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Title: The Children's Longfellow

Author: Doris Hayman
        Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Release date: March 18, 2009 [eBook #28352]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, D Alexander, Juliet
        Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
        at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S LONGFELLOW ***




Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, D Alexander, Juliet
Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net








                             THE CHILDREN'S

                               LONGFELLOW



                            TOLD IN PROSE BY

                              DORIS HAYMAN



                             _ILLUSTRATED_




                            GRAHAM & MATLACK

                                NEW YORK.

       *       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS


                                        PAGE

INTRODUCTION                              1

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP                  3

HIAWATHA                                 12

KING ROBERT OF SICILY                    26

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH                   37

THE GOLDEN LEGEND                        42

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH          56

LADY WENTWORTH                           67

ELIZABETH                                73

THE MONK AND THE ASS                     82

EVANGELINE                               93

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO              111

       *       *       *       *       *




LONGFELLOW'S POEMS IN PROSE


The home of the American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, during the
greater part of his life was in the picturesque town of Cambridge,
Massachusetts, and there many of his best known poems were written.

The forge of the Village Blacksmith really stood there beneath the
shelter of a "spreading chestnut tree," in Cambridge, and when, as the
town grew larger, the smithy was removed and the tree cut down, all the
school children in Cambridge subscribed together to buy the wood of the
famous tree and had a chair made from it which they gave to the poet.

Longfellow was deeply interested in all Indian lore, and in the poem of
Hiawatha he has embodied many of the old legends of the North American
Indians. Hiawatha, who was known among the different tribes under
various names, was supposed to be a person of miraculous birth, sent
among them by the Great Spirit to clear their rivers and forests and to
teach them the arts of peace.

In the Golden Legend we find quite a different form of story. This is a
legend written down by one of the old German Minnesinger and called,
"Der arme Heinrich" (Unhappy Henry). The American poet has faithfully
followed the outlines of the story, but has added a good deal to it,
including the appearance of Lucifer with his train of evil spirits, and
his attempts to lead Prince Henry astray.

Five of the remaining stories are taken from the "Tales of a Wayside
Inn"--a series of poems whose plan was evidently suggested by the
Canterbury Tales.

DORIS HAYMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *




_The
Building
Of the Ship_


It was in bygone days, long before the use of steam was even thought
about; trains were unknown, and when people wished to get from one part
of the country to another they were obliged to make the journey on
horseback or in coaches, and distances, which nowadays we can cover in a
few hours, used to take our ancestors several days. It was the same
thing in regard to journeys by sea. To cross the Atlantic, for instance,
by an old-fashioned sailing vessel was a far more venturesome
undertaking than it is to step aboard one of the great ocean liners and
be conveyed swiftly and safely to one's destination. A sailing ship ran
far greater risks of being wrecked by storms, and, if the winds were
unfavorable, she would toss about for weeks, perhaps even for months,
instead of being able to make straight for her port. And yet there was a
charm about a sailing ship which no steamer with all its complicated
machinery can replace, and in the good old days we hear of men who have
weathered storms as violent and sailed on voyages quite as perilous as
any which have been undertaken since.

Well, it happened in the times of which we are speaking, that a wealthy
merchant in the New Country came to a great ship-builder, who was known
to all by the name of the Master, and bade him build a strong and goodly
ship.

"It must be beautiful to behold," said the merchant, "and yet strong
enough to wrestle with wind and storm."

The Master was delighted to receive this commission, for his heart was
in his work and he felt that here was a chance to build a ship worthy of
his reputation, so he answered joyfully: "Before long we will launch as
goodly and strong a vessel as ever weathered a wintry gale."

At these words the merchant departed content, because he knew that
whatever the Master promised he would surely fulfill.

The Master made no delay but set to work at once on a little model of
the ship, making it perfect in every part, so that when the great ship
came to be built he would have every detail already clear before him. As
he labored, his mind was busy recalling all the famous ships which had
been built before this one. A picture of one of the most renowned, the
_Great Harry_, was hanging on the wall before him. It was a strange
sight, with its cumbersome form, its bow and stern raised high and its
eight round towers like those of some old castle. The Master smiled as
he looked on it and murmured to himself: "Our ship shall be of another
form to this." And when the model was finished, it was indeed of a very
different build. She was a beautiful little vessel built for freight and
yet for speed; broad in the beam so as to resist storm, but tapering off
at the bow and stern so that the force of the waves might drive her on
instead of checking her course. When the model was quite finished, the
Master carried it down to the ship-yard and looked round searchingly to
see that all the necessary preparations had been made. Gigantic heaps of
timber lay piled in the ship-yard; there were beams of chestnut, elm,
and oak, and, scattered among them, cedar wood brought from regions far
away. Every country, every soil must send its tribute and help to build
the wooden walls of each ship that is launched.

The sun was rising when the Master came down to the ship-yard; with him
was a young man, who stood leaning against an anchor and who listened
eagerly to every word which fell from the Master's lips. These two were
alone and the old man's speech flowed on, interrupted by nothing but the
waves which broke in long ripples on the pebbly shore. This young man
had for a long time been a pupil and worker of the master; though his
years were fewer, his brain was as quick, his hands as dexterous as
those of the elder man, and to him was now entrusted the important task
of building and launching the ship on the lines that the Master had
planned.

[Illustration]

"We will build the ship thus," said the old man. "Lay the blocks of wood
on the slip, following my plans closely, and be sure to choose the
timber with the greatest care; the framework is to be of cedar and pine
and every inch of wood must be sound. When the ship is finished she
shall be named _Union_, and the day she is launched my daughter shall
become your bride."

[Illustration]

Joy filled the youth's heart, and, turning his head, he caught sight of
the maiden standing before her father's door. Young and fair was the
Master's daughter, with golden hair and sparkling eyes, and, as he
gazed at her, he felt that no task could be too difficult for him to
accomplish, since he had the promise of a reward so fair as this. Love
is a splendid master; no task seems too difficult when love fills the
heart and guides the hand, and he who is urged by love far outstrips all
others.

And thus it was with this youth; love of his bride and love of his work
made him strong and skillful, and, so impatient was he to see the
completion of the ship, that he summoned his workmen and set about his
noble task without an instant's delay. Soon the sound of axes and
mallets plied by sturdy arms was heard on all sides of the ship-yard.
Before the shadows of evening fell, the oaken keel of a noble ship was
lying ready stretched along the blocks. The work was well begun and all
seemed to promise fair for a happy ending.

When the long hot day was over, the young man and his promised bride sat
before the door of the Master's house while the old man rested within
the sheltered porch and recounted tales of wrecks which had taken place
at the time of the great September gales, and of pirates who had made
the Spanish seas a place of danger for harmless merchant ships; then he
spoke of ships which had sailed for distant shores but had never
returned, and of the chances and changes of a sailor's life. The Master
himself had sailed to many far-off lands and he told his attentive
listeners of their wondrous charm; of their palms and shining sands, the
coral reefs and the dark-skinned natives who dwelt there in savage
freedom. And, as he related these tales of the dark and cruel sea,
which, like death, unites man to his fellows and yet holds them far
asunder, the maiden held her breath and clung to her lover, dreading the
days when perchance they too might be divided by the pitiless ocean. The
three sat for a while in thoughtful silence as the darkness deepened
around them, broken only from time to time by the fitful gleam of the
old man's pipe.

Work was resumed afresh the next morning, and the vessel grew day by day
till at length a skeleton ship rose to view. Weeks passed on and the
ship made rapid progress till the whole hulk stood ready. Then a great
cauldron was heated, and the bubbling tar within was used to smear over
the planks and thus sheathe the ship.

The rudder of oak banded with copper, which was to control the whole
vessel, lay ready on the sand, and near it the anchor, whose mighty grip
was to hold the great ship secure against raging storms. The figure-head
was in the shape of a maiden clad in white robes which seemed to be
fluttering in the wind; a great artist had carved it in wood and had
taken the Master's daughter as his model. In after days many a signal
light was flashed on to her, and her graceful form became well known to
those who watched as the ship sped by through the dark and rainy nights.

In the forests near the snow-covered mountains and plains, majestic pine
trees were hewn down and dragged by oxen along the winding road to the
shore. Here they were stripped of their branches and bark and used for
the tall and tapering masts of the noble ship. Only the roar of the wind
and waves would remind them of their native forests which they would
never see again. When the masts were swung into place, they were made
fast with shrouds and stays; and finally a flag of red, white, and blue
was unfurled at the masthead and displayed its stars and stripes to an
admiring throng.

At length there came the day of the double bridal--that of the gray old
sea to the ship, and the wedding of the young master and his bride. The
_Union_ was decked out with gay flags and streamers, and the bridal
party came on board. The service was read and the Master, with tears in
his eyes, shook the brown hand of his son and kissed his daughter's fair
cheek. The worthy pastor spoke kindly words of warning and cheer to the
young couple and bade them Godspeed on their journey through life.

Then the Master waved his hand, and, at this signal, there was heard all
around the noise of hammers knocking away the vessel's supports.
Suddenly the ship moved, a thrill seemed to run all through her frame,
and with a sudden leap she bounded into the ocean. Loud shouts and
cheers uprose from the crowds assembled on the beach, and the staunch
ship _Union_ sailed gayly forth on her first voyage.




HIAWATHA


Long, long ago, in days that are now forgotten, the West-Wind wooed a
lovely Indian maiden, but soon, cruelly and faithlessly, he deserted her
and she died of grief, leaving her baby son, Hiawatha, to the care of
his grandmother, old Nokomis.

Deep in the forest was Hiawatha's home, and Nature herself was his
schoolmistress. He learned all about the birds, how they built their
nests in summer, and where they hid themselves in winter, the names and
habits of all the wild beasts which roamed through the woods, and, best
of all, he learned their language and all their secrets.

Skilled in the craft of Indian hunters, and all the lore the wise men of
his tribe could teach him, Hiawatha grew from childhood into manhood,
and by much questioning learned from old Nokomis the story of his
mother's cruel desertion. Full of wrath, he determined to be revenged on
his father, Mudjekeewis, and in spite of his grandmother's warnings, the
youth set out on his long journey. Wearing his magic moccasins (or
deerskin shoes), with which he measured a mile every stride, Hiawatha
journeyed westward, ever westward, until at length he reached the
kingdom of Mudjekeewis, ruler of all the winds of heaven, who joyfully
welcomed the handsome youth. But anger rose in the heart of Hiawatha,
and, rending asunder a huge rock with his magic mittens, he flung the
fragments full at Mudjekeewis. For three days a terrible fight raged
between the two warriors, till at last Mudjekeewis cried: "Hold, my son,
it is impossible to kill me for I am immortal; I did but fight with you
to test your valor. Go back now to your people; live with them, work
with them, and free the land from all monsters and giants. And when
Death at last lays his icy hand upon you, you shall share my kingdom and
be ruler of the Northwest-Wind." Then all anger departed from Hiawatha
and he went on his homeward way; only once did he turn aside, to buy
arrow-heads from the ancient arrow-maker in the land of a neighboring
Indian tribe. But do you not think that arrow-heads could equally well
have been bought in his own village? It was to see the arrow-maker's
dark-eyed daughter, Minnehaha, that Hiawatha halted in the land of the
Dacotahs, and when he reached home he told Nokomis of the meeting with
his father and the great fight, but not a word did he say of arrows or
of the maiden.

Hiawatha had two beloved friends, the sweet-voiced singer, Chibiabos,
and Kwasind, strongest of all men. Even the birds could not sing so
sweetly or the brooks murmur so gently as Chibiabos, and all the hearts
of men were softened by the pathos of his music. But dear as he was to
Hiawatha, no less dear was Kwasind. Idle and dreamy was Kwasind so that
even his mother taunted him. "Lazy Kwasind," said she one winter's day,
"you never help me in my work. The fishing nets are hanging at the door,
dripping, freezing with the water--go and wring them out for me!" Slowly
Kwasind rose from his seat, and going to the doorway did as she bade
him, but, to his mother's dismay, the nets broke beneath his powerful
fingers as if they were wisps of straw! Sometimes Kwasind used his vast
strength to good purpose; for instance, when Hiawatha built himself a
swift canoe, Kwasind dived into the water and cleared the whole
river-bed of sunken logs and sandbars in order to insure a safe passage
for his friend.

[Illustration]

Shortly after this Hiawatha set out in his canoe to catch the sturgeon
Nahma, king of fishes. The monster fish lay on the white sand at the
bottom of the river, and Hiawatha, line in hand, sat in his canoe,
shouting: "Take my bait, O Nahma; come up and let us see which is the
stronger!" At length Nahma grew weary of this clamor, and said to the
pike: "Take the bait of this rude fellow and break his line." The pike
tugged at the line till the birch canoe stood almost endwise, but
Hiawatha only pulled the harder, and when the fish rose to the surface
he cried with scorn: "You are but the pike; you are not the king of
fishes," and the pike sank down ashamed to the bottom of the river. Then
Nahma bade the sun-fish break Hiawatha's tackle, but again Hiawatha
pulled the great fish to the surface of the water and again cast him
down, crying: "You are not the fish I wanted; you are not the king of
fishes!" Then Nahma grew angry, and, opening his huge jaws, swallowed
both canoe and Hiawatha. Finding himself in utter darkness, Hiawatha
groped about till he felt the monster's heart which he smote so fiercely
that he killed him. Anxious to escape from his dark prison, Hiawatha
waited till the giant sturgeon drifted on to the shore, then called for
aid to his friends the sea-gulls, who worked with their claws and beaks
till they made a wide rift in Nahma's side and set Hiawatha free.

[Illustration]

Proud of her grandson's bravery, old Nokomis now set him a difficult
task. "In a land lying westward, a land of fever and pestilence, lives
the mighty magician, Pearl-Feather, who slew my father. Take your canoe
and smear its sides with the oil I have made from the body of Nahma, so
that you may pass swiftly through the black pitch-water and avenge my
father's murder." Thus spoke old Nokomis, and Hiawatha did as she bade
him, smeared the sides of his boat with oil and passed swiftly through
the black water, which was guarded by fiery serpents. All these Hiawatha
slew, and then journeyed on unmolested till he reached the desolate
realm he sought. Here he shot an arrow at Pearl-Feather's lodge as a
challenge, and the magician, tall of stature, dark and terrible to
behold, came forth to meet him. All day long raged the greatest fight
that ever the sun had looked on, but no weapon could penetrate
Pearl-Feather's magic shirt of wampum, and at sunset, wounded and weary,
with three useless arrows in his hand, Hiawatha paused a while to rest
beneath the shade of a pine tree.

As he stood there, despairing of victory, a wood-pecker sang from the
branches above him: "Aim your arrows at the roots of his long hair;
there alone he can be wounded." Well it was for Hiawatha that he
understood the bird's language! Stringing the first of his arrows to his
bow he let fly at Pearl-Feather, who was stooping to pick up a heavy
stone. The arrow struck him full on the crown, and the second and third
arrows, swiftly following, penetrated deep into the wound, so that the
mighty magician fell lifeless at Hiawatha's feet. Then Hiawatha stripped
the magic shirt of wampum off his dead foe and took from his wigwam (or
tent) all his wealth of furs, belts, and silver-tipped arrows. And our
hero sailed homeward in triumph and shared his spoils equally among his
people.

Now there came a time in the life of Hiawatha when he wished to wed, and
his thoughts turned to Minnehaha, whom they called Laughing Water,
loveliest maiden in all the land of the Dacotahs. He spoke to Nokomis of
this, telling her that his wedding with the fair Dacotah should heal all
strife between the two tribes. So eloquently did he speak of the
maiden's beauty and skillfulness in household matters, that he overruled
Nokomis' many objections to his choice of a stranger, and set out in all
haste to seek his bride. After a long journey he reached the home of the
arrow-maker, whom he found seated in the doorway of his wigwam making
arrow-heads, with his daughter at his side, busily engaged in plaiting
mats of rushes. Hearing a rustling in the woods they looked up and saw
Hiawatha standing before them, carrying on his shoulders a deer he had
just slain. This offer he laid at the feet of Laughing Water, and the
old man and the maiden both bade the young hunter welcome; then
Minnehaha prepared a meal and set it before the two men. When they had
finished eating, Hiawatha spoke of his childhood, his friends, and of
the happiness and plenty in his land. "After many years of strife," said
he, "there is now peace between your tribe and mine. In order to make
the peace more lasting and our hearts more united, give me this maiden
for my wife." And the ancient arrow-maker answered gravely: "Yes, if
Minnehaha wishes; let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" Then the maiden rose
up and took the seat beside Hiawatha, saying softly: "I will follow you,
my husband." Thus was Hiawatha's wooing, and hand in hand the young
couple went away together, leaving the old arrow-maker in his
loneliness.

When Hiawatha and his fair bride reached their home, old Nokomis
prepared a sumptuous wedding-feast to which many guests were bidden.
Among them was a handsome but idle and mischievous youth named
Pau-Puk-Keewis, who was renowned for his skill in all sports and
pastimes. To please the company he rose from his seat and danced his
merry dances to the music of flutes and drums. Then the sweet singer,
Chibiabos, sang a melodious love-song, and when this was finished, Iagoo
the Boaster, jealous of the praise and applause bestowed on the
musician, told one of his most marvelous stories, and well pleased the
wedding-guests took their departure.

As the days went on, old Nokomis found that her grumblings about the
uselessness of a wife from a far-off land had not been justified, for
Minnehaha was as skilled with her fingers as she was beautiful, and
Hiawatha loved her more and more dearly.

[Illustration]

Once, when all the maize was planted, Hiawatha bade his wife go alone at
night, clothed only in her dark tresses, and draw a magic circle round
the cornfield, so that no blight or insect might injure the harvest.
This Minnehaha did, but the King of Ravens and his band of followers,
who were perched on the tree-tops overlooking the cornfield, laughed
with glee to think that Hiawatha had forgotten what mischief they could
do. So early on the morrow all the black thieves, crows and blackbirds,
jays and ravens, flew down on the field, and with claws and beak began
to dig up the buried grain. But the wary Hiawatha had over-heard the
birds' mocking laughter and, rising before daybreak, had scattered
snares over the fields. Thus it happened that the birds found their
claws all entangled in the snares, and Hiawatha, coming out from the
hiding-place where he had been watching them, killed them without
mercy; only one was spared, the King of Ravens himself, whom Hiawatha
pinioned with a strong rope and fastened to the ridge-pole of his wigwam
as a warning to all other thieves.

[Illustration]

Now it chanced one day that the mischievous Pau-Puk-Keewis wandered
through the village and reaching the farthest wigwam, which was that of
Hiawatha, found it deserted. The raven perched on the ridge-pole,
flapped his wings, and screamed at the intruder; but Pau-Puk-Keewis
twisted the poor bird's neck and left the lifeless body dangling from
the roof; then he entered the lodge and threw all the household things
into the wildest disorder as an insult to the careful Nokomis and the
beautiful Minnehaha. Satisfied with the mischief he had done,
Pau-Puk-Keewis climbed a rocky headland overlooking the lake and amused
himself by killing the sea-gulls as they fluttered round him.

When Hiawatha returned, fierce anger rose in his heart. "I will slay
this mischief-maker," said he, "even if I have to search the world for
him." Together with other hunters he set out in hot pursuit, but cunning
Pau-Puk-Keewis outstripped them all and ran, swift as an antelope, till
he came to a stream in the midst of a forest where the beavers had built
a dam. "Change me into a beaver," he entreated them, "and make me larger
than yourselves, so that I may be your ruler and king." "Yes," said one
of the beavers, "let yourself down into the water, and we will make you
into a beaver ten times larger than any of ourselves." This they did,
but not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis sat in state among the beavers when they
heard a trampling and a crashing above the water, and the watchman
cried: "Here is Hiawatha with his hunters!" All the other beavers made
their escape through the doorway of their lodge into deeper water, but
so large had Pau-Puk-Keewis become that he could not pass through the
opening. Then Hiawatha, peering through the water, recognized
Pau-Puk-Keewis, in spite of his disguise, and slew him. Six tall hunters
bore the dead body of the beaver homeward, but the spirit of
Pau-Puk-Keewis was still alive within it, and escaping, took its human
form again and vanished into the forest.

[Illustration]

Only the wary Hiawatha saw the figure as it disappeared and followed in
hot pursuit. Hard pressed, Pau-Puk-Keewis reached the edge of the lake
and besought a brant (or wild goose) to change him into one of
themselves, and to make him ten times larger than the others.
Straightway they changed him into an enormous brant, and, with a whirr
of wings, the whole flock rose in the air and flew northward. "Take good
heed and look not downward, lest some great mishap befall you," cried
the other birds to Pau-Puk-Keewis, and he heeded their words. But on the
morrow, as they continued their flight, Pau-Puk-Keewis heard a great
shouting in the village beneath and knew the voices of Hiawatha and
Iagoo. Forgetful of his warning, he looked downward, and the wind caught
his plumage and sent him whirling towards the earth. In vain he
struggled to regain his balance--he fell heavily to the ground and lay
dead with broken pinions. But his spirit was still alive, and, taking
its human form, again fled from Hiawatha. This time Hiawatha pursued his
cunning foe so closely that he could almost touch him, but
Pau-Puk-Keewis changed himself into a serpent and glided into a tree.
While Hiawatha was groping in the hollow trunk, the mischief-maker once
more took his human shape and sped away until he came to the sandstone
rocks overlooking the Big Lake; and the Old Man of the Mountain opened
his rocky doorway and gave Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter. Hiawatha stood
without and battered against the caverns shouting, "Open! I am
Hiawatha!" But the Old Man of the Mountain neither opened nor made
answer. Then Hiawatha raised his hands to heaven and called the thunder
and lightning to his aid. Stronger than any mortal power, the tempest
smote the rocks till they fell to fragments, and there beneath the crags
lay Pau-Puk-Keewis dead in his own human form.

This was Hiawatha's last victory--grief and loss were now to be his
portion. The death of his two friends, Chibiabos and Kwasind, weighed on
his mind, and, hardest of all, a long and dreary winter, bringing the
specters of famine and fever in its train, came upon the land and robbed
Hiawatha of his dearest treasure, his beautiful young wife.

Clad in her richest garments, Minnehaha was laid to rest deep beneath
the snow, and, as Hiawatha watched the fire which was kindled at night
on her grave, his heart grew less heavy, for he felt that their parting
was not for long. The time was soon to come when he too could depart to
the Islands of the Blessed, where the spirit of his wife awaited him.




KING ROBERT
OF SICILY


There was once a proud and selfish monarch, named King Robert, who ruled
over the kingdom of Sicily. One of his brothers was the mighty Pope
Urbane, and the other the rich Emperor Valmond, and King Robert spent as
lavishly and held even a more magnificent court than either of them. But
the Sicilian monarch was not beloved by his subjects, for he treated
them all with disdain, and in fact only looked on them as mere slaves,
whose duty it was to carry out all his orders, no matter at what
inconvenience to themselves.

One evening King Robert sat in state in the royal chapel and listened
idly to the priests chanting the service. Clad in his magnificent robes
he looked every inch a king, but his handsome face was marred by its
look of conceit and weariness. He soon grew tired of listening to the
service and let his thoughts wander, but suddenly his ear was caught by
some Latin words which were repeated over and over again, and, turning
to a learned clerk who stood near him, he asked: "What mean these
words?"

The learned man at once made reply: "He hath put down the mighty from
their seat, and has exalted them of low degree."

"'Tis well," said King Robert scornfully, "that such treason is only
uttered by priests and in the Latin tongue. My subjects, whether priests
or common people, know full well that there is no power which can hurl
me from my throne." Saying these words he yawned and leaned back in his
throne, and soon, lulled by the monotonous chanting, he fell fast
asleep.

When he awoke it was late at night. All the lights in the church had
been extinguished, except a few flickering candles, which were burning
before the shrine of some saint. The King started up from his seat and
gazed with anger and amazement round the empty church. He groped his way
towards the great door, but it was locked; then he shouted for
assistance, uttered angry threats, and hammered against the door, but
all in vain. At length the sexton, who lived hard by, was roused by the
tumult, and, fearful lest thieves or some drunken revelers had made
their way into the church, he came to the door, lantern in hand, and
cried in a quavering voice: "Who is there?"

"Open the door; 'tis I, the King!" shouted King Robert, almost choking
with rage.

"This is some drunken rogue," muttered the sexton, as, with trembling
fingers, he fumbled for the key. Pushing open the door, he stood timidly
aside, and suddenly the disheveled figure of a man without cloak or hat
rushed wildly past him. He neither turned nor spoke, but passed swiftly
out into the darkness of the night, and the bewildered sexton soon lost
sight of him.

Despoiled of his kingly garments, breathless and splashed with mire,
King Robert rushed on till he came to the palace gates. He strode
through the courtyard, thrusting aside the men-servants and pages who
tried to bar his path, and hurried up the broad marble staircase.
Rapidly he passed through the royal apartments, his face white with
anger rendered still more ghastly by the glare of the torches; he heeded
no one, nor stopped in his headlong course till he reached the great
banqueting-hall.

[Illustration]

Here a grand feast was in progress, and the hall blazed with the light
of thousands of wax candles. And to Robert's utter amazement, on the
throne sat another king wearing his robes and crown, and, to all outward
appearance, King Robert himself. None present, not even Robert himself,
recognized that the supposed king was an angel in disguise. Wearied of
the King's evil ways he had come down to earth to punish the monarch of
Sicily and humble his pride, and this was the way he had chosen to carry
out his purpose.

For a while the throneless King gazed with mingled anger and
astonishment at the angel, who met his glance with a look of compassion,
and then said: "Who art thou, and why comest thou hither?" to which the
King haughtily replied: "I am the King, and come to claim my throne from
the impostor who usurps it."

At these audacious words the guests sprang up in anger and drew their
swords to slay the man who dared speak thus to the King, but the angel
answered calmly: "Thou art not the King, but henceforth thou shalt be
the king's jester and wear cap and bells and motley. As counselor thou
shalt lead an ape, and thou shalt obey my servants and wait on my
hench-men."

No sooner said than done. Deaf to King Robert's cries, prayers, and
entreaties, the men-at-arms thrust him from the hall. A group of
tittering pages ran before him and threw wide open the great
folding-doors. And now the King's heart was filled with alarm, for he
heard shouts of rude laughter and mocking cries of "Long live the King!"
and he realized that no one in the kingdom either knew or cared who he
really was.

Thrust from out his palace, the outcast King was led to some small shed
adjoining the stables. A door was opened, an armful of straw thrown down
within, and here he was bidden to sleep. When he awoke the next morning
he thought to himself it must all have been a dream, but, as he turned
his head, his couch of straw rustled beneath him, and he heard the
horses neighing in the stable hard by. Beside his bed lay cap and bells
and the parti-colored dress of a court-jester and in one corner of the
bare cell sat a shivering, chattering ape. Then King Robert realized
that it was not a dream but a dreadful reality, and that the most
wretched beggar in the kingdom would have scorned to change places with
the poor jester--the butt and laughing-stock of every underling at
court.

Days lengthened into months, and, under the angel's wise government, a
time of prosperity returned to Sicily and the land produced rich
harvests of corn and wine. The people no longer groaned under the burden
of taxation, and the King's ministers rejoiced greatly at the welcome
change which had come over their young master.

Meanwhile the real King Robert yielded sullenly to his fate. Mocked at
by all, his only friend the ape, his food the scraps left by others, his
heart was still haughty, his pride unsubdued. And when sometimes the
angel meeting him would ask, half in jest, half in earnest, "Art thou
the King?" he would draw himself up and fling back the haughty answer:
"I am, I am the King!"

[Illustration]

Almost three years had passed away when there came ambassadors from
Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, to the King of Sicily, saying that their
brother, Pope Urbane, had summoned them both by letter to the city of
Rome to celebrate Easter week with him there.

The angel received his guests with great joy and gave them rich presents
of velvet cloaks lined with ermine, rings, and rare jewels. Then he made
his preparations and set out with his retinue over the sea to the land
of Italy. Crowds of people came out to watch the progress of the royal
procession. The horses had gold and silver trappings, jeweled bridles,
the knights wore velvet cloaks and waving plumes, and their silver
spurs glittered in the sun. Then came the angel-monarch in rich attire
surrounded by his counselors and the flower of his knights. The
men-at-arms and servants brought up the rear of the procession, and
among them, on a shambling piebald steed, his ape perched behind him and
his cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, rode the jester-king--a
strange sight which caused unbounded merriment in all the country towns
through which the procession passed.

Arrived in Rome, the Emperor and his supposed brother were received with
great pomp in the great square before St. Peter's. Little did the Pope
dream, as he bestowed his blessing and prayers on his younger brother,
that he was entertaining an angel unawares.

Suddenly a wild, unkempt figure rushed from among the crowd and into the
royal assembly. Forcing his way to the place where the Pope was seated
he cried loudly, "I am your brother Robert, King of Sicily. This man who
stands before you in my semblance is an impostor disguised as the King.
Do you not know me? Is there no voice within you that says I speak
truly, and that I am indeed your brother?"

The Pope made no reply, but gazed with troubled look at the angel's
unruffled face. Then the Emperor Valmond laughed and said:

"Brother, methinks you have strange taste to keep a madman for your
court-jester!"

It seemed quite evident to the bystanders that what the Emperor said was
very true, and once more, baffled and disgraced, the poor jester was
roughly thrust back among the wondering crowd.

[Illustration]

The week was spent in prayer and stately rejoicing till at length Easter
Sunday dawned upon the world. The presence of the angel filled the city
with gladness and the hearts of men with piety. Even the wretched jester
felt the influence of some gracious power, and, kneeling on the floor of
his cell, he humbly bowed his head in prayer. He felt new strength
rising within him, and new resolves, strangely meek ones for so proud a
King, were made by him on that glorious Easter morn.

The next day the three royal brothers bade each other farewell. Emperor
Valmond made his way northward to his kingdom by the Danube, while the
angel journeyed southward through the towns of Italy. Once more the
people marveled at the magnificence of his train, and once more the
jester became the laughing-stock of all the watching crowds, but he rode
on unheeding. His mad anger was stilled and he began at last to realize
that he had indeed deserved his dreadful punishment.

When the town of Salerno was reached the journey was continued by sea,
and soon the royal retinue was safe within the walls of Palermo. Seated
on his throne in the great hall, the angel listened dreamily to the
convent bells, which sounded to him like voices from another world.

Presently he roused himself from his meditations, and, with a gesture of
his hand, bade the rest of the court retire, and beckoned the jester to
draw near him. When the two were left alone, the angel said: "Art thou
the King?"

King Robert crossed his hands upon his breast, and, bending his head,
answered meekly: "Thou knowest best. My sins are very heavy; let me go
at once and do penance in a cloister. There I will school my spirit to
humility, and walk barefooted across the stones till my guilty soul is
shriven."

The angel smiled, and his radiant face seemed to illumine the hall with
a holy light. Then loud and clear through the open window the monks were
heard chanting in the chapel hard by: "He has put down the mighty from
their seat, and has exalted them of low degree."

And through the chant rose a second melody, a single melodious voice,
and the King seemed to hear the words: "I am an angel, and thou art the
King."

King Robert, who was standing near the throne, at length ventured to
lift his eyes, and, behold! he was alone in the hall! Looking round in
wonderment, his eye was caught by his attire; instead of the sorry garb
of the jester he was clothed in royal robes of ermine and cloth of gold.

Kneeling at the foot of the throne, King Robert gave heartfelt thanks to
the Divine Power which had taught him the error of his ways, and, when
his courtiers came to seek their royal master, they found him still
kneeling, absorbed in silent prayer.




THE
VILLAGE
BLACKSMITH


Have you ever peeped into a forge and seen a blacksmith at work? It is
quite exciting, I assure you, to see the flames being fanned by the
bellows, and myriads of sparks flying upwards and outwards on all sides,
while the blacksmith hammers the red-hot metal on the anvil and shapes
it into horseshoes and other useful things made of iron.

But there is one particular blacksmith whose acquaintance I want you to
make. He lives in a little village and his forge stands beneath the
shade of an immense chestnut tree with wide out-spreading branches. The
smith is a mighty man, and well he needs to be, for his work requires
great strength. His hands are large and sinewy and his muscles like
iron; his face is bronzed by the sun and his black hair is long and
curls crisply. He does not make a great deal of money in spite of all
his hard work, but he earns quite sufficient for his own modest wants
and to provide his only daughter with all the necessaries of life, and
even a pretty gown to wear in church on Sundays. His one modest boast is
that he is able to look every one honestly in the face, for he is not in
debt for a single farthing.

[Illustration]

The village blacksmith works hard from morning till night; at any time
in the day you pass by the forge you can hear the bellows being blown by
one of his boys, while he himself swings his heavy sledge-hammer,
keeping such regular time with his strokes that it calls to mind the
tolling of the village bell--a custom which the old sexton never omits
as the day draws to its close. On their way home from school, all the
village children love to peep in at the open door of the smithy to see
the flaming forge and hear the roar of the bellows. They have a fine
game at pretending to catch the sparks, which fly about as the chaff
does when the corn is being threshed in the barns at harvest time.

But on Sunday the blacksmith puts aside all his labor and goes with the
other villagers to church, where he takes his usual seat among his boys.
He listens attentively to the praying and preaching, and above all to
the singing, for his daughter is in the village choir and the sound of
her sweet voice brings joy into his heart. His thoughts go back to the
time when his young wife sang in tones as clear and pure as these, but
God thought fit to call her from him years ago to sing in the heavenly
choir. As he thinks of her lonely grave in the churchyard close by tears
rise in the blacksmith's eyes, but he wipes them away with his hard
rough hand and resolves to be grateful for the many blessings still left
to him.

When the service is over and the congregation leaves the church, after
greeting his friends, the blacksmith turns aside and, standing by his
wife's grave, reads once more the simple inscription on the stone which
he has put up to her memory. But you may be sure that the blacksmith's
pretty daughter knows where he is to be found, and, taking him gently by
the arm, leads him homeward, beguiling the way with cheerful words.

[Illustration]

This is how the busy blacksmith spends his life--toiling, rejoicing,
sorrowing. Every morning he begins some fresh task and he works so hard
that by evening he has finished it. He has attempted something and he
has completed something--surely he has well earned his night's rest.

We may all learn a useful lesson from the life of the village
blacksmith. Let us try to live as honestly, as uprightly, and as
laboriously as he, so that one day we may deserve to hear the words,
"Well done, My good and faithful servants!" Let us try so to live that
each action of our lives shall be a good and shapely thing, a help and a
benefit to others, like the horseshoes made by the honest blacksmith are
to our four-footed friends.




GOLDEN LEGEND


The land of Germany has always been famous for its store of wonderful
songs and legends. Its poets of olden days, who were known as the
Minnesinger, used to wander round the country singing or reciting these
tales and everywhere they went they were sure of a warm welcome. The
"Golden Legend" is one of these old stories, and runs as follows:

Lucifer, who was once one of the good angels, had been cast out of
Heaven for the sin of pride. He gathered all the spirits of evil around
him and made himself their leader. His one desire now was to do harm to
all mankind and, by putting wicked thoughts into men's minds, make them
themselves do evil so that he might grieve the good angels and thus take
revenge for the punishment which had been inflicted on him.

Among other wicked deeds he sought to tear down the spire of Strasburg
Cathedral, but was defeated by the good spirits, who kept unceasing
watch and ward over the holy place. Baffled in this attempt, Lucifer
betook himself to a castle on the Rhine, the dwelling of young Prince
Henry of Hoheneck. Prince though he was, his lot was a most unhappy one,
for he was suffering from a deadly disease which the most famous
physicians had been unable to cure. Ill and restless, Prince Henry was
sitting alone at midnight in a tower of his castle, when suddenly there
came a flash of lightning, and Lucifer, disguised as a doctor, stood
before him.

"All hail, Prince Henry!" said the stranger.

"Who are you," asked the Prince, "and what may be your purpose in coming
hither?"

"I am a traveling physician," replied the cunning spirit, "and I can
cure all diseases."

"But not mine," said Prince Henry, mournfully. "I have consulted almost
every famous doctor, but the case is quite beyond their science. Even
the learned doctors of Salerno have sent me back word that they know of
no cure for a malady like this save one, which from its very nature is
impossible."

"What is this mysterious remedy?"

"Read, and you shall see," answered the Prince, handing Lucifer a scroll
on which were these words:

    "Not to be cured, yet not incurable!
    The only remedy that remains
    Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins,
    Who of her own free will shall die,
    And give her life as the price of yours!"

"A strange remedy, indeed," said the false physician, "and one which you
will never be able to try. However, I have with me here a wonderful
draught which cures all pain--will you not taste it?"

Prince Henry hesitated, but finally drank from the crystal flask which
Lucifer gave him. The evil spirit disappeared with mocking laughter and
Prince Henry fell to the ground in a swoon. The magic draught which the
false doctor had given him was nothing but an enchantment destined to
work still more harm on the victim. The next morning the unfortunate
Prince was found by his attendants stretched on the floor of the tower
chamber and seemingly lifeless. When he began to recover, further
troubles were in store for him. He was summoned to appear in church
before a council of priests, who pronounced him to be a leper and an
outcast, and decreed that henceforth he was to be looked upon as one
dead. The burial service was read over him and then Prince Henry,
clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, and carrying a beggar's wallet, was
thrust from the door of the church into perpetual banishment.

A lonely exile, Prince Henry wandered through the land till he came to
a farm in the Odenwald, where dwelt the worthy peasant Gottlieb, with
his wife, Dame Ursula, and his daughter, Elsie, a beautiful maiden of
fifteen summers. These good people took compassion on their Prince and
begged him to dwell with them and share all they had. Glad to find a
resting-place among kindly folk, the Prince stayed for some months at
the farm, but each day he seemed to become a little weaker. The disease
from which he was suffering had made such rapid progress that he felt
his death rapidly drawing near. In these days of weakness and despair
the Prince tried to console himself by reading the old legends, and
watching Elsie as she flitted about the garden, gathering flowers to lay
at the shrine of her favorite saint. He would read aloud to her, and she
would give him some of her flowers and try in her gentle way to make her
dear Prince forget his heavy troubles.

Gradually Elsie grew to love the Prince with such devotion that it
seemed to her that no task could be too difficult, no sacrifice too
great for her to make, if only she could save his life. And then the
thought suddenly came to her that she would make the greatest sacrifice
of all and give her life, so that the cure of which the learned doctors
of Salerno had written might be carried out.

Filled with this resolve, she told her father and mother, who wept
bitterly and sought by every means in their power to dissuade her, but
all in vain. Then Elsie sought the Prince and begged him to allow her to
do this for him. His life, she said, was valuable to his country and his
people, for he would be restored to health and rule over them again,
whereas she was but a poor peasant girl and her place could easily be
filled.

Prince Henry struggled for some time against the temptation to accept
the sacrifice of this young life, and finally determined to go to the
village church and ask the advice of the priest in the matter. But the
Prince delayed his coming, and the priest had to leave the church at
sunset and go forth to visit the sick and needy. Lucifer, who was
watching his opportunity, slipped into the church, disguised this time
as a priest, and took his seat in the confessional. When the Prince at
length appeared and besought the priest to tell him whether he might
justly allow the maiden to give her life for his, instead of showing him
how wicked such an action would be and that it would be far better in
God's eyes that he should bear his sufferings uncomplainingly, the evil
spirit persuaded the wavering youth that the deed was right and
necessary and had the Church's full approval.

[Illustration]

Heedless of the voice of his good angel, which whispered to his
conscience that he was doing wrong, the Prince returned to the farm
and announced that he was prepared to accept the divine gift of life
from Elsie's hands. One request only did the maiden make, that, on their
pilgrimage to Salerno, neither by word nor deed should Prince Henry
attempt to dissuade her from her purpose. Elsie had no fear of death
and, when she had taken a last farewell of her grief-stricken parents,
the Prince set out with her on their long journey.

Easter Sunday found them in Strasburg, where the Prince tarried with
Elsie in order that they might witness the Miracle Play, which was acted
within the cathedral. After that, the next stage of their journey
brought them to Hirschau, where Prince Henry sought a night's shelter at
the monastery, after having placed Elsie under the charge of the Abbess
Irmingard in the nunnery a short distance away.

Lucifer, ever watchful lest the Prince should escape from his evil
influence, was here too. Disguised as a monk, he mingled with the
brethren at the convent and stirred up strife among them, so that the
Abbot grew very wrathful and inflicted severe penances on all the
offenders.

After vespers had been sung, the monks retired, but one lingered, for he
was blind and walked slowly, led by a little chorister. As he drew near,
Prince Henry started back in amazement.

"Do my eyes deceive me in this dim light," he exclaimed, "or can this be
Count Hugo of the Rhine, my most deadly foe?"

The old monk, who had come so close that he could hear Prince Henry's
words, replied sadly: "Count Hugo of the Rhine was once my name, but now
you behold the wreck of my former self. My pride and headstrong will
have brought me to this plight. Deserted by my friends, defeated by my
enemies, alone and blind, I heard a voice call me by name and say:
'Kneel down and pray.' So now you behold me a member of the holy
brotherhood, ever striving by prayer and repentance to blot out the
remembrance of my evil deeds. You, who by your voice I know to be Prince
Henry of Hoheneck, are one of those who have most cause to hate me.
Curse and revile me if you will; I will bear it patiently."

"We both have erred," sadly answered the Prince, "but the hand of God
has chastened us both. Let us therefore pray for forgiveness together."

Hand in hand the two former enemies humbly knelt in prayer, and Lucifer,
himself the spirit of arrogance and pride, slunk away, powerless to do
evil to those who truly repent of their sins.

Meanwhile, Elsie sat with the Abbess Irmingard in the moonlight, while
the latter told the sad story of her life to her young companion.

"Years ago, when I was a maiden freshly returned from the convent
school, wandering Minnesinger used to come to my father's castle where
they were always made welcome. The noblest and most gallant of all these
bards was Walter of the Vogelweid; his voice was the sweetest and his
songs the most beautiful. We looked on each other and loved, but a
foreign prince sought my hand and my stern father bade me wed him and
forget the wandering minstrel. I refused to be the bride of any other
than Walter. 'Either you obey me,' said my father, 'or you shall become
a nun and die unwed.' That very night I secretly left the castle and
stole away with my lover. We went swiftly on horseback through the
forest, but our flight was soon discovered--we were pursued and
overtaken. I remember nothing more till I awoke in my own room, ill with
a raging fever. When I recovered, I was sent to this nunnery and the
convent gates, clanging behind me, seemed to be those of a prison. But
all this was many years ago and now I am content and have found peace.

"I have told thee this tale," said the Abbess to Elsie, "for I feel
strangely drawn to thee. In thy young life there is too a tale of
mystery and pain, and, as my way has been made clear, so shall be
thine."

The next day Elsie and the Prince bade farewell to their kindly hosts
and traveled, as swiftly as horses could carry them, through Germany
and Switzerland. After leaving Lucerne they hired a trusty guide to lead
them through the mountain passes, which were steep and dangerous. On one
part of the journey they had to cross a single arch bridge, which
spanned a terrible abyss, and their guide told them the story of how it
came to be built.

[Illustration]

"For years and years people had tried in vain to make a bridge at this
point, but all their efforts had been fruitless, for whatever was built
by day the devil swept away at night. At last a holy abbot built this
one with a single arch and made a compact with the evil one that it
should be allowed to stand, on the condition that the first living
thing which crossed it should be surrendered into his clutches. When the
bridge was completed, the abbot, standing at one end, threw a loaf of
bread across, which a hungry dog sprang after, and the rocks re-echoed
with laughter to see the devil thus defeated."

"Defeated," sneered Lucifer, who was standing beneath the bridge. "It
was for journeys and crimes like this that I allowed the bridge to
stand!"

Unconscious that Lucifer was dogging their steps, the princely train
finished its journey through Italy in safety, took ship at Genoa, and
reached the town of Salerno, renowned for its learned doctors and its
schools.

Entering the town, Prince Henry inquired for Friar Angelo, and Lucifer,
appearing before him in fresh disguise, said: "He stands before you."

"You know, then, on what errand I have come," said the Prince. "I am
Prince Henry of Hoheneck and this is the maiden I spoke of in my
letters."

"This is a grave business, and we must not be over-hasty," answered the
crafty Lucifer. "Does the maiden consent to this of her own free will?"

"No prayers or entreaties can dissuade her."

"Strange, indeed. Have you thought well over it?" asked Lucifer, turning
to Elsie.

[Illustration]

"I do not come here to argue, but to die," replied Elsie. "Your
business is not to question but to kill me, and I am ready."

With a last farewell to Prince Henry and her weeping attendants, Elsie
followed Lucifer into a gloomy building. The Prince tried to follow
them, but Lucifer thrust him back and barred the door. Suddenly the
Prince's better angel prevailed and he realized what a vile thing it was
that he should purchase health and strength at such a cost. Sooner would
he himself die a lingering death than that harm should come to Elsie,
who had grown so dear to him during their long journey together.
Shouting to his men to aid him, he burst open the door and rushed in to
save her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few weeks later, Dame Ursula was sitting in her cottage spinning and
thinking sadly of her child's untimely death, when a forester stopped at
the farm and inquired for Gottlieb.

"I am his wife," said the dame.

"Then I have news for you. The Prince is strong and well again."

"Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead," she rejoined, mournfully.

"It is true that your daughter is no longer the humble peasant she once
was."

"Nay, do not mock a mother's agony, and tell me truly what has befallen
my child," she implored.

Then the forester told Ursula his wonderful news; how at Salerno the
Prince's nobler self had prevailed, and the maiden's life had been
spared, whereupon a miracle had been worked on the Prince and he had
straightway been healed.

"They call your daughter the Lady Alicia now," continued the messenger,
"for the Prince made a vow in Salerno that he would wed no one but
Elsie. At this very moment the Prince and his bride are sailing homeward
down the Rhine in a splendid barge decked with banners, and all the
people are gathered on the banks, shouting with joy."

Dame Ursula's raptures can be better imagined than described, and she
rushed away to tell her husband the glad tidings, while the forester
calmly sat down and helped himself to Gottlieb's supper.

And so we may leave the Prince and his young bride with the feeling that
their wedded life proved to be a very happy one, for their love had been
tried by pain and suffering, and a love which can conquer these is one
which will endure.

[Illustration]




THE COURTSHIP OF
_MILES STANDISH_


In olden days, a ship called the _Mayflower_ left the shores of England
and set sail for a distant and unknown land, carrying a number of
Puritan pilgrims on board. Among their number were two men who were
close friends, though they were utterly different both in character and
looks. Miles Standish was a short, strongly built man with muscles and
sinews like iron; his reddish beard was already flaked with patches of
white and his face browned from his out-of-door life. Hasty and
passionate, Miles Standish was, nevertheless, a born leader of men, and
was greatly respected by all who knew him. His friend, John Alden, was a
much younger man, with fair hair and blue eyes. He was no soldier, but
skilled in all manual labor, and, moreover, a scholar and a scribe.

The two friends settled in the village of Plymouth, and Miles Standish
soon distinguished himself by his warlike qualities and was made captain
of the town, while John Alden, who lived with him, acted as his
secretary and household companion.

One day they were sitting together, Miles reading about Caesar's great
victories, and John occupied in writing letters to his people at home,
filled mostly with accounts of the beautiful Puritan maiden, Priscilla.
Presently Miles Standish looked up from his reading and said to John:
"When you have finished writing I have something important to tell you."

"I am ready to listen," cheerfully replied the young man.

"Since Rose Standish died years ago," said the Captain, "my life has
been a very dreary one. In my hours of loneliness I have often thought
of the maiden, Priscilla, who is as friendless as I am. She is quite
alone in the world, for her mother, father, and brother all died in the
winter. I have never dared speak my thoughts to her, but I want you to
do so for me. Go to Priscilla and tell her that a blunt old captain,
readier at action than words, loves her dearly. You are a scholar and
can speak to her in tender words such as are best suited to win the
heart of a maiden."

Bewildered and dismayed at his friend's request, John replied: "Indeed I
cannot give such a message as this. If you would have a thing well done
you must do it yourself, not leave it to others--these are your own
words."

The Captain gravely shook his head. "I cannot, indeed," said he. "I can
march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, but I dare not
face a woman with such a proposal. Surely you will not refuse to do what
I ask in the name of our friendship."

John Alden felt he could no longer withstand the Captain's earnest
request, so he reluctantly consented and went forth on his errand. His
way led him through the woods, where he gathered some may-flowers as a
gift for Priscilla. When he drew near Priscilla's home he found her
spinning industriously and singing as she worked. As John entered, she
rose and held out her hand to him, saying: "I knew it was you when I
heard your step in the passage; I was thinking of you as I sat there
spinning and singing."

John was so pleased that she should have been thinking of him that he
could frame no reply, but held out the flowers to her in silent answer.
Then they sat down and talked of their friends at home and of the
_Mayflower_, which was to return to England the next day. Priscilla
confessed she felt so lonely and wretched that she wished she could
return to England too, and John answered: "I cannot blame you for that
wish. A woman requires someone stronger than herself to lean on, so I
have come to you now with an offer of marriage from a good and true
man, Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth."

Not even the Captain himself could have spoken more bluntly than did
John, and Priscilla looked at him in amazement. At length she exclaimed:
"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does
he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?"

Poor John tried to smooth matters over. Quite forgetful of himself, he
pleaded the Captain's cause, said how kindly, generous, and brave he
was, what a splendid soldier and leader, and added that any woman might
be proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish. But all his eloquence
was wasted, for the maiden only looked at him and said smilingly: "Why
don't you speak for yourself, John?"

Here was a pretty pass for an honest man to be in! Joyful to think that
Priscilla loved him and yet saddened for his friend's sake, John left
the house and wandered down to the seashore, undecided what he ought to
do in the matter. Suddenly he looked up and saw the shadowy form of the
_Mayflower_ riding at anchor, ready to set sail on the morrow, and he
made up his mind that it was his duty to return to England on the ship.

Strong in his resolution, he returned home and related to the Captain
all that had happened. But when he came to the words Priscilla had
spoken, the Captain stamped on the floor and shouted, angrily: "John
Alden, you have betrayed me! We are no longer friends, and there can be
nothing between us henceforth but war and hatred!"

[Illustration]

In the midst of his angry words a man came in bringing a message of
urgent importance. There were rumors of danger, threats of war from
hostile Indian tribes, and the Captain was summoned to a council
meeting.

Still enraged, the Captain hastened away to the council and found it
already assembled and impatiently waiting his coming. A
ferocious-looking Indian was standing by a table on which lay a
rattlesnake's skin filled with arrows; this was the Indians' signal of
warfare. The council was debating whether it would be better to reply to
the challenge or try peaceful measures, but Miles Standish settled the
matter without more ado. Advancing to the table, he picked up the
rattlesnake's skin, and with a gesture of contempt jerked the Indian
arrows from it. Then he filled the skin to the brim with powder and
bullets and handed it back to the Indian, saying in a tone of thunder:

[Illustration]

"Here, take it! This is your answer!" The savage took the challenge in
silence, glided from the room, and soon disappeared into the recesses of
the forest.

Miles Standish returned late from the council and threw himself, dressed
as he was, on his pallet, so that he might be ready to set out at any
moment. John Alden was lying awake, but he was resentful at the
Captain's angry words to him and pretended to be asleep. At earliest
dawn Standish awoke and, taking his musket, strode from the room. John
Alden yearned to bid his friend farewell, but his pride would not let
him, and he beheld the Captain depart in anger and spoke no word.

Then he arose, made his own preparations, and went down to the shore. A
boat was waiting to convey him to the ship, but, as he was already
standing with one foot on the gunwale, he caught sight of Priscilla
looking at him with a sad and reproachful gaze.

At once his purpose changed. He determined that he would not go away,
but would remain and protect her. The captain of the ship bade farewell
to his friends and pushed off his boat. Not one of all who had set out
in the _Mayflower_ returned with her. The pilgrims wished the captain
and his men Godspeed and went back to their life of toil in the new
world.

As John turned to depart, Priscilla stood beside him and they spoke
together long and earnestly. She gently reproached John for pleading the
cause of another. "I was hurt that you should urge me to marry Captain
Miles Standish, even though he is your friend. I must tell you the
truth; your friendship is more to me than all the love he could offer."

Said John: "Of all your friends, let me be the nearest and dearest, and
I promise that I will be true and faithful to you always."

He would not say more than this, for, although he longed to tell
Priscilla of his love for her, he had vowed not to do so. Loyalty to his
absent friend forbade him and he thought to himself: "I will not speak
to Priscilla of this until there is no longer any anger betwixt Miles
Standish and myself."

Meanwhile, Miles Standish was marching steadily northward with a small
troop of soldiers led by their brave Indian guide, Hobomok. After a
three days' march they reached an Indian encampment and saw the women at
work by the tents and the warriors sitting round the fire in full
war-paint.

When the Indians saw the white men approaching, two of the mightiest
warriors sprang up and came to parley with Standish, offering him a
present of furs. Then they spoke through the Indian interpreter, begging
the soldiers for muskets and powder, but when Standish refused and said
he would give them a Bible instead, they changed their tone and began
to boast and bluster.

One of the chiefs cried: "Is this the mighty Captain the white men have
sent to destroy us? He is a little man, let him go and work with the
women!" Standish looked keenly round him and became aware of shadowy
forms of Indians creeping round the bushes in ambush, but he feigned not
to see them and stood his ground undaunted, listening calmly to the
interpreter's words. But when the Indian chief began to taunt him, his
hot blood rose within him, and, snatching the boaster's knife from him,
he stabbed him to the heart. A flight of arrows immediately poured on
the little band from all sides, but they replied with deadly fire from
their guns and after a fierce fight the first victory lay with the white
men.

Month after month passed by and Miles Standish continued to scour the
land with his forces till his name became a terror to all the hostile
Indian tribes. In the little village of Plymouth the time passed
peacefully on. John Alden built himself a new house, dug a well, and
planted an orchard hard by. As he worked he thought ever of Priscilla
and knew that his happiness would not be complete until he might venture
to ask her to share the fruits of his toil.

One day he was sitting with the maiden, awkwardly holding a skein of
yarn for her to wind, when a messenger arrived in frantic haste
bringing terrible news from the village. Miles Standish was dead, shot
down by a poisoned arrow as he was leading his men to battle. Remorseful
and yet glad that nothing now stood between him and the fulfillment of
his hopes, John Alden turned to Priscilla and won her ready consent to
become his bride.

[Illustration]

So one bright summer's day the simple wedding took place according to
Puritan custom. Just as the service was ending, a somber figure clad in
steel armor appeared on the threshold. The bridegroom turned pale at the
sight and the bride hid her face on his shoulder. When the last prayer
had been said, the figure strode into the room, and with amazement the
people beheld the Captain of Plymouth whom they had mourned as dead.
Grasping the bridegroom's hand Miles Standish begged his forgiveness,
which was gladly granted; he then saluted the bride and a new bond of
friendship was entered into by all three. Full of eager questions the
guests then gathered round the Captain, all speaking at once, till the
poor man declared he had far rather break into an Indian encampment than
come to a wedding to which he had not been invited.

When the confusion had at length subsided, John led out his snow-white
steer covered with crimson cloth and with a cushion for a saddle. His
wife, he declared, should ride to her home like a queen, not plod like a
peasant. And so the bridal procession set out, Priscilla riding and John
leading her gentle steed. No sad thoughts marred their homecoming, for
their friend had been saved from a cruel death and his kindly words
added a crowning joy to their happiness.




_Lady
Wentworth_


One bright summer morning, rather more than a hundred years ago, comely
Mistress Stavers stood with folded arms at her tavern door and watched
her husband drive his stage-coach, four-in-hand, down the long lane and
out into the country. Above her head hung the tavern sign--a portrait of
the Earl of Halifax, resplendent in his scarlet coat and flaxen wig.
Looking down, he was struck afresh with the charms of the
tavern-keeper's handsome wife, and, though he was in a somewhat battered
condition owing to his advanced age and the extremes of weather to which
he had been exposed, he almost made up his mind to fall at her feet and
declare his love.

At that moment, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the
vision of a barefooted, ragged little girl hurrying down the street. In
spite of her shabby, mean attire, you could hardly help noticing how
pretty she was, with her rough curly hair falling over her shoulders and
her eyes dancing with laughter; in her hand she carried a brimming pail
of water which dripped on to her little bare feet as she tripped along.
Smiles played over the childish face and rippling sun-beams danced in
her pail. The susceptible Earl of Halifax gazed at this picture with
feelings of delight, but Dame Stavers evidently did not approve of it,
for the Earl heard her say, "Fie for shame, Martha Hilton! How dare you
go about the town half-dressed and looking such a sight!" The little
gypsy maid laughed and replied saucily, "No matter how I look now. One
day you will see me riding in my own chariot, ma'am."

Dame Stavers was too amazed at the audacity of these words to make any
reply, but the Earl of Halifax smiled kindly at the little maid as she
walked on with her heavy burden. When she reached the corner of the
street, she looked back for a moment, then turned and passed out of
sight.

[Illustration]

The Earl of Halifax swung for a while on his sign and pondered. His
attention was next arrested by a magnificent carriage rolling rapidly
by. Outriders in scarlet liveries bestrode the spirited horses, whose
silver harness glittered brightly in the sun. Within the chariot a
dignified gentleman sat in solitary state. He was a stately personage
with powdered hair, wearing a three-cornered hat and a crimson velvet
coat; diamond buckles sparkled at his knees, and in his hand he carried
a gold-headed cane. As the carriage passed the inn, Mistress Stavers
dropped several low curtseys, for this was General Wentworth driving out
to his great house, which stood just outside the town overlooking the
sea.

A stately pile standing near the high road but hidden from it by trees,
the Governor's house was indeed a pleasant abode. Within, it was
magnificent to behold with its oak floors and carved chimney-pieces. All
through the winter immense fires of logs blazed cheerily on the open
hearths, while portraits of dead and gone Wentworths in heavy gilt
frames looked placidly down from the tapestry-covered walls. Beneath the
tapestry were doors which opened unawares and led into mysterious
passages and up queer little flights of stairs.

Here dwelt the great man, Governor Wentworth, but no one shared its
comfort with him, for he was a widower and childless, and though no one
ever heard him complain, sometimes he felt his loneliness very keenly.

At this time Martha Hilton, the pretty little gypsy maid was thirteen
years old, and soon after the day when we met her tripping down the main
street of Portsmouth, she went to be a servant at the house of Governor
Wentworth. For seven long years she worked hard and faithfully.

    "A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine,
    A servant who made service seem divine."

Under her care the mirrors glistened and the brasses shone; the very
knocker on the great front entrance looked brighter whenever she passed
by. And all this time, as Martha grew from childhood into woman-hood,
there was someone who watched, unknown to her, all her doings.

Time passed on, bringing with it the Governor's sixtieth birthday, and
at the great house it was determined to give a banquet in honor of the
occasion. Invitations were sent out to all Governor Wentworth's friends
in the neighborhood, and when the day arrived, a very noble assemblage
sat down to the feast. At the commencement of the banquet the Reverend
Arthur Brown, the rector, who was seated at the host's right hand, said
grace, and then the feast went on merrily. After the guests had finished
eating and the King's health had been drunk, the Governor gave a
whispered message to a man-servant, who disappeared and presently
returned with a beautiful girl, simply and neatly dressed. The guests
scarcely noticed her presence, but the Governor stood up in his place
and, looking down at the rector, said: "This is my birthday; it shall
also be my wedding-day, and you shall marry me."

The guests were greatly mystified, and the reverend gentleman not less
so, but he answered politely: "It would indeed be a pleasant task, your
Excellency, but may I ask to whom I am to marry you?" "To this lady,"
replied the Governor, and beckoned to Martha Hilton to stand by his
side. Blushing and confused the maiden timidly obeyed, but the rector
hesitated and said nothing. Then the Governor cried impatiently: "If you
hesitate to do as I ask you, then, as chief magistrate, I command you."

Seeing that all objections would be useless the rector obeyed, and read
the marriage-service in loud, clear tones. The Governor placed a ring on
the fourth finger of the bride's fair left hand, and Martha Hilton
became Lady Wentworth of the Hall.

Thus the saucy boast, which the little gypsy had uttered in jest seven
years before, came true, and when Lady Wentworth drove in her chariot
through the main street of Portsmouth none dropped a lower curtsey than
the tavern-keeper's wife. The Earl of Halifax smiled serenely but said
nothing.




ELIZABETH


Elizabeth Haddon, the gentle Quaker maiden, sat one winter evening in
her farm-house kitchen, which served both for kitchen and parlor, and
talked to Hannah the housemaid. "How short the days are," she said, "and
how quickly night overtakes us. In the old country there is a long
twilight, but here in the forest is hardly a moment between daylight and
lamplight. Yet how grand winter is with its spotless mantle of snow."

"Oh, yes, winter is beautiful enough," replied Hannah, "and if only we
could walk with our feet on the ceiling like flies, I should not
complain. But this great river, the Delaware, is not crowded with tall
sailing vessels like the Thames. Here we see nothing but pine-trees
already flecked with snow. There is snow in the air and to-morrow all
the roads will be blocked. I pity Joseph, who will have to break through
the snow-drifts with his sled and oxen, and how in all the world shall
we get to Meeting on First Day (Sunday)?"

Elizabeth gently reproved her talkative servant for grumbling, then rose
and put her sewing away. Meanwhile, Hannah fastened the shutters, spread
the cloth, and lighted the lamp. Then she made the tea and placed on the
table a brown loaf and butter fresh from the dairy. As they partook of
their simple meal, Elizabeth said: "Joseph is a long time on his errand.
I sent him to the village with a hamper of food and clothing for the
poor. He is a good lad, always ready and willing."

Hannah smiled with pleasure at her mistress's praise of her fellow
servant, and Elizabeth continued: "This house is a long way from the
village, and we should be lonely if it were not for friends passing by
who sometimes stay the night here."

Hannah, who resembled John Gilpin's famous wife in that she had "a
frugal mind," did not altogether approve of what her generous mistress
said.

"Many people do indeed pay us a visit," she remarked, "and they treat
this house just as if it were an inn, coming and going exactly as they
please."

"All I have is the Lord's, not mine," replied Elizabeth gently. "I am
only left here in trust to distribute His gifts among the poor and those
who devote their lives to His service. It was for this purpose that my
father built this house in the clearing, and, though he did not come
here himself, I came in his stead. So we must not grudge to others the
crumbs that fall from our table."

[Illustration]

A little ashamed of herself, Hannah was silent for a while, and
Elizabeth went on to say in her gentle voice: "Dost thou remember,
Hannah, the great May meeting in London when I was still a child? No
sound was heard in all that great assembly till at length a young man,
named John Estaugh, rose in his place and spoke so powerfully that all
hearts were stirred. I cannot tell why, but to-day there is a strong
feeling within me that I shall see him again."

As she finished speaking, a sound of sleigh-bells came nearer and nearer
and a sleigh drew up at the farm-house gate. Joseph had evidently
returned from his errand but not alone, for the voices of two men were
heard talking together.

[Illustration]

It was very dark in the yard, so Hannah lighted the great tin lantern
and went out to give it to Joseph. Presently she returned, ushering in a
tall and youthful stranger, whose cheeks were aglow from the wintry air.
As he entered, Elizabeth advanced to meet him with outstretched hands,
as if he were an expected guest, and said: "Thou art welcome, John
Estaugh."

"Dost thou remember me, Elizabeth?" replied the stranger. "It seems a
wonderful thing that after so many years have passed I should find thee
again. It was surely the hand of the Lord which conducted me to thy
threshold. As I was on my journey, I saw a wayfarer standing at the
roadside seemingly weary with travel. I greeted the man and offered to
take him to his home. He mounted the sleigh beside me, and on the way he
told me of thee and thy homestead. And, as I remembered thy name and thy
father and mother in England, I have paused on my journey to see thee
and wish thee strength in the good work thou art doing."

At that moment Joseph came in carrying the lantern, which he carefully
extinguished and hung on its nail. Then all sat down to supper together,
for beneath that roof there was no distinction of person--they were one
family, one household.

When supper was over they drew their chairs to the fire-place and
talked, that is, all except Hannah, who busied herself in clearing the
table and making ready the guest-chamber. Then Elizabeth told John
Estaugh how it was that she had come to live on the farm alone, except
for her two faithful servants, secure in the belief that her duty lay
here in the desert.

Thus they talked till bed-time, and at daybreak Joseph cleared a pathway
through the snow-drifts and made ready to conduct the stranger to his
destination. Elizabeth and John bade each other farewell at the gate,
the latter promising to return for the Meeting in May.

Time went on, till at length the cold winter was at an end and balmy
spring came over the land, bringing the song of birds and covering the
earth with flowers. One pleasant morning in May a long procession of men
and women, among them John Estaugh, came riding past on their way to the
Meeting in the neighboring town. On the way they halted at Elizabeth's
farm to rest and partake of the rye bread, currant wine, and honey fresh
from the hives, which were offered to them in generous abundance. Then
Elizabeth, Hannah, and Joseph mounted their horses and prepared to set
out with the others, but when they had started, Elizabeth lingered a
little behind and whispered to John, "Tarry a while, for I have
something to tell thee which must not be lightly spoken in the presence
of others since it concerns me and thee only."

Slowly they rode through the woods together, and the morning was so
bright and fair that it was a pleasure just to be alive. Then Elizabeth
said slowly, as if it were a secret she felt compelled to reveal, though
she would fain have kept it hidden: "I will no longer conceal what is
laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to
love thee, John Estaugh."

[Illustration]

Somewhat surprised at the frank words the maiden had spoken, John made
answer: "All thy ways, thy words and meekness of spirit are indeed
pleasant to me, but as yet I have no voice to direct me in this
matter. When the work which the Lord has appointed for me is ended, I
will commune with my own heart and wait for its guidance."

Then Elizabeth said tranquilly: "It is best so. We will not speak
further on the matter, but I had to tell thee this, for to-morrow thou
art going away across the sea and I know not when I shall see thee
again. But, if God wills, thou wilt return again to seek me and will
find me still here." And they rode onward in silence to join the others
and entered the town in their company.

Thus Elizabeth and John met and parted once more like "Ships that pass
in the night, and speak to each other in passing." The quiet life in the
homestead went on just as it had done before. Always thoughtful and kind
to others, Elizabeth lived and worked on her lonely farm, ever patient
and uncomplaining. And Hannah too, urged by her mistress's example, was
never idle; early and late she was always to be found at work, washing,
scouring, or cooking, till her cheeks grew rosy from her exertions.

She amused herself by teasing Joseph and, though at heart she was really
very fond of him, whenever he attempted to make love to her, she would
never listen seriously, but always laugh at him and make fun of his
clumsy devotion. This was quite unlike the way a demure Puritan maiden
should conduct herself, and at times Elizabeth was obliged to chide her
housemaid for her light behavior.

Meanwhile John Estaugh had sailed over the sea bearing in his heart a
precious secret. He pondered over it, till at length it was borne in
upon him that his duty might go hand-in-hand with his inclination, and
that even if he accepted this wondrous gift of a true woman's love, he
could also follow in the way he deemed the right one. So he returned
from his journey, and on the first Sabbath Day after his arrival he rose
in the silent assembly and holding Elizabeth's hand, which trembled a
little in his strong grasp, he promised, in the presence of the whole
congregation, to be true and kind and faithful in all things to his
wife. Such were the simple marriage rites of Elizabeth Haddon and John
Estaugh.

Then honest Joseph, who thus far had not fared over well in his wooing,
ventured to urge Hannah the housemaid to join her lot with his and
follow the example of their master and mistress. But although Hannah
still said "Nay," she added: "Thee may make believe and see what comes
of it, Joseph." So I am inclined to think that she did give in after
all.




_The Monk and the Ass_


Once upon a time, some centuries ago, two weary Franciscan monks were
wending their way, in the hot glare of the noonday sun, to their
convent, whose white walls and spires gleamed like a patch of snow on
the hillside some distance away.

The first of these monks was named Brother Anthony. He was a spare and
silent man, much given to fasting and prayer. His monk's habit hung in
loose folds on his thin body, his hair was thin and gray, and he stooped
wearily as he walked along. A simple soul was the monk Anthony,
accustomed only to listen and obey the commands of others.

Of a very different stamp was his companion, Brother Timothy, large and
robust with rosy cheeks and bristling red hair. He was tall and broad
shouldered and his robe fitted tightly round his portly form. Brother
Timothy had ever a jest on his lips, and the more sober monks were
sometimes scandalized at the noise and uproar he created in the convent
refectory. Moreover, it was useless to exhort Timothy to cease jesting
and study his Mass-book, for the simple reason that the jovial monk had
never learned to read.

It was a very hot day. The monks' dark robes were covered with dust and
torn by briers, and the two holy men made slow progress owing to the
heavy wallets full of provisions which they were carrying on their
backs. Now, as they passed the outskirts of a lonely wood, to their
surprise they beheld an ass tethered to a tree, and blinking lazily at
the passers-by. This donkey was the property of a certain Farmer
Gilbert, who had come thither to gather faggots. He had wandered deep
into the forest to collect enough wood, leaving his donkey to rest in
the shade.

No sooner did Brother Timothy catch sight of the patient animal than he
cried out: "See, brother, what a piece of good fortune has befallen us!
We will lay our wallets on this creature's back."

This being done, he removed the halter from the ass's neck and proceeded
to tether himself to the same tree where the donkey had been tied.
Brother Anthony looked on at these queer doings in great amazement,
which was not lessened when Brother Timothy broke out into a merry peal
of laughter and cried: "Drive the ass before you with your staff to the
convent, and, when you arrive there, tell the brethren that you were
obliged to leave me at a farm, as I was worn out and ill with fever, and
that the farmer lent you his ass to carry our heavy wallets, which are
filled with provisions for their use."

Brother Anthony knew quite well that it would be fruitless to try and
reason with Brother Timothy when the latter was bent on playing one of
his mad pranks, so he made no reply but obeyed in silence. Driving the
ass before him, he arrived safely with the wallets at the convent and
left his comrade to his fate.

Presently Farmer Gilbert came forth from the wood laden with faggots and
stood aghast to see the ponderous body of the friar fastened to the tree
where he had left his ass. Dropping his load of wood, he stood
open-mouthed and trembling and then hastily crossed himself, for he
thought that this was the work of the Evil One.

"Be not amazed," quoth Brother Timothy, "that where you left an ass you
should find a poor, half-starved Franciscan friar. Set me free and you
shall hear my piteous story."

With shaking fingers the farmer unloosed the rope, and the monk
continued: "Although I wear the garb of a holy friar, I am a sinful man.
You imagine you have owned an ass, but it was myself, transformed into
this shape for the deadly sin of gluttony, and condemned to do penance
by feeding on grass and being beaten and starved by your household.
Think of the miserable life I have endured, the windy shed which was my
home, and the damp and musty straw which formed my bed; my scanty food
was given me grudgingly and I have patiently endured toil and blows. But
to-day my penance is at an end and I begin life as a monk again."

[Illustration]

Simple Farmer Gilbert was conscience-stricken at hearing such words as
these, and, falling on his knees before the friar, implored his pardon.
The deceitful monk, rejoiced to think that his tale had been so readily
believed, generously forgave the farmer for his past conduct, and even
consented to be his guest for the night as it was getting late and he
stood in need of rest.

The farmer led his guest to his humble white-washed cottage, which stood
on a hillside covered with fruitful olive trees. Drawing near, they
found the farmer's wife, comely Dame Cicely, his children, and his old
father waiting the return of the master of the house, and, when the
monk's wonderful tale was told anew, they were no less penitent and
amazed than the farmer himself had been. Deeply they grieved over the
harsh treatment the holy man had endured at their hands, and, poor as
they were, set about forthwith to prepare a grand supper to satisfy
Brother Timothy's hunger after such a long and rigid fast. The good wife
killed her last two fowls, and made them into a salad; then she brought
out her best wine and begged her honored guest to fall to.

Brother Timothy played his part well. He ate and drank as though he had
been starving for a twelve-month, and, all the while, he talked and
laughed without stopping and wagged his red beard, till at length the
farmer grew angry with his guest and ventured to reprove him in good
round terms.

"Good father," said he, "it is easy to see that for some persons
punishment is right and needful. The manner in which you have behaved
to-night after your long penance clearly proves that you have but little
strength against temptation and shows in what peril you stand of
relapsing into your deadly sin of greediness. Take my advice; return to
your convent at sunrise to-morrow and there repent, fast and scourge
yourself, for you are in great danger of becoming an ass again. Be wise
and remain here no longer, or else I may be tempted to use the whip to
you, and I should not deal so lightly with you as you would with
yourself."

[Illustration]

Brother Timothy had the grace to blush deeply at this well-deserved
reproof, but wisely made no reply, and soon the whole household sought
their beds. The next morning they awoke at sunrise, at the hour when the
cock should have crowed, only, as you know, they had eaten him for
supper the previous evening. The monk, who had recovered his good
spirits, rose betimes, and, having breakfasted, set out in haste, for he
heard the distant matin bell ringing from the convent and so made his
leave-taking a very brief one.

It was a balmy summer morning, filled with the song of birds and the
subdued lowing of cattle; the beautiful Italian countryside looked its
loveliest, but Brother Timothy cared naught for all this. His thoughts
were concerned only with his own affairs, and it was not till the
convent walls appeared before him that he quickened his steps and began
to take an interest in what was going on.

As he entered the convent gate, he saw the ass standing patiently there
just as he had found him in the wood. Brother Timothy at once hastened
to the Abbot and, after telling him a plausible tale of sickness and
weariness which had prevented him from returning to the convent on the
previous day, he went on to explain that the ass had been sent as a
present to the Brotherhood; the owner, who was a wealthy man, had
bestowed it on the convent, so that it might ease the poor monks from
always carrying such heavy burdens on their journeys to the neighboring
village.

Now this was a matter which required careful consideration, and for some
days the Abbot thought over in his mind the difficult question of how he
should dispose of the gift. On the one hand, it would be pleasant for
the monks to be spared so much toil, but, on the other, it would make
them lazy and self-indulgent, and the world would find reason for
scandal and reproof. So finally he determined to sell the ass, in order
to save the expense of his keep, and to put by the money which its sale
would fetch. He would save himself from any annoyance and, in addition,
gain a substantial sum of money for the Brotherhood.

The ass was forthwith dispatched to the neighboring fair, whither it
happened by chance that Farmer Gilbert had come. He soon caught sight of
the ass and, coming up, he whispered in its ear: "Alas, good father, I
see that my warnings were useless, and that your gluttony has changed
you into an ass again." The ass, feeling something tickling its ear,
turned round and shook its head as if to contradict what he had just
heard.

"I know you well," continued Gilbert, in a loud voice. "You cannot deny
that you are the Franciscan friar named Timothy," But the ass still
shook its head, and Gilbert continued to argue with the animal till a
crowd gathered round them and began to mock and jeer.

[Illustration]

"If this ass is Brother Timothy," they cried, "you ought to buy him and
feed him on the tenderest grass. It would surely be an act of charity to
show some kindness to a poor unfortunate who has been transformed into
an ass."

The simple farmer took their advice, bought his own ass and led him
homeward over hill and dale and, as they went, he exhorted the animal to
behave well and be content. The children ran to meet their father and,
when they saw what he was leading, they shouted for joy, for they could
not understand that this creature was a holy friar, and not their own
lost donkey.

"Oh, Brother Timothy," they cried, "we are so glad you have come back to
us; we were afraid that you were dead and that we would never see you
any more!"

Then they wove green garlands for his neck, patted him and kissed his
head, and led him back to his stable. Henceforward, the donkey, who was
always known as Brother Timothy, led a life of luxury; he had little
work given him to do and so much hay and corn to eat, that he grew
ungrateful and vicious. At length Farmer Gilbert lost his patience and
said to the ass: "As our kindness is not repaid by good behavior, I
shall have to see what a sound thrashing will do."

It would be difficult to tell you of all the vices that this spoiled
animal had fallen into; among others was a habit of flinging up his
heels, breaking his halter, and running away through woods and over
meadows, defying the efforts of everyone to catch him. But his gravest
offense was breaking out of his shed at night and ravaging the cabbage
patch. This was too much for even the long-suffering farmer to endure,
and he determined to take strong measures to curb the donkey's
wickedness, whether the animal were a holy friar or not. So Brother
Timothy was sent back again to his old life of toil. He was beaten
without mercy, and instead of luxuries and caresses he had to work
harder than he had ever done before. And this was not the worst, for as
his work grew more his food grew less, till at last the poor creature
could only take his revenge on his hard taskmaster by dying.

Great was the lamentation which then uprose, and sad was Farmer Gilbert
to think that the unfortunate monk had died without repenting of his
sins. Dame Cicely and the children cried for a week, and Farmer Gilbert
recounted all the virtues of the deceased and added solemnly: "May
Heaven pardon Brother Timothy and keep us from the deadly sin of
greed!"




EVANGELINE


In the land of Acadia, within a fruitful and secluded valley, lay the
little village of Grand-Pré. Its inhabitants were a sturdy race of
French farmers, hard-working, kind, and generous. The land was
exceedingly fruitful, and so freely did these simple farmers give to
others that poverty was almost unknown in the village. The pleasant
farmhouses had neither locks to the doors nor bars to the windows, but
stood open like the hearts of their owners.

At a short distance from the village dwelt the wealthy farmer, Benedict
Bellefontaine, an upright and stately man, in spite of his seventy
years. With him lived his only daughter, Evangeline, a lovely maiden of
seventeen summers, and the pride and joy of his old age. Her black eyes
gleamed brightly from beneath the shade of her brown tresses and when,
on Sunday mornings she walked down the village street to church,
wearing her Norman cap, blue kirtle and earrings, all eyes turned to
look at her with admiration, for she was without doubt the most
beautiful girl in the whole village.

Of suitors she had many, but none found favor in her eyes save young
Gabriel, the son of Basil the blacksmith. Basil and Benedict were old
friends, and their children had grown up together almost as brother and
sister, learning the same lessons and sharing the same sports and
pastimes. As they grew up, their childish love deepened and
strengthened, and now, with the warm approval of their respective
fathers, their marriage was soon to take place.

One evening, Benedict was sitting by his fireside, and near him
Evangeline was busy spinning, for in those days it was the duty of an
industrious housewife to make all the linen which would be required for
her future home. Presently the latch was lifted and in came the stalwart
blacksmith with his son. The two elders took their usual seats near the
hearth and smoked their pipes, while the young couple stood apart by the
window and talked of their future life.

Said Basil: "I do not like the look of things just now. English ships
with cannon pointed against us are at anchor in our harbor. We do not
yet know whether their intention be good or ill, but we are all
summoned to appear in the church to-morrow and hear his Majesty's
command, which is to be made the law of the land."

[Illustration]

"Nonsense," replied Benedict, "you look on present circumstances too
gloomily. After all, since this land now belongs to the English, it is
only natural that we should have to obey fresh laws. We are an honest
and law-abiding people and they cannot intend to harm us."

"The English have not forgotten that we helped our kinsmen, the French,
against them," replied the blacksmith. "Many of the villagers fear they
mean to harm us, and have already fled to the forest, taking with them
all the weapons they could lay hands on."

"Fear no evil, my friend," said the jovial farmer. "To-night, at any
rate, let no shadow of sorrow fall on this house, for we are assembled
here to draw up our children's marriage contract. Their house is built,
the barns filled with hay, and all is in readiness for them."

As he spoke a knock was heard at the door and the worthy notary, Père
Leblanc, came in. The disquieting news in the village was discussed
anew, and the notary said: "Man is unjust, but God is just, and justice
finally triumphs. When I was taken captive and lay imprisoned in a
French fort I was often consoled by an old story which ran thus: 'Once
in an ancient city, whose name I cannot recall, poised on a column,
stood a brazen statue of Justice. In her right hand she held a sword,
and in her left a pair of scales. The birds of the air had no fear of
the sword which flashed and glittered in the sunshine, and some of the
boldest among them even built their nests in the scales. Now it chanced
that a necklace of pearls was lost in a nobleman's palace and suspicion
fell on a young maid-servant. Although her guilt could not be proved,
she was condemned to death, and her execution took place at the foot of
the statue of Justice. But as her innocent spirit rose to heaven, lo! a
terrible storm swept over the city and struck the statue with such force
that the scales of the balance were hurled down on to the pavement. When
they were picked up, in the hollow was found a magpie's nest, into the
clay sides of which the pearl necklace was interwoven.'"

[Illustration]

The blacksmith was silent, though not convinced by the notary's tale,
but he said nothing further on the subject. The notary produced his
papers and ink-horn and drew out in due form the marriage contract
between Gabriel and Evangeline; then, pocketing the substantial fee
which the farmer offered him, he drank the young couple's health and
withdrew. The old men settled down to their customary game of draughts,
and the lovers sat in the window-seat watching the moon rise and the
stars come out one by one. At nine the village curfew rang, and the
guests rose up and departed.

The next morning a betrothal feast was held in Benedict's orchard. The
young men and maidens danced gayly to the sound of old Michael's
fiddling, and of them all no maiden was so fair as Evangeline, no youth
so handsome as Gabriel. Thus was the morning passed, and soon the
church-bells and the beat of drums summoned the people to the appointed
meeting-place. The women were bidden to wait in the churchyard, while
the men thronged into the church. The guard came marching from the
English ships, and, when they had entered the sacred building, the heavy
doors were fastened and the crowd waited eagerly to hear what was
coming. Speaking from the steps of the altar, the Commander said: "You
are summoned here to-day by his Majesty the King's command, and he has
given me a painful duty to perform. The will of our monarch is that all
your lands, dwellings, and cattle be forfeited to the crown, and that
you yourselves shall be transported to other lands. And now I declare
you my prisoners."

Loud was the clamor of sorrow and anger which uprose at these words and
Basil the blacksmith shouted wildly: "Down with the tyrants of England!"
In the midst of the angry tumult the door of the chancel opened and
Father Felician entered the church. Ascending the steps of the altar,
the good priest made a gesture to command silence and all were subdued
by his noble words: "Even of our enemies let us say, 'O Father, forgive
them!'" Then he calmly conducted the evening service, and never were
prayers more earnestly said than on that dreadful night.

For four days the men were imprisoned in the church, while their
womenfolk, sick with sorrow, waited in their homes. On the fifth day a
long procession of women and children came, driving in ponderous wagons
laden with their household goods, down to the seashore. Then the church
doors were unbarred, and, pale with grief and imprisonment, the Acadian
peasants marched to the harbor under the escort of soldiers. Evangeline
was on the watch for her dear ones; to her lover she whispered words of
encouragement, and strove to cheer her father, though sadly affrighted
by his dejection and the way he seemed suddenly to have grown much
older.

At the place of embarking the greatest confusion prevailed. Small boats
plied between the shore and the ships and thus wives were torn from
their husbands and mothers, too late, saw their children left behind.
Half the task was not finished when night came on. Basil and Gabriel
were among those who were taken to the ships, but Evangeline and her
father were left standing in despair on the shore.

Fires were kindled on the beach, and Father Felician wandered from group
to group, consoling and blessing the poor homeless people. As he paused
where Evangeline and her father were encamped, a sudden flare filled the
sky behind them. All eyes were turned in that direction, and the whole
village was seen to be in flames. Overwhelmed with sorrow the priest and
the maiden gazed at the scene of terror, but Benedict uttered no word,
and, when at last they turned to look at him, he had fallen to the
ground and lay there dead. Separated from her lover and now alone in the
world, the poor girl's courage at length failed her and her grief was
piteous to behold.

The next morning the old farmer received a hasty burial on the seashore,
and the remainder of the exiles were carried to the ships and
transported to far distant lands.

[Illustration]


PART II

Many years had passed away since the burning of the village of
Grand-Pré, and the exiles had been scattered far asunder. Among them a
maiden, patient and meek in spirit, waited and wandered. Sometimes she
lingered in towns, at others she passed through the country and wandered
into churchyards, gazing sadly at the crosses and tombstones, but never
did she remain long in the same place. It was Evangeline searching for
her lover, and, though many sought to dissuade her from her quest, and
urged her to listen to the wooing of her faithful suitor Baptista
Leblanc, the notary's son, she only answered sadly: "I cannot, for
whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand." And in all her doings
she was upheld and cheered by her faithful friend, the priest Felician.
Wherever she went she asked for news of Gabriel, and at last she found
out that he and his father had become famous hunters, and had been met
with on one of the vast prairies, but she was never able to trace his
movements.

[Illustration]

Still she journeyed onward and onward till, one May, she joined a band
of Acadian exiles who were sailing in a cumbrous boat down the broad
river Mississippi. They were seeking for their kinsmen who, it was
rumored, had settled down as farmers in that fertile district. Day after
day the exiles glided down the river, and night after night they
encamped on its banks and slept by the blazing camp-fires which they
kindled. One night--if only Evangeline had known it--a boat rowed by
hunters and trappers, Gabriel among them, passed by close to their camp.
But the exiles' boat was hidden among the willows and they themselves
screened from sight by thick shrubs, so the hunters sped northward and
their passing was unheeded. Only when the sound of their oars had died
away, the maiden awoke and said to the priest: "Father Felician,
something tells me that Gabriel is near me. Chide me not for this
foolish fancy."

"Not far to the south," answered the faithful priest, "are the towns of
St. Maur and St. Martin, where many of our kinsfolk have settled. There
in that beautiful land, which its inhabitants call the Eden of
Louisiana, the bride shall surely be restored to her bridegroom."

Full of hope, the travelers continued their journey, and presently
arrived at a herdsman's house which stood in a lovely garden close to
the river. The owner himself, mounted on horseback, was watching his
numerous herds which were grazing in the meadows around him. As he
turned towards his house, he caught sight of the maiden and the priest
coming toward him. With a cry of joy he sprang from his saddle and
hastened towards them, and then the travelers saw that it was none other
than Basil the blacksmith. You can imagine how cordial were the
greetings, how numberless the questions and answers that passed between
them. Only Evangeline grew silent and thoughtful when Gabriel did not
appear, and at length Basil said, "If you came by way of the lakes, how
is it that you did not meet my son's boat?"

"Gone, is Gabriel gone?" murmured Evangeline piteously; she could not
hide her disappointment, and shed bitter tears.

"Be of good cheer, my child," returned honest Basil, "it is only to-day
he went from here. He grew moody and restless ever thinking of thee,
till at length he could no longer endure this quiet existence. Therefore
I let him go among the Indians, hoping thus to divert his mind from his
troubles. Early to-morrow thou and I will set out after him, and I doubt
not but we shall overtake him and bring him back to his friends."

A sound of many voices was now heard, and the other travelers came up
joyously led by Michael the fiddler, who had lived with Basil since
their exile, having no other task than that of cheering his companions
by his merry music. Basil invited all the travelers to sup with them,
and greatly did they marvel at the former blacksmith's wealth and many
possessions. When they were seated at the table, Basil told his friends
of the beauty of the country and the fertility of the soil, and, when he
added that land might be had for the asking, they all resolved to settle
there and help to form the new Acadian colony.

On the morrow, according to his promise, Basil set out to overtake his
son, and Evangeline went with him. Day after day they journeyed onward
through a wild and desolate country, but could hear no tidings of the
traveler. At length they arrived at the inn of a little Spanish town,
where they heard that Gabriel had left that very place the previous day
and had set out with his horses and guides for the prairies.

Basil and Evangeline determined not to give up their search, and, hiring
some Indian guides, they followed in the direction which Gabriel had
taken. One evening as they were sitting by their camp-fire, there
entered an Indian woman whose face bore the marks of heavy grief. She
was returning from the far distant hunting-grounds, where her husband
had been cruelly murdered by a hostile tribe. Touched by her sad story,
the white people offered her food and a night's shelter, which she
gratefully accepted. After the evening meal was over, Evangeline and the
stranger sat apart, and the maiden, in her turn, related to the other
the story of her lost lover and her other misfortunes.

Early the next day the march was resumed, and as they journeyed along,
the Indian woman said: "On the western slope of these mountains dwells
the Black Robe, Chief of the Mission. He talks to the people of their
Heavenly Father and they give heed to his teaching."

Then said Evangeline: "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings
await us."

So they turned their steeds thither, and just as the sun was setting
they reached a green meadow by the riverside. There the preacher knelt
in prayer and with him a multitude of people. The travelers joined
reverently in the prayers, and when the service was over, the priest
came to welcome the strangers and offered them shelter and a share of
his frugal meal of wheaten cakes and spring water. Afterwards they told
the priest their story, and he said: "Only six days ago Gabriel sat by
my side and told me this same sad tale, then he continued his journey.
He has gone far to the north, but in autumn when the hunting is over he
will return to the Mission."

Then Evangeline pleaded: "Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad
and afflicted." This seemed to the others a wise thing to do, so thus it
was arranged. Early on the morrow Basil returned homewards and
Evangeline stayed on at the Mission.

Slowly and wearily the days passed by, and Evangeline lived and worked
at the Mission till autumn drew on. But still Gabriel did not come, and
the maiden lived on there till the following summer. Then a rumor
reached her ears that Gabriel had encamped in a far distant forest, and
Evangeline took leave of her friends at the Mission and set forth again
to seek her lover, but when she reached the hunter's lodge she found it
deserted and fallen to ruin.

[Illustration]

And now her weary pilgrimage began anew. Her wanderings led her through
towns and villages, now she tarried a while in mission tents, now she
tended the sick and wounded in the camp of a battlefield. As the years
went on, her beauty faded and streaks of gray appeared in her dark hair.
She was fair and young when she began her long journey, faded and old
when it ended in disappointment.

At length poor Evangeline grew weary of wandering through strange places
and resolved to end her days in the city founded by the great preacher,
Penn. Here other of the Acadian exiles had settled, and Evangeline felt
that there was something homelike in the pleasant streets of the little
city and the friendly speech of the Quakers.

There for many years she dwelt as a Sister of Mercy, bringing hope and
comfort to the poor and suffering ones. Then it came to pass that a
terrible pestilence fell on the city and thousands perished. The poor
crept away to die in the almshouse, and thither by night and day came
the Sister of Mercy to tend them.

One Sabbath morning Evangeline passed through the deserted streets and
entered the gates of the almshouse. On her way she paused to pluck some
flowers from the garden, that the dying might be comforted by their
fragrance. As she mounted the stairs she heard the chime of church-bells
and the sound of distant psalm-singing, and a deep calm came over her
soul, for something within her seemed to say, "At length thy trials are
ended!"

Suddenly, as she was passing down the wards, she stood still and uttered
a cry of anguish. On the pallet before her lay an old man with long gray
hair, and, as she gazed, she saw that this was none other than her
lover, Gabriel. She knelt by his bedside and the dying man opened his
eyes and tried to whisper her name, but his strength was spent, and with
one last look he passed away from her.

Evangeline's weary quest was over; sweetly and patiently she took up her
life again and henceforth lived only for others. And now, in the little
Catholic churchyard of this far-away city, side by side the lovers are
sleeping.




_The
Falcon
of
Ser
Federigo_


Not far from the fair town of Florence lived a wondrously beautiful
maiden named Monna Giovanna. Of lovers she had no lack, but the two whom
she most favored were gallant Ser Federigo, and his rival, Ser Enrico.

Ser Federigo had inherited a great fortune and large estates from his
father, and, anxious to win favor in the sight of his lady, he lavished
his wealth in costly banquets and tournaments, never stopping to
consider whether she would approve of his extravagance. So reckless was
Ser Federigo that at last all his fortune was spent, and in order to
obtain fresh supplies he sold his estates, reserving only one small farm
for himself, and wasted all that money also.

Monna Giovanna by no means approved of her wooer's extravagance--she
refused his gifts, and disdained his banquets. "A spendthrift will not
make a prudent husband," thought she, and so she married the more
careful Ser Enrico, and for some years lived very happily with him in a
distant land.

Meanwhile Ser Federigo, become a sadder and wiser man, retired to his
little farm on the outskirts of the city, taking with him his falcon,
the only creature which remained true to him, for all his former friends
shunned him in his poverty.

One hot summer's morning, weary from working in his plot of garden, Ser
Federigo sat on a wooden bench beneath the shelter of his cottage eaves
thinking dreamily of the past and of the happiness which might have been
his, while the falcon by his side was dreaming also. Suddenly he started
up on his perch, shook his bells, and looked eagerly at his master as if
to say, "Ser Federigo, shall we not go a-hunting?" But his master's
thoughts were far away, and he did not stir. Presently he looked up in
amazement. Peeping through the trellis he saw a lovely child, a boy with
golden tresses and large wondering eyes. Without a glance at the man,
the child walked straight up to the bird and said coaxingly, "Beautiful
falcon, I wish I might hold you on my wrist, or see you fly."

Ser Federigo started, for the child's voice seemed strangely familiar to
him, and, laying his hand gently on the shining head, he asked, "Who is
your mother, my fair boy?"

"Monna Giovanna," replied the child. "Will you let me stay a little
while and play with your falcon?"

"Indeed I will, my child, but first tell me, where do you live?"

"Just beyond your garden wall," was the reply. "In the great house
hidden behind those tall poplar trees."

So the boy chattered on, and Ser Federigo took him on his knee and told
him stories of the noble falcon, and soon all three became close
friends.

As the days went on Ser Federigo set himself to find out why it was that
his lady had returned to her native land, and he discovered that Monna
Giovanna had been left a widow after a few years of marriage, and that
she had come with a friend and her only child to pass the summer quietly
in her grand villa overlooking the Arno. Rarely, or never, did the widow
lady go beyond the grounds of her villa. Clad in sable robes she paced
her stately halls, or read and worked with her friend, her one delight
to see her boy growing in health and strength and watch over this
treasure still left to her.

The boy loved his free country life and spent the days racing up and
down the terraces, chasing the screaming peacocks or climbing the garden
trellises to pluck the ripe fruit. But his chief pastime was to watch
the flight of a swift falcon which sometimes soared into sight above the
tall poplars, and at others swooped down to earth at his master's call.
The child had often wondered who the bird's master might be, and one
morning he found out that the pair he sought dwelt in the little
cottage-farm a short distance from his own home.

The child came several times to see the falcon. Suddenly his visits
ceased, but Ser Federigo had no inkling of the reason. The widow's only
child had fallen ill, and was pining away from some unknown malady. His
mother would not be comforted; she saw her darling already lying dead
before her distracted gaze, and no physician could give her any hope for
his cure. Sitting by the invalid's bedside she cried to him, "Is there
anything I can do to comfort thee, my child?"

At first the child remained silent, but when she besought him again and
again to tell her if there was anything on earth she could obtain for
him which might cause him to forget his suffering, he replied, "Yes,
there is one thing I want. I pray you give me Ser Federigo's falcon for
my own!"

The astonished mother could make no reply. Even for her darling's sake
she felt she could not ask such a favor from the lover she had once
treated with scorn. Besides, though she knew that any request of hers
would be at once granted by him, she knew also that the falcon was
renowned as the finest bird throughout the countryside, as well as being
the joy and pride of his master's heart. But the boy was fretful and
restless, and, fearing to thwart his whim lest his life should depend on
it, the poor mother promised to go and ask for the falcon on the very
next day.

"Will you promise faithfully to go, mother?" asked the boy.

"I will, indeed," replied the distracted lady, and, soothed by her
words, the child fell into a refreshing sleep.

The morrow was a bright September day, and Monna Giovanna felt hope
revive within her heart as she gazed on her child still peacefully
sleeping. The birds were singing sweetly and the dew lay heavy on the
grass as two lovely ladies, clothed in hoods and cloaks, passed through
the garden-gate into the woods, where the trees had just donned their
autumn dress of russet and gold. One of these ladies had her rich dark
hair closely covered by her hood. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her
face was only made more beautiful by its look of deep sorrow. Her
companion was a young girl who walked with light steps, her hood thrown
back, and her hair shining with its wealth of gold; her cheeks were
tinted like the apple-blossom, and her heart full of joyous thoughts.
These were Monna Giovanna and her friend, who, with thoughts intent on
their errand, hastened towards the little farm.

They found Ser Federigo digging the ground like Adam of old, and when
he beheld these fair ladies, his garden seemed to become a second Eden
and the river, flowing by, like the stream which watered Paradise.

[Illustration]

Beautiful as was Monna Giovanna's young companion, Ser Federigo had no
eyes for anyone but his dear lady, who, at first doubtful as to how she
should begin her errand, soon raised her stately head and addressed him
in kindly tones.

"Ser Federigo," said she, "I and my companion come hither to see you in
friendship, trusting by this means to make some amends for my unkindness
to you in the past. In former days I would not so much as cross the
threshold of your door; I refused your banquets and rejected your gifts.
But this morning I am here, self-invited, to put your generous nature to
the test, and therefore ask if we may breakfast with you beneath your
vine?"

Humbly Ser Federigo made reply: "Speak not of your unkindness to me, for
if there is within me any good or generous feeling it is to you I owe
it, and this gracious favor you do me in seeking me here is sufficient
to outweigh all my sorrows and regrets of former years."

After a little further talk had passed between them, Ser Federigo asked
his guests to wait in his garden for a brief space while he went to give
orders for breakfast. As he entered his cottage his thoughts dwelt
regretfully on the gold and silver plate and the ruby glass which had
once been his, and it vexed him sorely that his humble abode was lacking
in every luxury.

Matters were even worse than the poor host had anticipated; he searched
every cupboard and ransacked every shelf, but could find nothing. Then
he summoned the maid and asked why it was that provisions had failed
them. "The Signor forgets that he did not hunt to-day," replied the
girl. "We have nothing but bread and wine in the house, and fruit from
the garden."

Then suddenly the falcon shook its bells and looked knowingly at his
master as much as to say, "If anything is wanted, I am here!"

"Yes, everything is wanted, my gallant bird," cried his master, and
without more ado he seized hold of the poor creature and wrung its neck.
Grieved as he was at being forced to sacrifice his only friend, his
master had no time to mourn his untimely end. Hastily a snow-white cloth
was spread on the rough table, and on it was laid a loaf of bread
flanked by purple grapes and fragrant peaches; in the midst of these a
flask of wine wreathed with bright autumnal flowers, and finally the
falcon, stuffed with cloves and spice, was cooked and served to eke out
the humble banquet.

When all was ready the lady and her companion entered the cottage, and
to Ser Federigo's dazzled gaze everything seemed transformed. The little
room became a stately banqueting-hall, the rustic chair on which his
lady sat was transformed into a throne, and the poor falcon seemed a
peacock or a bird of paradise.

When the repast was ended they rose and passed into the garden again,
and then Monna Giovanna spoke in this wise to her host: "Though you are
too courteous to show surprise that I come to you in this friendly
manner after we have been parted so many years, I know you must wonder
at my reason for doing so. You have no children, so you cannot know the
anguish a mother feels when her child is lying ill, nor how eager she is
to anticipate his every wish. My only child is dying, Ser Federigo, and
I have come to beg of you the one thing which may save his life. It is
your falcon, your only treasure, that I beseech you to give my child,
though it grieves me to the heart to demand such a precious gift from
your hands."

Ser Federigo listened with tears of love and pity in his eyes, then
sadly answered, "Alas, dear lady, how gladly would I have granted what
you ask had you but expressed this wish one short hour ago. But,
thinking I could best do honor to my guests by sacrificing what was most
dear to me, I slew my gallant falcon to provide you with a fitting
repast."

Slowly the lady turned aside her head, grieved to think that this noble
knight had slain his cherished falcon for her sake, and yet glad of this
proof of his devotion. But her mind was now filled with alarm, for she
must return empty-handed to her sick child; so, taking a hasty farewell
of their host, the ladies sadly made their way homewards.

The mother's fears were only too well founded. Three days later Ser
Federigo heard the tolling of the passing-bell from the chapel on the
hill, and, as he breathed a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead," he
murmured.

But happier times were in store for the bereaved lady and her faithful
lover. Touched by his devotion Monna Giovanna plighted her troth with
Ser Federigo, and by Christmas time the little farm was deserted, and a
wedding-feast was held in the grand villa on the hill. Once more Monna
Giovanna sat upon the rustic chair which had been brought from the
cottage, but something had been added. On the chair-back was perched a
wooden image of the gallant falcon, and round the cage Ser Federigo had
caused this inscription to be carved: "All things come round to him who
will but wait."

       *       *       *       *       *




THE TOMMY TIPTOP SERIES

By RAYMOND STONE


A new series for outdoor boys. Every lad who likes Baseball, Football
and other outdoor sports is going to be a friend of Tommy Tiptop--that
is, if he reads these stories, and he would if he knew what was in store
for him.

Never was there a boy like Tommy Tiptop for doing things. Tommy could
not be still a minute, and although only ten years of age he organized a
baseball club, a football eleven, went into a winter camp, and did other
things too numerous to mention.

TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS BASEBALL NINE
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