Such sounds of gladness filled all the air, ‘T was plain St. Nicholas had been there!
In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild:
Never was seen such a joyful child. “See what the good saint brought!” she cried, And mother and father must peep inside.
Now such a story who ever heard?
There was a little shivering bird! A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
Had crept into Piccola’s tiny shoe!
“How good poor Piccola must have been!” She cried, as happy as any queen,
While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed,
And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.
Children, this story I tell to you,
Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true. In the far-off land of France, they say, Still do they live to this very day.
THE LITTLE FIR TREE
[When I was a very little girl some one, probably my mother, read to me Hans
Christian Andersen’s story of the Little Fir Tree. It happened that I did not read it for myself or hear it again during my
childhood. One Christmas day, when I was grown up, I found myself at a loss for the “one more” story called for by some little children with whom I was spending the holiday. In the mental search for buried treasure which ensued, I came upon one or
two word-impressions of the experiences of the Little Fir Tree, and forthwith wove them into what I supposed to be something of a reproduction of the original. The latter part of the story had wholly faded from my memory, so that I “made up” to suit the
tastes of my audience. Afterward I told the story to a good many children, at one time or another, and it gradually took the shape it has here. It was not until several years later that, in re-reading Andersen for other purposes, I came upon the real story of
the Little Fir Tree, and read it for myself. Then indeed I was amused, and
somewhat distressed, to find how far I had wandered from the text.
I give this explanation that the reader may know I do not presume to offer the
little tale which follows as an “adaptation” of Andersen’s famous story. I offer it
plainly as a story which children have liked, and which grew out of my early
memories of Andersen’s “The Little Fir Tree”].
Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed, and shiny, which stood in the great forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad, and tall, and shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy
because he was not big like the others. When the birds came flying into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees and built their nests there, he used to call up to them,–
“Come down, come down, rest in my
branches!” But they always said,–
“Oh, no, no; you are too little!”
And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest, it bent
and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees, and murmured to them. Then the
Little Fir Tree looked up, and called,–
“Oh, please, dear wind, come down and play with me!” But he always said,–
“Oh, no; you are too little, you are too little!”
And in the winter the white snow fell softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with wonderful caps and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree, close down in the cover of the others, would call up,–
“Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap, too! I want to play, too!” But the snow
always said,–
“Oh no, no, no; you are too little, you are too little!”
The worst of all was when men came
into the wood, with sledges and teams of horses. They came to cut the big trees
down and carry them away. And when one had been cut down and carried away the
others talked about it, and nodded their heads. And the Little Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you were
carried away so, you might become the mast of a mighty ship, and go far away over the ocean, and see many wonderful things; or you might be part of a fine house in a great city, and see much of life. The Little Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life, but he was always too little; the men passed him by.
But by and by, one cold winter’s morning, men came with a sledge and horses,
and after they had cut here and there they came to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree, and looked all about.
“There are none little enough,” they
said.
Oh! how the Little Fir Tree pricked
up his needles!
“Here is one,” said one of the men,
“it is just little enough.” And he touched the Little Fir Tree.
The Little Fir Tree was happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut
him down. And when he was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering,
SO contentedly, whether he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine city house. But when they came to the town he was
taken out and set upright in a tub and placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row of other fir trees, all small, but none so little as he. And then the Little Fir Tree began to see life.
People kept coming to look at the trees and to take them away. But always when
they saw the Little Fir Tree they shook their heads and said,–
“It is too little, too little.”
Until, finally, two children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small trees. When they saw the Little Fir Tree they cried out,–
“We’ll take this one; it is just little enough!”
They took him out of his tub and carried him away, between them. And the
happy Little Fir Tree spent all his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for; he knew it could hardly be a mast or a house, since he was going away with children.
He kept wondering, while they took him in through some big doors, and set him up in another tub, on the table, in a bare little room. Pretty soon they went away, and
came back again with a big basket, carried between them. Then some pretty ladies,
with white caps on their heads and white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing little parcels. The children took things out of the basket and began to play with the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often begged the wind and the snow and the
birds to do. He felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs and his branches. And when he looked down at himself, as
far as he could look, he saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains! There were strings of white fluffy stuff drooping around him; his twigs held little gold nuts and pink, rosy balls and silver stars; he had pretty little pink and white candles in his arms; but last, and most wonderful of all, the children hung a beautiful white, floating doll-angel over his head! The
Little Fir Tree could not breathe, for joy and wonder. What was it that he was,
now? Why was this glory for him?
After a time every one went away and
left him. It grew dusk, and the Little Fir Tree began to hear strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a
child crying. He was beginning to be lonely. It grew more and more shadowy.
All at once, the doors opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty
ladies were with them. They came up to the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all the little pink and white candles. Then
the two pretty ladies took hold of the table with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the doors, across a hall, and in at another door.
The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight of a long room with many little white beds in it, of children propped up on pillows in the beds, and of other children in great wheeled chairs, and others hobbling about or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why all the little children looked so white and tired; he did not know that he was in a hospital. But before he could wonder any more his breath was quite taken away by the shout those little white children gave.
“Oh! oh! m-m! m-m!” they cried.
“How pretty! How beautiful! Oh,
isn’t it lovely!”
He knew they must mean him, for all
their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He stood as straight as a mast, and quivered in every needle, for joy. Presently one little weak child-voice called out,–
“It’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever saw!”
And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a Christmas
tree! And from his shiny head to his feet he was glad, through and through, because he was just little enough to be the nicest kind of tree in the world!
HOW MOSES WAS SAVED
Thousands of years ago, many years
before David lived, there was a very wise and good man of his people who was a
friend and adviser of the king of Egypt. And for love of this friend, the king of Egypt had let numbers of the Israelites settle in his land. But after the king and his Israelitish friend were dead, there was a new king, who hated the Israelites. When he saw how strong they were, and how
many there were of them, he began to be afraid that some day they might number
more than the Egyptians, and might take his land from him.
Then he and his rulers did a wicked
thing. They made the Israelites slaves. And they gave them terrible tasks to do, without proper rest, or food, or clothes. For they hoped that the hardship would
kill off the Israelites. They thought the old men would die and the young men
be so ill and weary that they could not bring up families, and so the race would vanish away.
But in spite of the work and suffering, the Israelites remained strong, and more and more boys grew up, to make the king
afraid.
Then he did the wickedest thing of all. He ordered his soldiers to kill every boy baby that should be born in an Israelitish family; he did not care about the girls, because they could not grow up to fight.
Very soon after this evil order, a boy baby was born in a certain Israelitish
family. When his mother first looked at him her heart was nearly broken, for he
was even more beautiful than most babies are,–so strong and fair and sweet. But
he was a boy! How could she save him from death?
Somehow, she contrived to keep him
hidden for three whole months. But at the end of that time, she saw that it was not going to be possible to keep him safe any longer. She had been thinking all this time about what she should do, and now
she carried out her plan.
First, she took a basket made of
bulrushes and daubed it all over with pitch so that it was water-tight, and then she laid the baby in it; then she carried it to the edge of the river and laid it in the flags by the river’s brink. It did not show at all, unless one were quite near it. Then she
kissed her little son and left him there. But his sister stood far off, not seeming to watch, but really watching carefully to see what would happen to the baby.
Soon there was the sound of talk and laughter, and a train of beautiful women came down to the water’s edge. It was the king’s daughter, come down to bathe in
the river, with her maidens. The maidens walked along by the river’s side.
As the king’s daughter came near to the water, she saw the strange little basket lying in the flags, and she sent her maid to bring it to her. And when she had opened it, she saw the child; the poor baby was crying. When she saw him, so helpless
and so beautiful, crying for his mother, the king’s daughter pitied him and loved him. She knew the cruel order of her
father, and she said at once, “This is one of the Hebrews’ children.”
At that moment the baby’s sister came to the princess and said, “Shall I go and find thee a nurse from the Hebrew women, so that she may nurse the child for thee?” Not a word did she say about whose child it was, but perhaps the princess guessed; I don’t know. At all events, she told the little girl to go.
So the maiden went, and brought her
mother!
Then the king’s daughter said to the baby’s mother, “Take this child away and nurse it for me, and I will give thee wages.”
Was not that a strange thing? And can you think how happy the baby’s mother
was? For now the baby would be known only as the princess’s adopted child, and would be safe.
And it was so. The mother kept him
until he was old enough to be taken to the princess’s palace. Then he was brought
and given to the king’s daughter, and he became her son. And she named him Moses.
But the strangest part of the whole story is, that when Moses grew to be a man he
became so strong and wise that it was he who at last saved his people from the king and conquered the Egyptians. The one
child saved by the king’s own daughter was the very one the king would most have wanted to kill, if he had known.
THE TEN FAIRIES[1]
[1] Adapted from the facts given in the German of Die Zehn {Feeen?}, by H. A. Guerber.
Once upon a time there was a dear little girl, whose name was Elsa. Elsa’s father and mother worked very hard and became
rich. But they loved Elsa so much that they did not like to have her do any work; very foolishly, they let her play all the time. So when Elsa grew up, she did not
know how to do anything; she could not make bread, she could not sweep a room,
she could not sew a seam; she could only laugh and sing. But she was so sweet and merry that everybody loved her. And by
and by, she married one of the people who loved her, and had a house of her own to take care of.
Then, then, my dears, came hard times for Elsa! There were so many things to
be done in the house, and she did not know how to do any of them! And because she
had never worked at all it made her very tired even to try; she was tired before
the morning was over, every day. The maid would come and say, “How shall I
do this?” or “How shall I do that?” And Elsa would have to say, “I don’t
know.” Then the maid would pretend
that she did not know, either; and when she saw her mistress sitting about doing nothing, she, too, sat about, idle.
Elsa’s husband had a hard time of it; he did not have good things to eat, and they were not ready at the right time, and the house looked all in a clutter. It made him sad, and that made Elsa sad, for she wanted to do everything just right.
At last, one day, Elsa’s husband went away quite cross; he said to her, as he
went out the door, “It is no wonder that the house looks so, when you sit all day with your hands in your lap!”
Little Elsa cried bitterly when he was gone, for she did not want to make her
husband unhappy and cross, and she
wanted the house to look nice. “Oh, dear,” she sobbed, “I wish I could do things
right! I wish I could work! I wish–I wish I had ten good fairies to work for me! Then I could keep the house!”
As she said the words, a great gray man stood before her; he was wrapped in a
strange gray cloak that covered him from head to foot; and he smiled at Elsa.
“What is the matter, dear?” he said. “Why do you cry?”
“Oh, I am crying because I do not know how to keep the house,” said Elsa. “I
cannot make bread, I cannot sweep, I cannot sew a seam; when I was a little
girl I never learned to work, and now I cannot do anything right. I wish I had
ten good fairies to help me!”
“You shall have them, dear,” said the gray man, and he shook his strange gray
cloak. Pouf! Out hopped ten tiny fairies, no bigger than that!
“These shall be your servants, Elsa,” said the gray man; “they are faithful
and clever, and they will do everything you want them to, just right. But the
neighbors might stare and ask questions if they saw these little chaps running about your house, so I will hide them away for you. Give me your little useless hands.”
Wondering, Elsa stretched out her pretty, little, white hands.
“Now stretch out your little useless
fingers, dear!”
Elsa stretched out her pretty pink fingers.
The gray man touched each one of the
ten little fingers, and as he touched them he said their names: “Little Thumb; Fore- finger; Thimble-finger; Ring-finger;
Little Finger; Little Thumb; Forefinger; Thimble-finger; Ring-finger; Little Finger!” And as he named the fingers, one
after another, the tiny fairies bowed their tiny heads; there was a fairy for every
name.
“Hop! hide yourselves away!” said the gray man.
Hop, hop! The fairies sprang to Elsa’s knee, then to the palms of her hands, and then-whisk! they were all hidden away
in her little pink fingers, a fairy in every finger! And the gray man was gone.
Elsa sat and looked with wonder at her little white hands and the ten useless
fingers. But suddenly the little fingers began to stir. The tiny fairies who were hidden away there weren’t used to staying still, and they were getting restless.
They stirred so that Elsa jumped up and ran to the cooking table, and took hold
of the bread board. No sooner had she touched the bread board than the little
fairies began to work: they measured the flour, mixed the bread, kneaded the loaves, and set them to rise, quicker than you
could wink; and when the bread was done, it was the nicest you could wish. Then the little fairy-fingers seized the broom, and in a twinkling they were making the house
clean. And so it went, all day. Elsa flew about from one thing to another, and the ten fairies did it all, just right.
When the maid saw her mistress working, she began to work, too; and when she
saw how beautifully everything was done, she was ashamed to do anything badly
herself. In a little while the housework was going smoothly, and Elsa could laugh and sing again.
There was no more crossness in that
house. Elsa’s husband grew so proud of her that he went about saying to everybody, “My grandmother was a fine housekeeper,
and my mother was a fine housekeeper, but neither of them could hold a candle to my wife. She has only one maid, but, to see the work done, you would think she had
as many servants as she has fingers on her hands!”
When Elsa heard that, she used to laugh, but she never, never told.
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER
Once upon a time there was an honest
shoemaker, who was very poor. He worked as hard as he could, and still he could not earn enough to keep himself and his wife. At last there came a day when he had
nothing left but one piece of leather, big enough to make one pair of shoes. He
cut out the shoes, ready to stitch, and left them on the bench; then he said his prayers and went to bed, trusting that he could
finish the shoes on the next day and sell them.
Bright and early the next morning, he rose and went to his work-bench. There
lay a pair of shoes, beautifully made, and the leather was gone! There was no sign
of any one’s having been there. The shoemaker and his wife did not know what to
make of it. But the first customer who came was so pleased with the beautiful
shoes that he bought them, and paid so much that the shoemaker was able to buy
leather enough for two pairs.
Happily, he cut them out, and then, as it was late, he left the pieces on the bench, ready to sew in the morning. But when
morning came, two pairs of shoes lay on the bench, most beautifully made, and no sign of any one who had been there. The shoemaker and his wife were quite at a loss.
That day a customer came and bought
both pairs, and paid so much for them that the shoemaker bought leather for four
pairs, with the money.
Once more he cut out the shoes and left them on the bench. And in the morning
all four pairs were made.
It went on like this until the shoemaker and his wife were prosperous people. But they could not be satisfied to have so much done for them and not know to whom they
should be grateful. So one night, after the shoemaker had left the pieces of leather on the bench, he and his wife hid themselves behind a curtain, and left a light in
the room.
Just as the clock struck twelve the door opened softly, and two tiny elves came
dancing into the room, hopped on to the bench, and began to put the pieces
together. They were quite naked, but they had wee little scissors and hammers and
thread. Tap! tap! went the little hammers; stitch, stitch, went the thread, and
the little elves were hard at work. No one ever worked so fast as they. In almost no time all the shoes were stitched and
finished. Then the tiny elves took hold of each other’s hands and danced round the
shoes on the bench, till the shoemaker and his wife had hard work not to laugh aloud. But as the clock struck two, the little
creatures whisked away out of the window, and left the room all as it was before.
The shoemaker and his wife looked at
each other, and said, “How can we thank the little elves who have made us happy
and prosperous?”
“I should like to make them some pretty clothes,” said the wife, “they are quite naked.”
“I will make the shoes if you will make the coats,” said her husband.
That very day they set about it. The
wife cut out two tiny, tiny coats of green, two weeny, weeny waistcoats of yellow,
two little pairs of trousers, of white, two bits of caps, bright red (for every one
knows the elves love bright colors), and her husband made two little pairs of shoes with long, pointed toes. They made the
wee clothes as dainty as could be, with nice little stitches and pretty buttons; and by Christmas time, they were finished.
On Christmas eve, the shoemaker cleaned his bench, and on it, instead of leather, he laid the two sets of gay little fairy- clothes. Then he and his wife hid away
as before, to watch.
Promptly at midnight, the little naked elves came in. They hopped upon the
bench; but when they saw the little clothes there, they laughed and danced for joy.
Each one caught up his little coat and things and began to put them on. Then
they looked at each other and made all kinds of funny motions in their delight. At last they began to dance, and when
the clock struck two, they danced quite away, out of the window.
They never came back any more, but
from that day they gave the shoemaker and his wife good luck, so that they never needed any more help.
WHO KILLED THE OTTER’S BABIES[1]?
[1] Adapted from the story as told in Fables and Folk Tales From an Eastern Forest, by Walter Skeat.
Once the Otter came to the Mouse-deer and said, “Friend Mouse-deer, will you
please take care of my babies while I go to the river, to catch fish?”
“Certainly,” said the Mouse-deer, “go along.”
But when the Otter came back from the river, with a string of fish, he found his babies crushed flat.
“What does this mean, Friend Mouse-
deer?” he said. “Who killed my children while you were taking care of them?”
“I am very sorry,” said the Mouse-deer, “but you know I am Chief Dancer of the
War-dance, and the Woodpecker came
and sounded the war-gong, so I danced. I forgot your children, and trod on them.”
“I shall go to King Solomon,” said the Otter, “and you shall be punished.”
Soon the Mouse-deer was called before King Solomon.
“Did you kill the Otter’s babies?” said the king.
“Yes, your Majesty,” said the Mouse-
deer, “but I did not mean to.”
“How did it happen?” said the king.
“Your Majesty knows,” said the Mouse- deer, “that I am Chief Dancer of the
War-dance. The Woodpecker came and
sounded the war-gong, and I had to dance; and as I danced I trod on the Otter’s
children.”
“Send for the Woodpecker,” said King
Solomon. And when the Woodpecker
came, he said to him, “Was it you who sounded the war-gong?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” said the Woodpecker, “but I had to.”
“Why?” said the king.
“Your Majesty knows,” said the Woodpecker, “that I am Chief Beater of the
War-gong, and I sounded the gong because I saw the Great Lizard wearing his
sword.”
“Send for the Great Lizard,” said King Solomon. When the Great Lizard came,
he asked him, “Was it you who were wearing your sword?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” said the Great
Lizard; “but I had to.”
“Why?” said the king.
“Your Majesty knows,” said the Great
Lizard, “that I am Chief Protector of the Sword. I wore my sword because the
Tortoise came wearing his coat of mail.”
So the Tortoise was sent for.
“Why did you wear your coat of mail?” said the king.
“I put it on, your Majesty,” said the Tortoise, “because I saw the King-crab
trailing his three-edged pike.”
Then the King-crab was sent for.
“Why were you trailing your three-
edged pike?” said King Solomon.
“Because, your Majesty,” said the
Kingerab, “I saw that the Crayfish had shouldered his lance.”
Immediately the Crayfish was sent for.
“Why did you shoulder your lance?”
said the king.
“Because, your Majesty,” said the
Crayfish, “I saw the Otter coming down to the river to kill my children.”
“Oh,” said King Solomon, “if that is the case, the Otter killed the Otter’s children. And the Mouse-deer cannot be
held, by the law of the land!”
EARLY[1]
[1] From The singing Leaves, by Josephine Preston Peabody (Houghton, Mifflin and Co.).
I like to lie and wait to see
My mother braid her hair.
It is as long as it can be,
And yet she doesn’t care.
I love my mother’s hair.
And then the way her fingers go;
They look so quick and white,–
In and out, and to and fro,
And braiding in the light,
And it is always right.
So then she winds it, shiny brown,
Around her head into a crown,
Just like the day before.
And then she looks and pats it down, And looks a minute more;
While I stay here all still and cool. Oh, isn’t morning beautiful?
THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL
Do you know what a Brahmin is? A
Brahmin is a very good and gentle kind of man who lives in India, and who treats all the beasts as if they were his brothers. There is a great deal more to know about Brahmins, but that is enough for the story.
One day a Brahmin was walking along
a country road when he came upon a
Tiger, shut up in a strong iron cage. The villagers had caught him and shut him up there for his wickedness.
“Oh, Brother Brahmin, Brother Brahmin,” said the Tiger, “please let me out,
to get a little drink! I am so thirsty, and there is no water here.”
“But Brother Tiger,” said the Brahmin, “you know if I should let you out, you
would spring on me and eat me up.”
“Never, Brother Brahmin!” said the
Tiger. “Never in the world would I do such an ungrateful thing! Just let me out a little minute, to get a little, little drink of water, Brother Brahmin!”
So the Brahmin unlocked the door and
let the Tiger out. The moment he was out he sprang on the Brahmin, and was
about to eat him up.
“But, Brother Tiger,” said the Brahmin, “you promised you would not. It is not
fair or just that you should eat me, when I set you free.”
“It is perfectly right and just,” said the Tiger, “and I shall eat you up.”
However, the Brahmin argued so hard
that at last the Tiger agreed to wait and ask the first five whom they should meet, whether it was fair for him to eat the
Brahmin, and to abide by their decision.
The first thing they came to, to ask, was an old Banyan Tree, by the wayside.
(A banyan tree is a kind of fruit tree.)
“Brother Banyan,” said the Brahmin,
eagerly, “does it seem to you right or just that this Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from his cage?”
The Banyan Tree looked down at them
and spoke in a tired voice.
“In the summer,” he said, “when the
sun is hot, men come and sit in the cool of my shade and refresh themselves with the fruit of my branches. But when evening
falls, and they are rested, they break my twigs and scatter my leaves, and stone
my boughs for more fruit. Men are an ungrateful race. Let the Tiger eat the
Brahmin.”
The Tiger sprang to eat the Brahmin,
but the Brahmin said,–
“Wait, wait; we have asked only one.
We have still four to ask.”
Presently they came to a place where an old Bullock was lying by the road. The
Brahmin went up to him and said,–
“Brother Bullock, oh, Brother Bullock, does it seem to you a fair thing that this Tiger should eat me up, after I have just freed him from a cage?”
The Bullock looked up, and answered
in a deep, grumbling voice,–
“When I was young and strong my
master used me hard, and I served him well. I carried heavy loads and carried
them far. Now that I am old and weak and cannot work, he leaves me without
food or water, to die by the wayside. Men are a thankless lot. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin.”
The Tiger sprang, but the Brahmin
spoke very quickly:–
“Oh, but this is only the second, Brother Tiger; you promised to ask five.”
The Tiger grumbled a good deal, but at last he went on again with the Brahmin.
And after a time they saw an Eagle, high overhead. The Brahmin called up to him
imploringly,–
“Oh, Brother Eagle, Brother Eagle!
Tell us if it seems to you fair that this Tiger should eat me up, when I have just saved him from a frightful cage?”
The Eagle soared slowly overhead a
moment, then he came lower, and spoke in a thin, clear voice.
“I live high in the air,” he said, “and I do no man any harm. Yet as often as they find my eyrie, men stone my young and rob my nest and shoot at me with arrows.
Men are a cruel breed. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin!”
The Tiger sprang upon the Brahmin,
to eat him up; and this time the Brahmin had very hard work to persuade him to
wait. At last he did persuade him,
however, and they walked on together. And in a little while they saw an old Alligator, lying half buried in mud and slime, at the river’s edge.
“Brother Alligator, oh, Brother Alligator!” said the Brahmin, “does it seem
at all right or fair to you that this Tiger should eat me up, when I have just now
let him out of a cage?”
The old Alligator turned in the mud,
and grunted, and snorted; then he said,
“I lie here in the mud all day, as
harmless as a pigeon; I hunt no man, yet every time a man sees me, he throws stones at
me, and pokes me with sharp sticks, and jeers at me. Men are a worthless lot. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin!”
At this the Tiger was bound to eat the Brahmin at once. The poor Brahmin
had to remind him, again and again, that they had asked only four.
“Wait till we’ve asked one more! Wait until we see a fifth!” he begged.
Finally, the Tiger walked on with him.
After a time, they met the little Jackal, coming gayly down the road toward them.
“Oh, Brother Jackal, dear Brother
Jackal,” said the Brahmin, “give us your opinion! Do you think it right or fair that this Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from a terrible cage?”
“Beg pardon?” said the little Jackal.
“I said,” said the Brahmin, raising his voice, “do you think it is fair that the Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from his cage?”
“Cage?” said the little Jackal, vacantly.
“Yes, yes, his cage,” said the Brahmin. “We want your opinion. Do you think–“
“Oh,” said the little Jackal, “you want my opinion? Then may I beg you to speak
a little more loudly, and make the matter quite clear? I am a little slow of
understanding. Now what was it?”
“Do you think,” said the Brahmin, “it is right for this Tiger to eat me, when I set him free from his cage?”
“What cage?” said the little Jackal.
“Why, the cage he was in,” said the
Brahmin. “You see–“
“But I don’t altogether understand,”
said the little Jackal, “You `set him free,’ you say?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” said the Brahmin.
“It was this way: I was walking along, and I saw the Tiger–“
“Oh, dear, dear!” interrupted the little Jackal; “I never can see through it, if you go on like that, with a long story. If you really want my opinion you must make the matter clear. What sort of cage was it?”
“Why, a big, ordinary cage, an iron
cage,” said the Brahmin.
“That gives me no idea at all,” said the little Jackal. “See here, my friends, if we are to get on with this matter you’d best show me the spot. Then I can understand
in a jiffy. Show me the cage.”
So the Brahmin, the Tiger, and the little Jackal walked back together to the spot
where the cage was.
“Now, let us understand the situation,” said the little Jackal. “Brahmin, where
were you?”
“I stood here by the roadside,” said the Brahmin.
“Tiger, where were you?” said the little Jackal.
“Why, in the cage, of course,” roared the Tiger.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Father Tiger,” said the little Jackal, “I really am SO stupid; I cannot QUITE understand what happened. If you will have a little patience,–HOW were you in the cage? What position
were you in?”
“I stood here,” said the Tiger, leaping into the cage, “with my head over my
shoulder, so.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the
little Jackal, “that makes it MUCH clearer; but I still don’t QUITE understand–forgive my slow mind–why did you not come
out, by yourself?”
“Can’t you see that the door shut me
in?” said the Tiger.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” said the
little Jackal. “I know I am very slow; I can never understand things well unless I see just how they were if you could show me now exactly how that door works I am
sure I could understand. How does it shut?”
“It shuts like this,” said the Brahmin, pushing it to.
“Yes; but I don’t see any lock,” said the little Jackal, “does it lock on the
outside?”
“It locks like this,” said the Brahmin. And he shut and bolted the door!
“Oh, does it, indeed?” said the little Jackal. “Does it, INDEED! Well, Brother
Brahmin, now that it is locked, I should advise you to let it stay locked! As for you, my friend,” he said to the Tiger, “I think you will wait a good while before
you’ll find any one to let you out again!
Then he made a very low bow to the Brahmin.
“Good-by, Brother,” he said. “Your
way lies that way, and mine lies this; good-by!”
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE CAMEL
All these stories about the little Jackal that I have told you, show how clever the little Jackal was. But you know–if you
don’t, you will when you are grown up– that no matter how clever you are, sooner or later you surely meet some one who is cleverer. It is always so in life. And it was so with the little Jackal. This is what happened.
The little Jackal was, as you know,
exceedingly fond of shell-fish, especially of river crabs. Now there came a time when
he had eaten all the crabs to be found on his own side of the river. He knew there must be plenty on the other side, if he
could only get to them, but he could not swim.
One day he thought of a plan. He went to his friend the Camel, and said,–
“Friend Camel, I know a spot where the sugar-cane grows thick; I’ll show you the way, if you will take me there.”
“Indeed I will,” said the Camel, who
was very fond of sugar-cane. “Where is it?”
“It is on the other side of the river,” said the little Jackal; “but we can manage it nicely, if you will take me on your back and swim over.”
The Camel was perfectly willing, so the little Jackal jumped on his back, and the Camel swam across the river, carrying him. When they were safely over, the little Jackal jumped down and showed the Camel the
sugar-cane field; then he ran swiftly along the river bank, to hunt for crabs; the Camel began to eat sugar-cane. He ate happily, and noticed nothing around him.
Now, you know, a Camel is very big,
and a Jackal is very little. Consequently, the little Jackal had eaten his fill by the time the Camel had barely taken a mouthful. The little Jackal had no mind to wait
for his slow friend; he wanted to be off home again, about his business. So he ran round and round the sugar-cane field, and as he ran he sang and shouted, and made
a great hullabaloo.
Of course, the villagers heard him at once.
“There is a Jackal in the sugar-cane,” they said; “he will dig holes and destroy the roots; we must go down and drive him out.” So they came down, with sticks and stones. When they got there, there was no Jackal to be seen; but they saw the great Camel, eating away at the juicy sugar-
cane. They ran at him and beat him, and stoned him, and drove him away half
dead.
When they had gone, leaving the poor
Camel half killed, the little Jackal came dancing back from somewhere or other.
“I think it’s time to go home, now,” he said; “don’t you?”
“Well, you ARE a pretty friend!” said the Camel. “The idea of your making such
a noise, with your shouting and singing! You brought this upon me. What in the
world made you do it? Why did you shout and sing?”
“Oh, I don’t know WHY,” said the little Jackal,–“I always sing after dinner!”
“So?” said the Camel, “Ah, very well, let us go home now.”
He took the little Jackal kindly on his back and started into the water. When
he began to swim he swam out to where the river was the very deepest. There he stopped, and said,–
“Oh, Jackal!”
“Yes,” said the little Jackal.
“I have the strangest feeling,” said the Camel,–“I feel as if I must roll over.”
“`Roll over’!” cried the Jackal. “My
goodness, don’t do that! If you do that, you’ll drown me! What in the world makes you want to do such a crazy thing? Why
should you want to roll over?”
“Oh, I don’t know WHY,” said the Camel slowly, “but I always roll over after dinner!”
So he rolled over.
And the little Jackal was drowned, for his sins, but the Camel came safely home.
THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE
The story I am going to tell you is about something that really happened, many
years ago, when most of the mothers and fathers of the children here were not born, themselves. At that time, nearly all the people in the United States lived between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mississippi
River. Beyond were plains, reaching to the foot of the mighty Rocky Mountains, where Indians and wild beasts roamed. The only white men there were a few hunters and
trappers.
One year a brave little company of people traveled across the plains in big covered wagons with many horses, and finally
succeeded in climbing to the top of the great Rockies and down again into a valley in the very midst of the mountains. It
was a valley of brown, bare, desert soil, in a climate where almost no rain falls; but the snows on the mountain-tops sent
down little streams of pure water, the winds were gentle, and lying like a blue jewel at the foot of the western hills was a marvelous lake of salt water,–an inland sea.
So the pioneers settled there and built them huts and cabins for the first winter.
It had taken them many months to make the terrible journey; many had died of
weariness and illness on the way; many died of hardship during the winter; and the provisions they had brought in their wagons were so nearly gone that, by spring, they were living partly on roots, dug from the ground. All their lives now depended on
the crops of grain and vegetables which they could raise in the valley. They made the barren land good by spreading water
from the little streams over it,–what we call “irrigating;” and they planted enough corn and grain and vegetables for all the people. Every one helped, and every one
watched for the sprouting, with hopes, and prayers, and careful eyes.
In good time the seeds sprouted, and
the dry, brown earth was covered with a carpet of tender, green, growing things. No farmer’s garden at home in the East
could have looked better than the great garden of the desert valley. And from day to day the little shoots grew and flourished till they were all well above the ground.
Then a terrible thing happened. One
day the men who were watering the crops saw a great number of crickets swarming
over the ground at the edge of the gardens nearest the mountains. They were hopping from the barren places into the young,
green crops, and as they settled down they ate the tiny shoots and leaves to the ground. More came, and more, and ever more, and
as they came they spread out till they covered a big corner of the grain field. And still more and more, till it was like an army of black, hopping, crawling crickets, streaming down the side of the mountain
to kill the crops.
The men tried to kill the crickets by beating the ground, but the numbers were so great that it was like beating at the sea. Then they ran and told the terrible news, and all the village came to help. They
started fires; they dug trenches and filled them with water; they ran wildly about in the fields, killing what they could. But while they fought in one place new armies of crickets marched down the mountain-
sides and attacked the fields in other places. And at last the people fell on their knees and wept and cried in despair, for they saw starvation and death in the fields.
A few knelt to pray. Others gathered
round and joined them, weeping. More left their useless struggles and knelt
beside their neighbors. At last nearly all the people were kneeling on the desolate fields praying for deliverance from the plague of crickets.
Suddenly, from far off in the air toward the great salt lake, there was the sound of flapping wings. It grew louder. Some
of the people looked up, startled. They saw, like a white cloud rising from the lake, a flock of sea gulls flying toward them. Snow-white in the sun, with great wings
beating and soaring, in hundreds and hundreds, they rose and circled and came on.
“The gulls! the gulls!” was the cry.
“What does it mean?”
The gulls flew overhead, with a shrill chorus of whimpering cries, and then, in a marvelous white cloud of spread wings
and hovering breasts, they settled down over the seeded ground.
“Oh! woe! woe!” cried the people.
“The gulls are eating what the crickets have left! they will strip root and branch!”
But all at once, some one called out,–
“No, no! See! they are eating the
crickets! They are eating only the crickets!”
It was true. The gulls devoured the
crickets in dozens, in hundreds, in swarms. They ate until they were gorged, and then they flew heavily back to the lake, only to come again with new appetite. And when
at last they finished, they had stripped the fields of the cricket army; and the people were saved.
To this day, in the beautiful city of Salt Lake, which grew out of that pioneer village, the little children are taught to love
the sea gulls. And when they learn drawing and weaving in the schools, their first
design is often a picture of a cricket and a gull.
THE NIGHTINGALE[1]
[1] Adapted from Hans Christian Andersen.
A long, long time ago, as long ago as when there were fairies, there lived an emperor in China, who had a most beautiful palace, all made of crystal. Outside the palace
was the loveliest garden in the whole world, and farther away was a forest where the
trees were taller than any other trees in the world, and farther away, still, was a deep wood. And in this wood lived a little
Nightingale. The Nightingale sang so beautifully that everybody who heard her remembered her song better than anything else that he heard or saw. People came
from all over the world to see the crystal palace and the wonderful garden and the
great forest; but when they went home and wrote books about these things they
always wrote, “But the Nightingale is the best of all.”
At last it happened that the Emperor
came upon a book which said this, and he at once sent for his Chamberlain.
“Who is this Nightingale?” said the
Emperor. “Why have I never heard him sing?”
The Chamberlain, who was a very
important person, said, “There cannot be any such person; I have never heard his
name.”
“The book says there is a Nightingale,” said the Emperor. “I command that the
Nightingale be brought here to sing for me this evening.”
The Chamberlain went out and asked
all the great lords and ladies and pages where the Nightingale could be found, but not one of them had ever heard of him.
So the Chamberlain went back to the Emperor and said, “There is no such person.”
“The book says there is a Nightingale,” said the Emperor; “if the Nightingale is not here to sing for me this evening I will have the court trampled upon, immediately after supper.”
The Chamberlain did not want to be
trampled upon, so he ran out and asked everybody in the palace about the Nightingale. At last, a little girl who worked in
the kitchen to help the cook’s helper, said, “Oh, yes, I know the Nightingale very
well. Every night, when I go to carry scraps from the kitchen to my mother,
who lives in the wood beyond the forest, I hear the Nightingale sing.”
The Chamberlain asked the little cook- maid to take him to the Nightingale’s
home, and many of the lords and ladies followed after. When they had gone a
little way, they heard a cow moo.
“Ah!” said the lords and ladies, “that must be the Nightingale; what a large
voice for so small a creature!”
“Oh, no,” said the little girl, “that is just a cow, mooing.”
A little farther on they heard some bull- frogs, in a swamp. “Surely that is the
Nightingale,” said the courtiers; “it really sounds like church-bells!”
“Oh, no,” said the little girl, “those are bullfrogs, croaking.”
At last they came to the wood where the Nightingale was. “Hush!” said the little girl, “she is going to sing.” And, sure
enough, the little Nightingale began to sing. She sang so beautifully that you
have never in all your life heard anything like it.
“Dear, dear,” said the courtiers, “that is very pleasant; does that little gray bird really make all that noise? She is so pale that I think she has lost her color for fear of us.”
The Chamberlain asked the little Nightingale to come and sing for the Emperor.
The little Nightingale said she could sing better in her own greenwood, but she was so sweet and kind that she came with them.
That evening the palace was all trimmed with the most beautiful flowers you can
imagine, and rows and rows of little silver bells, that tinkled when the wind blew
in, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of wax candles, that shone like tiny
stars. In the great hall there was a gold perch for the Nightingale, beside the
Emperor’s throne.
When all the people were there, the
Emperor asked the Nightingale to sing. Then the little gray Nightingale filled her throat full, and sang. And, my dears, she sang
so beautifully that the Emperor’s eyes filled up with tears! And, you know,
emperors do not cry at all easily. So he asked her to sing again, and this time she sang so marvelously that the tears came out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. That
was a great success. They asked the little Nightingale to sing, over and over again, and when they had listened enough the
Emperor said that she should be made “Singer in Chief to the Court.” She was
to have a golden perch near the Emperor’s bed, and a little gold cage, and was
to be allowed to go out twice every day. But there were twelve servants appointed to wait on her, and those twelve servants went with her every time she went out, and each of the twelve had hold of the end
of a silken string which was tied to the little Nightingale’s leg! It was not so very much fun to go out that way!
For a long, long time the Nightingale sang every evening to the Emperor and his court, and they liked her so much that
the ladies all tried to sound like her; they used to put water in their mouths and then make little sounds like this: glu-glu-glug. And when the courtiers met each other in the halls, one would say “Night,” and
the other would say “ingale,” and that was conversation.
At last, one day, there came a little package to the Emperor, on the outside of which
was written, “The Nightingale.” Inside was an artificial bird, something like a Nightingale, only it was made of gold, and silver, and rubies, and emeralds, and
diamonds. When it was wound up it played a waltz tune, and as it played it moved its little tail up and down. Everybody in the court was filled with delight at the music of the new nightingale. They made it sing that same tune thirty-three times, and still they had not had enough. They would
have made it sing the tune thirty-four times, but the Emperor said, “I should like to
hear the real Nightingale sing, now.”
But when they looked about for the real little Nightingale, they could not find her anywhere! She had taken the chance,
while everybody was listening to the waltz tunes, to fly away through the window to her own greenwood.
“What a very ungrateful bird!” said the lords and ladies. “But it does not matter; the new nightingale is just as good.”
So the artificial nightingale was given the real Nightingale’s little gold perch, and every night the Emperor wound her up,
and she sang waltz tunes to him. The people in the court liked her even better than the old Nightingale, because they
could all whistle her tunes,–which you can’t do with real nightingales.
About a year after the artificial nightingale came, the Emperor was listening to
her waltz-tune, when there was a SNAP and WHIR-R-R inside the bird, and the music stopped. The Emperor ran to his doctor
but he could not do anything. Then he ran to his clock-maker, but he could not do much. Nobody could do much. The
best they could do was to patch the gold nightingale up so that it could sing once a year; even that was almost too much,
and the tune was pretty shaky. Still, the Emperor kept the gold nightingale on the perch in his own room.
A long time went by, and then, at last, the Emperor grew very ill, and was about to die. When it was sure that he could
not live much longer, the people chose a new emperor and waited for the old one
to die. The poor Emperor lay, quite cold and pale, in his great big bed, with velvet curtains, and tall candlesticks all about. He was quite alone, for all the courtiers had gone to congratulate the new emperor, and all the servants had gone to talk it over.
When the Emperor woke up, he felt a
terrible weight on his chest. He opened his eyes, and there was Death, sitting on his heart. Death had put on the Emperor’s gold crown, and he had the gold sceptre in one hand, and the silken banner in the
other; and he looked at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes. The room was full of shadows, and the shadows were full of faces. Everywhere the Emperor looked,
there were faces. Some were very, very ugly, and some were sweet and lovely;
they were all the things the Emperor had done in his life, good and bad. And as he looked at them they began to whisper.
They whispered, “DO YOU REMEMBER THIS?” “DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?” The Emperor
remembered so much that he cried out loud, “Oh, bring the great drum! Make music,
so that I may not hear these dreadful whispers!” But there was nobody there
to bring the drum.
Then the Emperor cried, “You little
gold nightingale, can you not sing something for me? I have given you gifts of
gold and jewels, and kept you always by my side; will you not help me now?” But
there was nobody to wind the little gold nightingale up, and of course it could not sing.
The Emperor’s heart grew colder and
colder where Death crouched upon it, and the dreadful whispers grew louder and louder, and the Emperor’s life was almost gone. Suddenly, through the open window, there came a most lovely song. It was so sweet and so loud that the whispers died quite away. Presently the Emperor felt
his heart grow warm, then he felt the blood flow through his limbs again; he listened to the song until the tears ran down his cheeks; he knew that it was the little real Nightingale who had flown away from him
when the gold nightingale came.
Death was listening to the song, too; and when it was done and the Emperor
begged for more, Death, too, said, “Please sing again, little Nightingale!”
“Will you give me the Emperor’s gold
crown for a song?” said the little Nightingale.
“Yes,” said Death; and the little Nightingale bought the Emperor’s crown for a song.
“Oh, sing again, little Nightingale,” begged Death.
“Will you give me the Emperor’s sceptre for another song?” said the little gray
Nightingale.
“Yes,” said Death; and the little Nightingale bought the Emperor’s sceptre for
another song.
Once more Death begged for a song,
and this time the little Nightingale got the banner for her singing. Then she sang one more song, so sweet and so sad that it
made Death think of his garden in the churchyard, where he always liked best
to be. And he rose from the Emperor’s heart and floated away through the window.
When Death was gone, the Emperor
said to the little Nightingale, “Oh, dear little Nightingale, you have saved me from Death! Do not leave me again. Stay with
me on this little gold perch, and sing to me always!”
“No, dear Emperor,” said the little
Nightingale, “I sing best when I am free; I cannot live in a palace. But every night when you are quite alone, I will come
and sit in the window and sing to you, and tell you everything that goes on in your kingdom: I will tell you where the poor
people are who ought to be helped, and where the wicked people are who ought
to be punished. Only, dear Emperor, be sure that you never let anybody know that you have a little bird who tells you everything.”
After the little Nightingale had flown away, the Emperor felt so well and strong that he dressed himself in his royal robes and took his gold sceptre in his hand.
And when the courtiers came in to see if he were dead, there stood the Emperor with
his sword in one hand and his sceptre in the other, and said, “Good-morning!”
MARGERY’S GARDEN[1]
[1] I have always been inclined to avoid, in my work among children, the “how to make” and “how to do” kind of story; it is too likely to trespass on the ground belonging by right to its more artistic and less intentional kinsfolk. Nevertheless, there is a legitimate place for the instruction-story. Within its own limits, and especially in a school use, it has a real purpose to serve, and a real desire to meet. Children have a genuine taste for such morsels of practical information, if the bites aren’t made too big and too solid. And to the teacher of the first grades, from whom so much is demanded in the way of practical instruction, I know that these stories are a boon. They must be chosen with care, and used with discretion, but they need never be ignored.
I venture to give some little stories of this type, which I hope may be of use in the schools where country life and country work is an unknown experience to the children.
There was once a little girl named Margery, who had always lived in the city.
The flat where her mother and father lived was at the top of a big apartment-house, and you couldn’t see a great deal from the windows, except clothes-lines on other people’s roofs. Margery did not know much
about trees and flowers, but she loved them dearly; whenever it was a pleasant
Sunday she used to go with her mother and father to the park and look at the
lovely flower-beds. They seemed always to be finished, though, and Margery
was always wishing she could see them grow.
One spring, when Margery was nine,
her father’s work changed so that he could move into the country, and he took a little house a short distance outside the town
where his new position was. Margery was delighted. And the very first thing she
said, when her father told her about it, was, “Oh, may I have a garden? MAY
I have a garden?”
Margery’s mother was almost as eager
for a garden as she was, and Margery’s father said he expected to live on their vegetables all the rest of his life! So it was soon agreed that the garden should be the first thing attended to.
Behind the little house were apple trees, a plum tree, and two or three pear trees; then came a stretch of rough grass, and
then a stone wall, with a gate leading into the pasture. It was in the grassy land that the garden was to be. A big piece was to be used for corn and peas and beans, and a
little piece at the end was to be saved for Margery.
“What shall we have in it?” asked her mother.
“Flowers,” said Margery, with shining eyes,–“blue, and white, and yellow, and pink,–every kind of flower!”
“Surely, flowers,” said her mother,
“and shall we not have a little salad garden in the midst, as they do in England?”
“What is a salad garden?” Margery asked.
“It is a garden where you have all the things that make nice salad,” said her
mother, laughing, for Margery was fond of salads; “you have lettuce, and endive, and romaine, and parsley, and radishes, and
cucumbers, and perhaps little beets and young onions.”
“Oh! how good it sounds!” said
Margery. “I vote for the salad garden.”
That very evening, Margery’s father took pencil and paper, and drew out a plan for her garden; first, they talked it all over, then he drew what they decided on; it
looked like the diagram on the next page.
“The outside strip is for flowers,” said Margery’s father, “and the next marks
mean a footpath, all the way round the beds; that is so you can get at the flowers to weed and to pick; there is a wider path through the middle, and the rest is all for rows of salad vegetables.”
“Papa, it is glorious!” said Margery.
Papa laughed. “I hope you will still
think it glorious when the weeding time comes,” he said, “for you know, you and
mother have promised to take care of this garden, while I take care of the big one.”
“I wouldn’t NOT take care of it for
anything!” said Margery. “I want to feel that it is my very own.”
Her father kissed her, and said it was certainly her “very own.”
Two evenings after that, when Margery was called in from her first ramble in a “really, truly pasture,” she found the
expressman at the door of the little house.
“Something for you, Margery,” said
her mother, with the look she had when something nice was happening.
It was a box, quite a big box, with a label on it that said:–
MISS MARGERY BROWN,
WOODVILLE, MASS.
From Seeds and Plants Company, Boston.
Margery could hardly wait to open it. It was filled with little packages, all with printed labels; and in the packages, of
course, were seeds. It made Margery dance, just to read the names,–nasturtium, giant helianthus, coreopsis, calendula,
Canterbury bells: more names than
I can tell you, and other packages, bigger, that said, “Peas: Dwarf Telephone,” and “Sweet Corn,” and such things! Margery could almost smell the posies, she
was so excited. Only, she had seen so little of flowers that she did not always know what the names meant. She did not
know that a helianthus was a sunflower till her mother told her, and she had never seen the dear, blue, bell-shaped flowers that always grow in old-fashioned gardens, and are called Canterbury bells. She
thought the calendula must be a strange, grand flower, by its name; but her mother told her it was the gay, sturdy, every-dayish little posy called a marigold. There was a great deal for a little city girl to be surprised about, and it did seem as if morning was a long way off!
“Did you think you could plant them in the morning?” asked her mother. “You
know, dear, the ground has to be made ready first; it takes a little time,–it may be several days before you can plant.”
That was another surprise. Margery
had thought she could begin to sow the seed right off.
But this was what was done. Early the next morning, a man came driving into
the yard, with two strong white horses; in his wagon was a plough. I suppose you
have seen ploughs, but Margery never had, and she watched with great interest, while the man and her father took the plough from the cart and harnessed the horses to it. It was a great, three-cornered piece of
sharp steel, with long handles coming up from it, so that a man could hold it in
place. It looked like this:–
“I brought a two-horse plough because it’s green land,” the man said. Margery
wondered what in the world he meant; it was green grass, of course, but what had that to do with the kind of plough? “What does he mean, father?” she whispered,
when she got a chance. “He means that this land has not been ploughed before, or not for many years; it will be hard to turn the soil, and one horse could not pull the plough,” said her father. So Margery had learned what “green land” was.
The man was for two hours ploughing
the little strip of land. He drove the sharp end of the plough into the soil, and held it firmly so, while the horses dragged it along in a straight line. Margery found it
fascinating to see the long line of dark earth and green grass come rolling up and turn over, as the knife passed it. She could see that it took real skill and strength to keep the line even, and to avoid the stones.
Sometimes the plough struck a hidden stone, and then the man was jerked almost off
his feet. But he only laughed, and said, “Tough piece of land; be a lot better the second year.”
When he had ploughed, the man went
back to his cart and unloaded another farm implement. This one was like a
three-cornered platform of wood, with a long, curved, strong rake under it. It was called a harrow, and it looked like this:–
The man harnessed the horses to it, and then he stood on the platform and drove all over the strip of land. It was fun to watch, but perhaps it was a little hard to do. The man’s weight kept the harrow steady, and let the teeth of the rake scratch and cut the ground up, so that it did not stay in ridges.
“He scrambles the ground, father!”
said Margery.
“It needs scrambling,” laughed her
father. “We are going to get more weeds than we want on this green land, and the more the ground is broken, the fewer there will be.”
After the ploughing and harrowing, the man drove off, and Margery’s father said he would do the rest of the work in the
late afternoons, when he came home from business; they could not afford too much help, he said, and he had learned to take care of a garden when he was a boy. So
Margery did not see any more done until the next day.
But the next day there was hard work
for Margery’s father! Every bit of that “scrambled” turf had to be broken up
still more with a mattock and a spade, and then the pieces which were full of
grass-roots had to be taken on a fork and shaken, till the earth fell out; then the grass was thrown to one side. That would not have had to be done if the land had
been ploughed in the fall; the grass would have rotted in the ground, and would have made fertilizer for the plants. Now,
Margery’s father put the fertilizer on the top, and then raked it into the earth.
At last, it was time to make the place for the seeds. Margery and her mother helped. Father tied one end of a cord to a little stake, and drove the stake in the ground at one end of the garden. Then he took
the cord to the other end of the garden and pulled it tight, tied it to another stake, and drove that down. That made a straight line for him to see. Then he hoed a trench, a few inches deep, the whole length of the cord, and scattered fertilizer in it. Pretty soon the whole garden was in lines of
little trenches.
“Now for the corn,” said father.
Margery ran and brought the seed
box, and found the package of corn. It looked like kernels of gold, when it was opened.
“May I help?” Margery asked, when
she saw how pretty it was.
“If you watch me sow one row, I think you can do the next,” said her father.
So Margery watched. Her father took a handful of kernels, and, stooping, walked slowly along the line, letting the kernels fall, five or six at a time, in spots about a foot apart; he swung his arm with a gentle, throwing motion, and the golden seeds
trickled out like little showers, very exactly. It was pretty to watch; it made Margery think of a photograph her teacher had, a photograph of a famous picture