 deli- 
 cate organs of his bodily frame were already 
 fast decaying, so that even his cherished canary 
 was obliged to be taken out of the room, be- 
 cause the invalid could no longer bear its sing- 
 ing." 
 
 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 him- 
 belf and others, from which we know some- 
 
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART. 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 sij^ ! He 
 was music itself, ever youthful, — full of heav- 
 enly harmony. 
 
THE EETURN 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 fool- 
 ish ; 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 hap- 
 pened 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 ? 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 interest- 
 ing 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 Wil- 
 low; "I can't dry my tears so suddenly for 
 
126 WHEN MUSIC IS HEARD. 
 
 every strolliug player that chooses to pipe for 
 me." 
 
 " It is UDdignijfied to dance," said the Pop- 
 lar. " 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 be- 
 gan 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, wliicb 
 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 w^as 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 
 otlierwise," 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 joy- 
 ous '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 heen sung, a new dance had 
 been led, and when all was at the height Or- 
 pheus fled; but the world was young again. 
 Will it ever be different ? 
 
BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
«AS GOOD AS A PLAY* 
 
 There was quite a row of tliem on the man- 
 tel-piece. The J were all facing* front, and it 
 looked as if they had come out of the wall be- 
 hind, and were on their little stage facing the 
 audience. There was the bronze monk read- 
 ing a book by the light of a candle, who had a 
 private opening under his girdle, so that some- 
 times 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 
 vas 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-wdper. 
 
 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 Au- 
 dience 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? — you know." 
 It was the Parian girl that he spoke to, but he 
 did not look at her ; he could not, he was lean- 
 ing 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 am 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 jon? 
 Fifty years old, too ! That would indeed be a 
 match ! " 
 
 " Marry ! " muttered the bronze Monk-read- 
 ing-a-book. " A match ! 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-read- 
 ing-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, excej)t 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- m ad e-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 stead- 
 fast Boy-leaning-against-a-greyliound, " 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-a- 
 greyhound. 
 
 " Ah ! " came another sigh, — it was from 
 the China - girl - rising-out-of - a-pen-wiper, — 
 " how I pity you." 
 
 "Do you?" said he, eagerly. "Do you? 
 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'm fifty years old. I never 
 saw them." 
 
 " Never mind the Cat." said the Boy-leaning- 
 against- a-greyhound . 
 
"AS GOOD AS A PLAY." 135 
 
 " But I do miud the Cat," said she, weeping. 
 " I haveu't. It's all pen-wiper." 
 
 "Do I care?" said he. 
 
 " She has thoughts," said the bronze Monk- 
 reading-a-book. "That lasts longer than 
 beauty. And she is solid behind." 
 
 "And she has 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. " JSTever mind, 
 go on, my dear," — to the Parian girl. " What ! 
 nothing to say? 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 - of - 
 worsted. " 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-of- 
 worsted never stopped grinning. The Audi- 
 ence 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. 
 
 Ii^^ the White Mountain district of New 
 England, high up among the hills, is a little 
 valley, so retired that scarce any but 'enthusi- 
 astic 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, hut 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 night- 
 fall, with only one or two twinkling lights in 
 the one or two houses, and the white road mak- 
 ing 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, 
 ftud feeling the forest close behind one, as if 
 
138 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 shuttiug out forever the light of day aud 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 house and ploughed 
 field and fences to be inhabited by the squir- 
 rels, or perchance by bears and bob-cats. So 
 it had remained for several years. The forest, 
 seeing no one about, began by degrees to re- 
 sume its claim to the land which had been 
 forcibly taken from it. First the little trees 
 
THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL. 139 
 
 same 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 wood- 
 path. 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 w^as 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 
 Bhivering soul. 
 
 But why was this battered mariner ending 
 his days in such forlorn fashion, and what mis- 
 
140 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 erable fortune drove liim to this lonely spot ? 
 An idle reason indeed : but nothing better 
 could old Daniel answer, than that in this 
 valley he was born and here he spent his child- 
 hood ; 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 he 
 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 he elsewhere. He went to the 
 window and looked out, shading his face with 
 his hands. Nothing to be seen ; it was all 
 black, and thei'e was no sign of faithful Lion. 
 
THE ENCHANTMENT 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 dis- 
 mal. 0, this is a doleful New Year's Eve. It 
 don't look as if the new year were going to be 
 much 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 weather- 
 beaten, 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 leaf- 
 less 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 shij) of silver, crescent' 
 shaped, without mast or sails or rudder, aud 
 yet floating ou the air, close by the hoary- 
 headed mariner. 
 
 " Come ! sail with us, Daniel," he heard from 
 a voice, and wondering, but nothing loth, old 
 Daniel stepped aboard and aw^ay 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 to- 
 gether ; 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 do- 
 ing? Wonderful works they were at, to be 
 sure, for, looking behind, Daniel saw a bright 
 train of them, reaching over the ship's side 
 =ind receiving from little hands glittering balls 
 
THE ENCHANTMENT OF OLD DANIEL. 143 
 
 of every hue ; they tossed them as if in merry 
 Bport, and a shower of the balls shot across the 
 silver ship. But beyond in the prow was an- 
 other 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 tog^ether, 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 througli the 
 air, as if they, too, were glad. 
 
144 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 '' Wliat house shall we live in, Daniel ? " 
 asked jSTeonetta, 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 Neo- 
 netta'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 "[^luck the boughs and shake 
 off the sweet fruit that grows on the ever- 
 green. 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 de- 
 scended 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 ont 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 wdth me out of my 
 silver ship," and she reached her hand to him. 
 He looked around : the shining fairies had 
 vanished, but Neouetta was by him. He looked 
 once more. Neonetta was gone, and at tlio 
 same moment vanished the silver ship. Old 
 Daniel sprang up. It was dark about him, bnt 
 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 cres- 
 cent 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 barren- 
 ness, here were fair trees, laden with white 
 foliage, their boughs weighed down with the 
 heavy white fruit. He turned and looked be- 
 hind 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 
 
HQ BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 aroiiud, like a great company of beautiful 
 niaicleiis 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 soiJ, 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 Neo- 
 netta, 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, 
 RS it has come ever since I can 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 otner 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, w^as like 
 a tall man wdth an old-fashioned hat on. It 
 stood in a dignified sort of way, as if it re- 
 spected 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 pri- 
 vate cap, w^iich 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-han- 
 dle, and read Fkome 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 pri- 
 vate 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 bras? 
 head on each iron spike, and they stood in a 
 
THE NEIGHBORS. 149 
 
 row, glciriiig- at one like a squad of policemeD, 
 saying', " Keep your hands oflF tlie house, if 
 they're not clean ! " 
 
 It seems very strange, then, that upon one 
 side of this house the windows shouhl 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 di- 
 rectly opposite the blinds, at which they stared 
 all daylong, 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, sliort- 
 uecked 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 
 ^he rest of the house-front. Regular rows of 
 windows occujned the front and side, looking 
 as if they had all been sawed out after the 
 house was made. There was no fence in front ; 
 but the fence that separated it from the neigh- 
 '^or 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 — Gkash. So Mr. Grash lived 
 here. 
 
 At the time when our story hegins there was 
 no light in Mr. Frome's house, hut in a win- 
 dow 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. Neverthe- 
 less, 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 
 Crash'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, re- 
 flecting*. " 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 P 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. Crash's Cat had other thoughts. He 
 spoke again, — 
 
 " I say, does she ever leave the cover off? " 
 
 '' The cover ? " 
 
 '^ 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 
 Eoldlj, "and we don't keep it in the jard." 
 
 " Don't tell me ! precious fine you are with 
 your wall hehind, 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, 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 laud ? and if your house 
 happened to stand so near, say, was that our 
 fault? and if your windows looked into ours 
 on one side, say, 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 ? " 
 
^ THE NEIGHBORS. 153 
 
 '' Nay, hear me, friend Grasli. We built our 
 house iirst 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 kind, but you wouki not sell, and said you 
 liad 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 un- 
 generous ; it was more, it was wicked ! " and 
 Mr. Frome's Cat hekl up his paw and looked 
 the other way. 
 
 " 0, ! " snarled Mr. Grash's Cat, " and 
 you are the upright, honest neighbor that went 
 to law about it, and tried your best to impov- 
 erish us, and then offered to buy our house — 
 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, neigh- 
 bor," said Mr. Frome's Cat, getting up in 
 great excitement and standing on the very 
 3dge of the slippery roof. " But, dear ! " he 
 
154 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 said, as his feet sank in the cold snow, " here 
 we are qnarreling again over this old matter," 
 and he returned to his shelter hy the window. 
 " Do, pray, let us leave this horrid subject. 
 What a charming night ! " 
 
 Mr. Frome'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 ? 0, 
 how grand you feel ! " 
 
 " You're hungry, friend," said Mr. Frome's 
 Cat, soothingly. " Come, let us see what we 
 can find." 
 
 " And well I may be," retorted the other 
 fiercely, " with your high wall — ! " 
 
 "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 dis- 
 tance 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 be- 
 tween the two houses. Mr. Frome's Cat sa\i 
 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. 
 G rash'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. 
 
 ^' dear! " said a nervous voice, " 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 ; " Shu, 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 
 Bteam-engine, puffing at his work, and pitch- 
 ing the snow into the street with regular 
 tosses, while every now and then he would 
 
156 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 stop, as if the iireinaii to the eiig-ine had 
 opened a valve, and was to let oW a little more 
 steam first. This was Tommy Frome, who 
 w^as clearing the sidewalk in front of his 
 father's house, while his little brother and 
 sister watched him from 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 dis- 
 agreeably, 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 ofp his India-rubber boots. Tommy 
 Frome entered the dining-room, blowing great 
 
THE NEIGHBORS. 157 
 
 olasts on liis nose, which was as reel 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. 
 
 " 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 hib 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 stiek 
 at them. What makes them call him Grash- 
 away? " 
 
 " Because he's so cross," said Tom ; " and he 
 had no business to build his house where he 
 (lid — had he, father?" 
 
 "Do," said Jack ; " add I bead to burd it 
 dowd sub dight." 
 
 " I guess that will burn ours pretty quick, 
 j^oungster," said his older brother. 
 
 " W^ell, 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 Mar- 
 tha's to-day ? " 
 
 " Me ! " said three had grammarians in one 
 voice. So they fell to talking about Aunt Mar- 
 tha the rest of breakfast time, but- Mr. Frome 
 said little. He felt uncomfortably ; and, when 
 breakfast was over, ^le 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 quar- 
 rel 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 
 tlje 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 
 
 fou is born this day, in tlie 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 man- 
 ger." 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. 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. Frome'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 sufiering 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 ut- 
 tered the words, " Forgive us our debts as we 
 
160 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 forgive our debtors," did poor Mr. Fronie'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? " 
 
 " And do ask how Mrs. Grash is, John," 
 said Mrs. Frome, looking very much pleased. 
 " I saw the doctor's chaise at the door yester- 
 day, 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 gen- 
 tleman ? I want you to come with me and see 
 Mr. Grash." 
 
 " O 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 hiuig back a minute more, and then, see- 
 ing* his father waiting, he ran out and pnlled 
 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. Frome was flustered a mo- 
 ment. He had expected to ring the door-bell, 
 and he had not collected his thoug'hts yet. 
 
 "Eh! ah!" said he; "0, 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 jour wife? — You know — 
 the doctor said he'd come again — he hasn't 
 come yet — do you see him? " and Mr. Grash 
 looked anxiously down the street. 
 
 " Why, what — ! 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. 
 
 Graph's. Tell lier Mrs. Grasli lias a little bo}', 
 Mr. Grasli, I wish you jo}^ most heartily." 
 
 ''Why, didn't you know it?" asked Mr. 
 Grasli, looking amazed. 
 
 " I ought to have known it, being your 
 nearest neighbor, Grasli, but really — I — I 
 was coming to wish you a merry Christmas," 
 said Mr. Fronie, turning a little redder, " and 
 I thought it would not be merry to me unless 
 I wiped out old scores." 
 
 " Well, now," said Mr. Grasli, " I'm glad to 
 hear you say so, for last night, as I was watch- 
 ing 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. Fronie," 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. Fronie 
 
 — 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 singingr 
 Bongs." 
 
 At this moment back came Tommy with his 
 
THE 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 some- 
 thing 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." 
 
 " 0, I thought it was a girl," said Sally, a 
 ittle bit disappointed. " Well, never mind," 
 
164 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 slie spoke up quite cheerfully; "I've got twc 
 brothers, aud 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 w^as a 
 high wall, shutting in the yard. A gate 
 opened in it, but it was closed, and by it out- 
 side 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. J 
 wish the wall were not so high." 
 
 " Don't speak of the high wall, my dear 
 
TEE NEIGHBORS. 165 
 
 frieud, 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 tlie gar« 
 den 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 gen- 
 erally 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. 107 
 
 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 ? It has a very serious task be- 
 fore it. It takes a great deal to make an ap- 
 ple. 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 ? " 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 conver- 
 sation. 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 apple- 
 tree ; and after the blossoms came just two 
 apples, for the other four blossoms came to 
 nothing. Two rosy apples ! the little tree was 
 fery 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, aud 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 down the 
 garden. A hen just then laid an egg nndei 
 the hedge, and was off telling her neighbors. 
 " Now that hen made an Qgg,"" 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 ap- 
 ples at 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 mel- 
 low ? " 
 
 " I can't yet feel very warm," said the Other, 
 " but then the sun is not very high. How de- 
 lightful 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. 1G9 
 
 gin to think that we have made a little mis- 
 take, and that there is something besides get- 
 ting 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? what is your secret P " 
 
 " It is not easily told," said One, mysteri- 
 ously, " but you shall hear something. Yes- 
 terday 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 con- 
 fess. ' 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 haye been 
 waiting for you some time on the grass below, 
 hoping some w^indy day you might fall off and 
 come to see me, for it is very hard work climb- 
 ing 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 ? " 
 
 " Not see him ! has he gone then ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said One, bursting out with it ; 
 " he has gone in ! he has gone in ! " 
 
 " Gone in ! " 
 
 " You know I told you I thought Tid was 
 standing on his head; so he was; and he be- 
 gan to make a little hole in me, not far from 
 the stem, 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 
 notliing 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 
 tickhng! 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 ! T just hear him talking to him- 
 self. 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 w4iile. I came just at the 
 right time. The apple and I will get ripe to- 
 gether. I shall go on, too, after picking-time 
 comes.' There ! do yc^ 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 he ? 
 and suppose he leaves nothing but your skin ? " 
 
 " All I know is," said One sharply, " that I 
 get a new delight all the w^hile, 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 be- 
 seech 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 do 
 not do anything to get ripe. They just hang 
 and hang. I could haug, but should I be the 
 better for that ? Seems to me if they were to 
 gejb 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 exceed- 
 ingly weak." 
 
 " Cheer up, cheer ip ! " said the Other. 
 " We must be quite ripe now ; we shall soon 
 be picked and put in a basket." 
 
 " Ah ! you are very w ell ; 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 canuot tell wdiy, but I 
 feel very disagreeably. Somehow all the pleas- 
 ure 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 thiuk ? May 
 1 pick them ? " asked Rob. 
 
 " Well, Master Rob," said he, " you'll not 
 get two ; one is all worm-eaten, but t'other isj 
 \ 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 
 jiway ; he snuiFed 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, hokling 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 ? " 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 bas- 
 ket?" 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 ? 
 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. 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. 
 
 " What's this ? " said Tid. " We were all 
 living peaceably. What have you been doing 
 to shake us about so ? I nearly had a fit. Aha ! 
 I see ; friends, we are on the ground once 
 more. Come, I like this. I was beginning tc 
 
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 as- 
 tonished to do anything but lean on his in- 
 strument and stare off into the garden. Per- 
 haps he would have been more puzzled if he 
 could have followed Kob 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 de- 
 lighted at such a dance as he led ; the pleasure 
 he had felt when the wind blew him was noth- 
 ing 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 
 Mv seeds amid, 
 
 Until they eager grew: 
 My lips, alas! 
 They could not pass. 
 
 To sing themselves anew. 
 
 "Then hright flames leapt 
 To where I kept 
 
 My pretty songs in i age : 
 They burst the Oars 
 With glad ha, ha's! 
 
 And mocked at my old ag©. 
 
 " 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 
 3f 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 hap- 
 pens. 
 
 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, pre- 
 tending 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 difiiculties 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 pres- 
 ents from their papas and mammas. Some- 
 times 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 ex- 
 actly 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 
 
 " 0," 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 se- 
 cret, I guess. I said Christmas was my birth- 
 day"- 
 
 " It's my birthday too," said Peter, who 
 wanted to have everything that anybody else 
 had. 
 
 " Well, it's mine, too," said John. " Any- 
 body'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 Christ- 
 mas, 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 up- 
 stairs, 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 ? " asked Mr. Olds, 
 impatiently. " I told her whea 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, with- 
 out any prejudice." 
 
THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS. 181 
 
 *' I don't tbiuk 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 spec- 
 tacles 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 th§ 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 coula 
 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, hut 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 ? " 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, " Some- 
 body who watches over us ? 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 Par- 
 son Dawes that used to be " — 
 
 " Tell us about Parson Dawes," struck in 
 John, who thought they weres not getting on 
 with a story. 
 
THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS. 183 
 
 "Well, I will," said old Becky, suddenly 
 brighteDiDg 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 chor- 
 ister, — that's my father, children " — 
 
 " 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 
 tjang, and we sang — 0, it was beautiful," and 
 
184 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 narse Becky, forgetting every tiling 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 tidiaga 
 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 lore 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. 
 
 " Indeed he did," said Becky, warming with 
 the recollection. " We just went from one 
 house to another a-siuging, 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 hed that 
 very night, and so he died." 
 
 This was quite unexpected, and Peter began 
 to cry. 
 
186 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " What made him die ? " said he, whim2)er- 
 iug. "- 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. 
 
 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 ? " 
 asked John. " What's Bethlem ? " 
 
 " Why, it's where the babe was," said little 
 Jacob. " Don't you see ? " 
 
 " The little babe that was born, was Jesu? 
 
THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS. 187 
 
 Cbrist 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 horn a little 
 bahe 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 1 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 ig- 
 norant ones, and tell them about Jesus when 
 Becky left. 
 
 " 0, 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 to- 
 gether. 
 
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 Par- 
 son 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." 
 
 " do," said little Jacob eagerly, and he 
 bounced out of bed. " Johnny, Johnny, we'L 
 put on our things and go out, and nobody will 
 near 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 tliat 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 be- 
 hind 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, show- 
 ing a hearth-broom which he had concealed 
 ftnder his blanket. " I thought of it. I'm 
 Parson Dawes. Now, children, when I begin 
 to pound, we must all sing." 
 
190 BEFOUE 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, how- 
 ever, 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. 
 
 " Peter, what made you run ? " said John, 
 all out of breath. 
 
 " Where are we ? " said Peter. But it was 
 so dark, and they had got so bewildered with 
 the run, that the poor little things could not 
 .ell. 
 
THREE WISE LITTLE BOYS. 191 
 
 *'We must turn round and go back," said 
 John, clinging to his hearth-brush, and deter- 
 mined, 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 even 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 ! 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 eager- 
 ness 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 
 
192 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 Then they stood by the barn and sang* the 
 verses, Peter holding* on to little Jacob, and 
 John striking the g'ronnd 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 
 w^as 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 barn- 
 floor 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 
 
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 uncom- 
 fortable 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. 
 
 " 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 ? 
 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- 
 
19G 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, hut w^ent 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 w^ent from one house to another, 
 and the neighbors joined them in the search, 
 till the whole village w^as astir. 
 
 " Neighbor," said Mr. Lirry, " about what 
 time was it you might have missed your chil- 
 dren ? " 
 
 " 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 chil- 
 dren 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 
 
TniiEE WISE LITTLE BO VS. 197 
 
 Henry just afterward started for Coiiiptoii. It 
 U'^as 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 
 ghall 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 — Rachelj you will come 
 with me." 
 
 They turned back, and were soon by the 
 house ag'ain, 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, 
 " 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. 
 
 " Jacob," said she, bitterly, " what right 
 have we to expect God will take care of our 
 children ? Hark ! " and she seized his arm 
 convulsively. They stood dumb upon the thres- 
 hold 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 
 
 fcalkiug 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. 
 " 0, 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 w^as 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 ofiferings. 
 
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 stable- 
 men 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. 
 
 50 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 stable- 
 men, 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 
 
 51 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 w^ent, 
 and up the other, and so round and round, only 
 at noon stopping for a lunch, and at night 
 stopping for rest j the next day they started out 
 and got into the middle of the track, and the 
 ear 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 Jom 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 an- 
 other 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 Jom 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 ? " 
 
 " don't talk yet," complained Tom. " Do 
 ^ait till evening. It's so noisy. Besides, I 
 feel so stupid ahvays in the morning." 
 
202 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " Yes," said Jom, who was a little apt to re- 
 peat 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 jou think 
 we shall get there then — eh, Tom ? 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. 0, 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 to* 
 morrow, do you ? " 
 
 " Why yes, if we get there." 
 
 " But we sha'n't get there." 
 
 "I don't know about that; we've been a- 
 going now pretty long." 
 
 " But that's just it, John. Do we get ahead 
 any?" 
 
TOM AND JOM. 203 
 
 " Look here, Tom ; look at uiy feet. Don't 
 they step out a little farther along each time ? 
 It makes me almost dizzy to look at them. As 
 Bure as my name's Jom, we shall g-et there, 
 depend upon it ; yes, depend upon it — eh, 
 Tom ? " 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 keep- 
 ing 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 
 Dff they went. 
 
 " Tom," continued Jom, when they were 
 once more well under way, " I've something to 
 ^11 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 re- 
 member when I was ridden for pleasure ; yes, 
 ridden about by little boys. They never hung 
 one of these dreadful, jing-ling", 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 some- 
 thing better now, something better — eh, 
 Tom ? " 
 
 " Something bitter ! " said Tom, sharply. 
 
 " Yes, that's it, that's it," said Jom, reach- 
 ing over playfully to caress Tom, "something 
 better, something better." But the driver 
 jerked the rein, and called out, — 
 
 " Hell there, John ; mind now." 
 
 " Singular ! " said Jom to himself ; " when- 
 ever 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 P " 
 
 " 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 mnch, 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 lie 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 ? " 
 
 " I don't guess anything." 
 
 " No, that wasn't it ; they were — car 
 horses, just like us ! What do you think of 
 that ? " 
 
 " Well, we're not the only wretches." 
 
 " O, but they were eating grass," said Jom, 
 and he raised his upper lip, and tried again to 
 look round his black spectacles at Tom. " Now ! 
 Do you think we never shall get there P " 
 
 " No, we never shall ; sure as your name's 
 John." 
 
 " Well, sure as my name s Jom, as you say, 
 ' know we shall. I feel it every time that 
 
206 BEFORE THE FIRE, 
 
 tliicg 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 5 and 
 on they went without stopping, so that he was 
 almost out of breath. They passed a vegeta- 
 ble wagon standing by the side of a shop. 
 
 "What! so you're going, too?" asked the 
 vegetable horse, turning his head and recog- 
 nizing Jom. 
 
 "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 an- 
 other 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? " they asked. 
 The father came up. 
 
 " Well, Coleman, he has a good character — 
 has he ? " 
 
 " 0, 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 ? " asked 
 the oldest. 
 
 " It's Jom," said Jom. 
 
 " Well, I don't believe his mother ever gave 
 Uim any," said the farmer. 
 
J^08 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " Let's call him June. It's the first day of 
 June now." So they agreed to call him June. 
 
 " Jume ? 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 Tom," 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, impa- 
 tient horse, and we sold him." 
 
 " 0, then it wasn't Tom," said Jom to him- 
 self. 
 
 " Now, please, put me on his back ! " cried 
 the oldest ; " and me," pleaded the next ; " and 
 me," " and me : " so old Jom was soon walk- 
 ing 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 ; every- 
 thing is transparent, everything that sonnds 
 has a clear ring to it. One looks over the 
 country, and the trees seem watching for w^hat 
 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 beat- 
 ing of a stony heart. What w411 come ? what 
 will be seen and heard when the new year be- 
 gins on Christmas Day ? 
 
 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 laud, 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 sum- 
 mon all who might be listening and waiting 
 and watching, on Christmas Eve. 
 
 But on one memorable Christmas Eve, mem- 
 orable 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 w^as 
 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 to- 
 ward the sky ; and inside, in cloth, and won- 
 derful 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, gray- 
 haired, 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 ware- 
 house ; and then when the gas out-of--doors 
 was lighted, they took the pins out, and the 
 butterfly clerks went home, and the old gen- 
 tlemen 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 win- 
 dows, 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 
 
gl2 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 his great-coat, felt of the bundle in his poctet, 
 and now he was all rig^ht 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 unexpect- 
 edly everyvAdiere, 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 Watch- 
 man 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 be- 
 fore the street was clear, — so many people 
 went briskly by, and carts and omnibuses clat- 
 tered past. It was a lively evening, and John 
 watched the sights about him, and wondered 
 and wondered, — what this one had in his has- 
 
THE nSWN OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN. 213 
 
 ket — how many children that old geiitlemau 
 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 lit- 
 tle 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 mind — 
 John is seeing a great John and Mary : a stout 
 young man, who has grown up in three hours, 
 like Jack of the Beau -stalk ; a wonderful young 
 man, who has been at college, and knows so 
 isuch — 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 peo- 
 ple 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 
 ti light in one of the windows now. Ther« 
 
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 shoul- 
 ders a wounded man, while an angry, cowardly 
 
g]G 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 pain- 
 fully 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 shud- 
 dered. 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 w^alls. 
 He was set there to watch, because wicked men 
 there were, who w^ould risk life to rob the ware- 
 house. 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 w^as full of wicked men and women. 
 And this was Christmas Eve, and how^ long 
 it was since He had come to save the w^orld. 
 More than eighteen hundred years, and was 
 this all? How could he, with his fatherlj 
 
THE VISION OF JOHN THE WATCHMAN. 217 
 
 heart, keep Little John and Mary Little from 
 ending like this ? 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 ? " 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 ? " 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 
 »ong?" 
 
 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 rag- 
 picker 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. 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 chil- 
 dren. Did He smile? from the little faces 
 came a smile. There was no solitude when 
 He was gone ; He took away 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 liglit 
 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 upoii 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 famil- 
 iar 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 
 KM eel by the bedside. 
 
220 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " It is his last moment," said John to him- 
 self. 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. 
 
'I'HE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD. 
 
 In the middle of tlie 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 tlie 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 
 tel] ; 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. 1 
 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 J^EVER WAS TOLD. 223 
 
 tossed it to me ; and then I phi} ed I tossed it 
 to her, and she played she tossed it to nie ; 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 hall 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. 
 
 " 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 you do then ? " 
 
 " I saw the kid " — began the Little Boy, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Hush ! What did you do then. Kid ? ' 
 
 " 0, I skipped down from one jog to another, 
 and then I went skip, skip, home again." 
 
2-24 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " I have so much to tell " — 
 
 " Little Boy, you must wait. ISTow " — 
 
 " Chij3, chip ! " twittered the swallows that 
 came flyiug 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? " asked the Little Girl. 
 
 " 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 storf* 
 
TEE STORY TEAT NEVER WAS TOLD- 225 
 
 of honey in it, and there is an ant-hill at the 
 Dottoni. That is our honey, and our hill. We 
 are the other ant and the other hee. 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 oflP. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 came up to- 
 gether, 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 
 
2-26 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 will tell all about it. Everything tliat 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, Rab- 
 bit," 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 ? " and 
 he looked round with his pink eyes at the com- 
 pany. The Mouse, who had been sitting up- 
 right in order better to be seen, went forward 
 and whisked his tail. 
 
 "A fable," he piped, "is like a mouse. P 
 has a tail." 
 
THE 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 Lit- 
 tle 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 sit- 
 ting on? Under that stone there are some 
 beetles. Under the beetles there is the earth. 
 Under the earth — v»^hat ? " and he looked 
 round on the company. No one answered. 
 
 "What?" 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 ? " 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 swal- 
 lowed it." 
 
 " And you said it would be worth nothing 
 unless you swallowed it ? " 
 
 " 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 9 *' 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 ol 
 little subdued duckings, and a great Rooster 
 
THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD. 229 
 
 rose up before them, followed at a respectful 
 (listauce by a hen aud 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 ? 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 
 nhall 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 
 dad been so long silent, struck up faintly. 
 
230 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " Tra-la-la ! thrum ! pvveep ! 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 wan- 
 der 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 gokl, 
 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 
 j^^hich he told, of what he saw as he lay at night 
 
THE STORY THAT NEVER WAS TOLD. 231 
 
 and watched the stars. He saw theDi 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 hei', 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 to- 
 gether 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 Lit- 
 tle Boy kissed her eyes " — 
 
 " Ah ! " said the Little Girl, " I see now." 
 
232 BEFORE THE FIRE. 
 
 " What do you see? " he asked. 
 
 " I see you, Love." 
 
 "And nothing else ? " 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 ? " 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 wan- 
 der over it, and fancy he had visited all quar- 
 ters of the globe, for there was nothing so 
 rare but the Gardener wct^ld 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 w^as wonderfully con- 
 trived, 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 
 g-uests 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 gar- 
 den. 
 
 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 Gar- 
 dener was not there, and the King was famil- 
 iar. 
 
 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 
 eould for a moment be compared with it. The 
 
ROSE AND ROSELLA. 237 
 
 Gardener had therefore given it the name of 
 the Princess Eosella, the only one in the royal 
 family beside the King and Queen. The Prin- 
 cess Rosella was as peerless among women as 
 the flower Rosella was among roses, and a de- 
 cree had gone forth that no one in the kingdom 
 should bear that name, and that ijt 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 flower- 
 ing forth, and every day tidings were brought 
 of what new growth and expansion were ob- 
 served, 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. 
 
 On the morning before the betrothal, the 
 Rose, silently breathing and unfolding, stoo<d 
 in its sheltered home, guarded from sea-winds, 
 and bathed in a gentle atmosphere tempered to 
 its need. What more could flower desire? 
 what higher place could be given it on earth ? 
 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 
 
 mau who had Dever 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 palfcry 
 rose by the sea-shore, growing carelessly with 
 so many others, not to be distinguished by or- 
 dinary 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. What- 
 ever 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. Re- 
 produce 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 tran- 
 scendent beauty. Your time is short ; to-mor- 
 row 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, an- 
 swered 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 Gar- 
 dener 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 orig'inal 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 hand- 
 some. 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 worm 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 Paint- 
 er'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 hefore 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 ? " 
 
 " 0, 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 ? 
 
 " 0, that is well enough, I suppose. But 
 tell me, do you see any beauty in that Rose ? 
 I do not. I think it is detestable." 
 
 " No flower," said the Painter,' looking ai 
 
ROSE AND ROSELLA. 213 
 
 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 nourish- 
 ment. 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 Gar- 
 dener fed it with wine every hour. And yet," 
 she added, sighing, " all the roses in the gar- 
 den 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 shell- 
 like transparency deepening into a more glow- 
 ing 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 tho 
 
244 ROMANCE, 
 
 ft 
 
 country about or beyond could be seen ; but 
 the background of the picture had in it faint 
 touches of color, now deeper green, now pur- 
 ple, 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 him- 
 self, 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 aud 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 stead- 
 fastly 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 re- 
 cover its lost simplicity and native freshness ; 
 looking no longer at the picture, but only at 
 the flower she had despised, the Princess be- 
 gan to see faint outlines of a country where it 
 seemed to dwell. Perhaps a humid veil be- 
 fore 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 house. 
 
 " Well, Rosella," began the Queen, " w^e 
 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 ? Keep 
 what you find, and forget what jou lose." 
 
 " A pretty way, indeed," said the Queen, in 
 a heat. " What comfort could one take then ? 
 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 sep- 
 arated from all meaner things, kept folding 
 and unfolding* its leaves, as thoughts rose and 
 fell within its hosom. 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 be- 
 side it, there stirred within its depths the old 
 nature never yet driven forth by the Gar- 
 dener'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 un- 
 der 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 In the palace at evening the guests were 
 all gathered, the lights shone brilliantly in 
 aall and gallery and vaulted room. The music 
 
248 ROMANCE. 
 
 Bounded far or near, as it obeyed the will 
 of the baud-master, who seemed to follow 
 with his notes the passing footstei3S of the 
 throng who swarmed in and out. The King 
 and Queen were there on the dais, and the 
 Princess bj them. The betrothing Prince was 
 not there. He was with his retinue outside 
 in camp, for he had not yet seen the Prin- 
 cess, and was not to see her until the morrow. 
 But gentlemen from his court were there, 
 who spread marvelous tales of all the splen- 
 did 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 glori- 
 ous indeed to look upon ; rich in all the splen- 
 dor 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-niglit," tliey whis- 
 pered to one another. 
 
 " May the Prince jjrize her magnificence," 
 thought the wouucled 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 hrook, 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 w^orld, out 
 among other lands w^here 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 
 mthdrawn. He rose to his feet. 
 
 " Sit down, Master Philip," said the Priii- 
 
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 peb- 
 bles ? " 
 
 "Lady Rosella," said the Painter, looking 
 still into the brook, "such simple things as 
 I have seen and known have little charm 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 and of th« 
 gea-shore." 
 
ROl^E AND ROSELLA. 251 
 
 " The sea breaks upon the coast in long 
 jv^aves, and summer and winter one hears its 
 unceasing fall ; now violent and stormy, beat- 
 ing" 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 
 »;heir troubles and their joys ; he says not much 
 to them, but by and by they learn from him 
 a song which is now to the u their own heart, 
 Deating in words." 
 
252 ROMANCE. 
 
 " Sing me one of liis 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 w^as said, too, that they 
 were less what the poet thought for the fisher- 
 man than drawn from his own grief, for he 
 had lost a child, years before, whose death 
 and burial he never had seen." 
 
 Philip sang : — 
 
 " O 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. 
 
 " 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-Avaves on flinty sand. 
 Come forth, come forth from the midnight sea, 
 little child, come back to me." 
 
 " And has be then a word for every troubled 
 heart ? " 
 
 "He has words for all, for be has never 
 shut bis love up within himself, or suffered 
 any unworthy object to draw it fi'om him. 
 Xevertbeless, those whom men drive from 
 them he receives, for be sees in them not that 
 for which men thrust them forth, but that 
 which is the be^'inninsr 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 Dioving onward. By the light of the 
 moon they could see the figures which nature 
 and art had drawn upon the marble. A cling- 
 ing 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 foun- 
 tain, 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 ? " 
 
 " Yes, lady." 
 
 She drew her robe about her and half turn- 
 ing away, spoke again, — 
 
 " Master Philip, shall you paint to-morrow 
 in the Kose-house ? " 
 
 "Yes, Lady Eosella." " 
 
 " And when you have finished your work 
 you will go away 9 " 
 
 " 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 
 Kose ? 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 impa- 
 tiently 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-morn- 
 ing, 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 
 coming? It was the consummate production 
 of nature and art ; when it was guthered 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, ?L 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 fina* 
 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 reg'ular 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 w^ere w^ithout adornment, but their beau- 
 ty shone forth, heightened by the green foli- 
 age, 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 w^hich floated from her in weav- 
 ing folds. She was in the midst of the pro- 
 
 17 
 
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, lay- 
 ing 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. 239 
 
 Tlie 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 difiPerent 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 fol- 
 lowing 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 ad- 
 vanced, at the same time, the cavalcade of 
 Prince Gladiolus, in crimson and golden trap- 
 pings, with loud, joyous blare of trumpets and 
 vesonance of horns. The court-yard was a 
 wondrous fold of rare beauty and mighty 
 ralor. Upon a throne sat the King and Queen, 
 
260 ROMANCE. 
 
 The King" smiled good-natnredly, as if the cere- 
 mony 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, gen- 
 tlemen 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 per- 
 son. The law of the laud 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 af- 
 fection, 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 anj 
 
ROSE AND ROSELLA. 261 
 
 noble in'iiicess be coiitumacions 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. 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 tu- 
 mult 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, " Treach- 
 ery ! 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 lier go ! let her g-o I " said the old 
 King", turning' uneasily from one side to au- 
 oiher. " 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 de- 
 claring one thing, some another. The cour- 
 tiers who had looked significantly at one an- 
 other 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 ban- 
 ners 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 ? To be thrown away on a shrewish, low- 
 born 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 snatch- 
 ing at the cherished bush, though its thorns 
 pierced his quivering hands, he bore it into the 
 
ROSE AND ROSELLA. 265 
 
 ftpen air, and flung it with fury as far as Ms 
 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 
 that which had been interrupted, but even 
 more pleasing to them. 
 
 " There she is ! there she is ! " at last was 
 the cry, as the great door of the palace was 
 opened and a figure came forward, passed the 
 portal, 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 gran- 
 deur Rosella's queenly mien awed the people, 
 but now there was another spirit in her pres- 
 ence which hushed them and kept them bound 
 by a gentle spell. None followed her, and she 
 looked 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 and 
 through dark woods. 
 
 The day was drawing to a close, but the hot 
 air which had weighed heavily on the earth, 
 was now full of ominous portents. Low rum- 
 ble of a gathering storm broke on the ear, 
 and added to it was the sullen roar of the dis- 
 tant sea. Deep answered to deep, and sudden 
 bursts of wind swept over the plain and hurled 
 forward a flying figure by the banks of the 
 brawling stream. On she sped, the wind driv- 
 ing her pitilessl)^ mocking her distress by 
 whirling suddenly about and confronting her 
 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 with a 
 startling splash upon her face, then quicker, 
 quicker, quicker, pelting her with a cruel glee, 
 till she stooped beneath their thick-falling 
 blows. Ye't on she struggled toward the deep 
 baying sea, which sounded like some mighty 
 monster waiting for her as she was driver 
 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?" 
 
 Rosella followed the voice, herself speech- 
 less. 
 
 "Who calls me?" he asked again, and his 
 voice was like a lantern flashing in the dark- 
 ness before a wanderer. 
 
 " Who calls me ? 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 
 vith 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 hreath 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 stoop- 
 ing down by a cluster of rose-bushes, they 
 
ROSE AND ROSELLA. 2G7 
 
 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 gath- 
 ered? 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 tliere 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 
 Bome 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 
 
 bnsh with its burdens was strange. What 
 flower, so like themselves yet with a sweet 
 richness which they knew not, had crept in 
 among them P 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 ; yet still there clung 
 to it a fragrance and a color which came not 
 from the brook-side, from the marsh, or from 
 the sea. 
 
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