GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYSPart 3 out of 8grass, closed his eyes forever. The Water-Nymphs wept for him, and the Wood-Dryads lamented him, and Echo resounded their mourning. But when they sought his body it had vanished away, and in its stead had grown up by the brink of the stream a little flower, with silver leaves and golden heart,--and thus was born to earth the woodland flower, Narcissus. MOTHERS' DAY (SECOND SUNDAY IN MAY) THE LARK AND ITS YOUNG ONES A HINDU FABLE BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU (ADAPTED) A child went up to a lark and said: ``Good lark, have you any young ones?'' ``Yes, child, I have,'' said the mother lark, ``and they are very pretty ones, indeed.'' Then she pointed to the little birds and said: ``This is Fair Wing, that is Tiny Bill, and that other is Bright Eyes.'' ``At home, we are three,'' said the child, ``myself and two sisters. Mother says that we are pretty children, and she loves us.'' To this the little larks replied: ``Oh, yes, OUR mother is fond of us, too.'' ``Good mother lark,'' said the child, ``will you let Tiny Bill go home with me and play?'' Before the mother lark could reply, Bright Eyes said: ``Yes, if you will send your little sister to play with us in our nest.'' ``Oh, she will be so sorry to leave home,'' said the child; ``she could not come away from our mother.'' ``Tiny Bill will be so sorry to leave our nest,'' answered Bright Eyes, ``and he will not go away from OUR mother.'' Then the child ran away to her mother, saying: ``Ah, every one is fond of home!'' CORNELIA'S JEWELS BY JAMES BALDWIN[3] [3] From Fifty Famous Stories Retold. Copyright, 1896, by American Book Company. It was a bright morning in the old city of Rome many hundred years ago. In a vine-covered summer- house in a beautiful garden, two boys were standing. They were looking at their mother and her friend, who were walking among the flowers and trees. ``Did you ever see so handsome a lady as our mother's friend?'' asked the younger boy, holding his tall brother's hand. ``She looks like a queen.'' ``Yet she is not so beautiful as our mother,'' said the elder boy. ``She has a fine dress, it is true; but her face is not noble and kind. It is our mother who is like a queen.'' ``That is true,'' said the other. ``There is no woman in Rome so much like a queen as our own dear mother.'' Soon Cornelia, their mother, came down the walk to speak with them. She was simply dressed in a plain, white robe. Her arms and feet were bare, as was the custom in those days; and no rings or chains glittered about her hands and neck. For her only crown, long braids of soft brown hair were coiled about her head; and a tender smile lit up her noble face as she looked into her sons' proud eyes. ``Boys,'' she said, ``I have something to tell you.'' They bowed before her, as Roman lads were taught to do, and said: ``What is it, mother?'' ``You are to dine with us to-day, here in the garden; and then our friend is going to show us that wonderful casket of jewels of which you have heard so much.'' The brothers looked shyly at their mother's friend. Was it possible that she had still other rings besides those on her fingers? Could she have other gems besides those which sparkled in the chains about her neck? When the simple outdoor meal was over, a servant brought the casket from the house. The lady opened it. Ah, how those jewels dazzled the eyes of the wondering boys! There were ropes of pearls, white as milk, and smooth as satin; heaps of shining rubies, red as the glowing coals; sapphires as blue as the sky that summer day; and diamonds that flashed and sparkled like the sunlight. The brothers looked long at the gems. ``Ah!'' whispered the younger; ``if our mother could only have such beautiful things!'' At last, however, the casket was closed and carried carefully away. ``Is it true, Cornelia, that you have no jewels?'' asked her friend. ``Is it true, as I have heard it whispered, that you are poor?'' ``No, I am not poor,'' answered Cornelia, and as she spoke she drew her two boys to her side; ``for here are my jewels. They are worth more than all your gems.'' The boys never forgot their mother's pride and love and care; and in after years, when they had become great men in Rome, they often thought of this scene in the garden. And the world still likes to hear the story of Cornelia's jewels. QUEEN MARGARET AND THE ROBBERS BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL (ADAPTED) One day when roses were in bloom, two noblemen came to angry words in the Temple Gardens, by the side of the river Thames. In the midst of their quarrel one of them plucked a white rose from a bush, and, turning to those who were near him, said:-- ``He who will stand by me in this quarrel, let him pluck a white rose with me, and wear it in his hat.'' Then the other gentleman tore a red rose from another bush, and said:-- ``Let him who will stand by me pluck a red rose, and wear it as his badge.'' Now this quarrel led to a great civil war, which was called ``The War of the Roses,'' for every soldier wore a white or red rose in his helmet to show to which side he belonged. The leaders of the ``Red Rose'' sided with King Henry the Sixth and his wife, Queen Margaret, who were fighting for the English throne. Many great battles were fought, and wicked deeds were done in those dreadful times. In a battle at a place called Hexham, the king's party was beaten, and Queen Margaret and her little son, the Prince of Wales, had to flee for their lives. They had not gone far before they met a band of robbers, who stopped the queen and stole all her rich jewels, and, holding a drawn sword over her head, threatened to take her life and that of her child. The poor queen, overcome by terror, fell upon her knees and begged them to spare her only son, the little prince. But the robbers, turning from her, began to fight among themselves as to how they should divide the plunder, and, drawing their weapons, they attacked one another. When the queen saw what was happening she sprang to her feet, and, taking the prince by the hand, made haste to escape. There was a thick wood close by, and the queen plunged into it, but she was sorely afraid and trembled in every limb, for she knew that this wood was the hiding-place of robbers and outlaws. Every tree seemed to her excited fancy to be an armed man waiting to kill her and her little son. On and on she went through the dark wood, this way and that, seeking some place of shelter, but not knowing where she was going. At last she saw by the light of the moon a tall, fierce- looking man step out from behind a tree. He came directly toward her, and she knew by his dress that he was an outlaw. But thinking that he might have children of his own, she determined to throw herself and her son upon his mercy. When he came near she addressed him in a calm voice and with a stately manner. ``Friend,'' said she, ``I am the queen. Kill me if thou wilt, but spare my son, thy prince. Take him, I will trust him to thee. Keep him safe from those that seek his life, and God will have pity on thee for all thy sins.'' The words of the queen moved the heart of the outlaw. He told her that he had once fought on her side, and was now hiding from the soldiers of the ``White Rose.'' He then lifted the little prince in his arms, and, bidding the queen follow, led the way to a cave in the rocks. There he gave them food and shelter, and kept them safe for two days, when the queen's friends and attendants, discovering their hiding-place, came and took them far away. If you ever go to Hexham Forest, you may see this robber's cave. It is on the bank of a little stream that flows at the foot of a hill, and to this day the people call it ``Queen Margaret's Cave.'' THE REVENGE OF CORIOLANUS BY CHARLES MORRIS (ADAPTED) Caius Marcius was a noble Roman youth, who fought valiantly, when but seventeen years of age, in the battle of Lake Regillus, and was there crowned with an oaken wreath, the Roman reward for saving the life of a fellow soldier. This he showed with joy to his mother, Volumnia, whom he loved exceedingly, it being his greatest pleasure to receive praise from her lips. He afterward won many more crowns in battle, and became one of the most famous of Roman soldiers. One of his memorable exploits took place during a war with the Volscians, in which the Romans attacked the city of Corioli. Through Caius's bravery the place was taken, and the Roman general said: ``Henceforth, let him be called after the name of this city.'' So ever after he was known as Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Courage was not the only marked quality of Coriolanus. His pride was equally great. He was a noble of the nobles, so haughty in demeanor and so disdainful of the commons that they grew to hate him bitterly. At length came a time of great scarcity of food. The people were on the verge of famine, to relieve which shiploads of corn were sent from Sicily to Rome. The Senate resolved to distribute this corn among the suffering people, but Coriolanus opposed this, saying: ``If they want corn, let them promise to obey the Patricians, as their fathers did. Let them give up their tribunes. If they do this we will let them have corn, and take care of them.'' When the people heard of what the proud noble had said, they broke into a fury, and a mob gathered around the doors of the Senate house, prepared to seize and tear him in pieces when he came out. But the tribunes prevented this, and Coriolanus fled from Rome, exiled from his native land by his pride and disdain of the people. The exile made his way to the land of the Volscians and became the friend of Rome's great enemy, whom he had formerly helped to conquer. He aroused the Volscians' ire against Rome, to a greater degree than before, and placing himself at the head of a Volscian army greater than the Roman forces, marched against his native city. The army swept victoriously onward, taking city after city, and finally encamping within five miles of Rome. The approach of this powerful host threw the Romans into dismay. They had been assailed so suddenly that they had made no preparations for defense, and the city seemed to lie at the mercy of its foes. The women ran to the temples to pray for the favor of the gods. The people demanded that the Senate should send deputies to the invading army to treat for peace. The Senate, no less frightened than the people, obeyed, sending five leading Patricians to the Volscian camp. These deputies were haughtily received by Coriolanus, who offered them such severe terms that they were unable to accept them. They returned and reported the matter, and the Senate was thrown into confusion. The deputies were sent again, instructed to ask for gentler terms, but now Coriolanus refused even to let them enter his camp. This harsh repulse plunged Rome into mortal terror. All else having failed, the noble women of Rome, with Volumnia, the mother of Coriolanus, at their head, went in procession from the city to the Volscian camp to pray for mercy. It was a sad and solemn spectacle, as this train of noble ladies, clad in their habiliments of woe, and with bent heads and sorrowful faces, wound through the hostile camp, from which they were not excluded as the deputies had been. Even the Volscian soldiers watched them with pitying eyes, and spoke no scornful word as they moved slowly past. On reaching the midst of the camp, they saw Coriolanus on the general's seat, with the Volscian chiefs gathered around him. At first he wondered who these women could be; but when they came near, and he saw his mother at the head of the train, his deep love for her welled up so strongly in his heart that he could not restrain himself, but sprang up and ran to meet and kiss her. The Roman matron stopped him with a dignified gesture. ``Ere you kiss me,'' she said, ``let me know whether I speak to an enemy or to my son; whether I stand here as your prisoner or your mother.'' He stood before her in silence, with bent head, and unable to answer. ``Must it, then, be that if I had never borne a son, Rome would have never seen the camp of an enemy?'' said Volumnia, in sorrowful tones. ``But I am too old to endure much longer your shame and my misery. Think not of me, but of your wife and children, whom you would doom to death or to life in bondage.'' Then Virgilia, his wife, and his children, came forward and kissed him, and all the noble ladies in the train burst into tears and bemoaned the peril of their country. Coriolanus still stood silent, his face working with contending thoughts. At length he cried out in heart-rending accents: ``O mother! What have you done to me?'' Then clasping her hand he wrung it vehemently, saying: ``Mother, the victory is yours! A happy victory for you and Rome! but shame and ruin for your son.'' Thereupon he embraced her with yearning heart, and afterward clasped his wife and children to his breast, bidding them return with their tale of conquest to Rome. As for himself, he said, only exile and shame remained. Before the women reached home, the army of the Volscians was on its homeward march. Coriolanus never led it against Rome again. He lived and died in exile, far from his wife and children. The Romans, to honor Volumnia, and those who had gone with her to the Volscian camp, built a temple to ``Woman's Fortune,'' on the spot where Coriolanus had yielded to his mother's entreaties. THE WIDOW AND HER THREE SONS (ADAPTED) One day a poor woman approached Mr. Lincoln for an interview. She was somewhat advanced in years and plainly clad, wearing a faded shawl and worn hood. ``Well, my good woman,'' said Mr. Lincoln, ``what can I do for you this morning?'' ``Mr. President,'' answered she, ``my husband and three sons all went into the army. My husband was killed in the battle of----. I get along very badly since then living all alone, and I thought that I would come and ask you to release to me my eldest son.'' Mr. Lincoln looked in her face for a moment, and then replied kindly:-- ``Certainly! Certainly! If you have given us ALL, and your prop has been taken away, you are justly entitled to one of your boys.'' He then made out an order discharging the young man, which the woman took away, thanking him gratefully. She went to the front herself with the President's order, and found that her son had been mortally wounded in a recent battle, and taken to the hospital. She hastened to the hospital. But she was too late, the boy died, and she saw him laid in a soldier's grave. She then returned to the President with his order, on the back of which the attendant surgeon had stated the sad facts concerning the young man it was intended to discharge. Mr. Lincoln was much moved by her story, and said: ``I know what you wish me to do now, and I shall do it without your asking. I shall release to you your second son.'' Taking up his pen he began to write the order, while the grief-stricken woman stood at his side and passed her hand softly over his head, and stroked his rough hair as she would have stroked her boy's. When he had finished he handed her the paper, saying tenderly, his eyes full of tears:-- ``Now you have one of the two left, and I have one, that is no more than right.'' She took the order and reverently placing her hand upon his head, said:-- ``The Lord bless you, Mr. President. May you live a thousand years, and may you always be the head of this great nation.'' MEMORIAL DAY (APRIL OR MAY) FLAG DAY (JUNE 14) BETSY ROSS AND THE FLAG BY HARRY PRINGLE FORD (ADAPTED) On the 14th day of June, 1777, the Continental Congress passed the following resolution: ``RESOLVED, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the Union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation.'' We are told that previous to this, in 1776, a committee was appointed to look after the matter, and together with General Washington they called at the house of Betsy Ross, 239 Arch Street, Philadelphia. Betsy Ross was a young widow of twenty-four heroically supporting herself by continuing the upholstery business of her late husband, young John Ross, a patriot who had died in the service of his country. Betsy was noted for her exquisite needlework, and was engaged in the flag-making business. The committee asked her if she thought she could make a flag from a design, a rough drawing of which General Washington showed her. She replied, with diffidence, that she did not know whether she could or not, but would try. She noticed, however, that the star as drawn had six points, and informed the committee that the correct star had but five. They answered that as a great number of stars would be required, the more regular form with six points could be more easily made than one with five. She responded in a practical way by deftly folding a scrap of paper; then with a single clip of her scissors she displayed a true, symmetrical, five-pointed star. This decided the committee in her favor. A rough design was left for her use, but she was permitted to make a sample flag according to her own ideas of the arrangement of the stars and the proportions of the stripes and the general form of the whole. Sometime after its completion it was presented to Congress, and the committee had the pleasure of informing Betsy Ross that her flag was accepted as the Nation's standard. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER BY EVA MARCH TAPPAN (ADAPTED) In 1814, while the War of 1812 was still going on, the people of Maryland were in great trouble, for a British fleet began to attack Baltimore. The enemy bombarded the forts, including Fort McHenry. For twenty-four hours the terrific bombardment went on. ``If Fort McHenry only stands, the city is safe,'' said Francis Scott Key to a friend, and they gazed anxiously through the smoke to see if the flag was still flying. These two men were in the strangest place that could be imagined. They were in a little American vessel fast moored to the side of the British admiral's flagship. A Maryland doctor had been seized as a prisoner by the British, and the President had given permission for them to go out under a flag of truce, to ask for his release. The British commander finally decided that the prisoner might be set free; but he had no idea of allowing the two men to go back to the city and carry any information. ``Until the attack on Baltimore is ended, you and your boat must remain here,'' he said. The firing went on. As long as daylight lasted they could catch glimpses of the Stars and Stripes whenever the wind swayed the clouds of smoke. When night came they could still see the banner now and then by the blaze of the cannon. A little after midnight the firing stopped. The two men paced up and down the deck, straining their eyes to see if the flag was still flying. ``Can the fort have surrendered?'' they questioned. ``Oh, if snorning would only come!'' At last the faint gray of dawn appeared. They could see that some flag was flying, but it was too dark to tell which. More and more eagerly they gazed. It grew lighter, a sudden breath of wind caught the flag, and it floated out on the breeze. It was no English flag, it was their own Stars and Stripes. The fort had stood, the city was safe. Then it was that Key took from his pocket an old letter and on the back of it he wrote the poem, ``The Star-Spangled Banner.'' The British departed, and the little American boat went back to the city. Mr. Key gave a copy of the poem to his uncle, who had been helping to defend the fort. The uncle sent it to the printer, and had it struck off on some handbills. Before the ink was dry the printer caught up one and hurried away to a restaurant, where many patriots were assembled. Waving the paper, he cried, ``Listen to this!'' and he read:-- ``O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?'' ``Sing it! sing it!'' cried the whole company. Charles Durang mounted a chair and then for the first time ``The Star-Spangled Banner'' was sung. The tune was ``To Anacreon in Heaven,'' an air which had long been a favorite. Halls, theaters, and private houses rang with its strains. The fleet was out of sight even before the poem was printed. In the middle of the night the admiral had sent to the British soldiers this message, ``I can do nothing more,'' and they hurried on board the vessels. It was not long before they left Chesapeake Bay altogether,--perhaps with the new song ringing in their ears as they went. THE LITTLE DRUMMER-BOY BY ALBERT BUSHNELL HART (ADAPTED) A few days before a certain regiment received orders to join General Lyon, on his march to Wilson's Creek, the drummer-boy of the regiment was taken sick, and carried to the hospital. Shortly after this there appeared before the captain's quarters, during the beating of the reveille, a good-looking, middle-aged woman, dressed in deep mourning, leading by the hand a sharp, sprightly looking boy, apparently about twelve or thirteen years of age. Her story was soon told. She was from East Tennessee, where her husband had been killed by the Confederates, and all her property destroyed. Being destitute, she thought that if she could procure a situation for her boy as drummer, she could find employment for herself. While she told her story, the little fellow kept his eyes intently fixed upon the countenance of the captain. And just as the latter was about to say that he could not take so small a boy, the lad spoke out:-- ``Don't be afraid, Captain,'' said he, ``I can drum.'' This was spoken with so much confidence that the captain smiled and said to the sergeant:-- ``Well, well, bring the drum, and order our fifer to come here.'' In a few moments a drum was produced and the fifer, a round-shouldered, good-natured fellow, who stood six feet tall, made his appearance. Upon being introduced to the lad, he stooped down, resting his hands on his knees, and, after peering into the little fellow's face for a moment, said:-- ``My little man, can you drum?'' ``Yes, sir,'' answered the boy promptly. ``I drummed for Captain Hill in Tennessee.'' The fifer immediately straightened himself, and, placing his fife to his lips, played the ``Flowers of Edinburgh,'' one of the most difficult things to follow with the drum. And nobly did the little fellow follow him, showing himself to be master of the drum. When the music ceased the captain turned to the mother and observed:-- ``Madam, I will take the boy. What is his name?'' ``Edward Lee,'' she replied. Then placing her hand upon the captain's arm, she continued in a choking voice, ``If he is not killed!--Captain, --you will bring him back to me?'' ``Yes, yes,'' he replied, ``we shall be certain to bring him back to you. We shall be discharged in six weeks.'' An hour after, the company led the regiment out of camp, the drum and fife playing ``The Girl I left behind me.'' Eddie, as the soldiers called him, soon became a great favorite with all the men of the company. When any of the boys returned from foraging, Eddie's share of the peaches, melons, and other good things was meted out first. During the heavy and fatiguing marches, the long-legged fifer often waded through the mud with the little drummer mounted on his back, and in the same fashion he carried Eddie when fording streams. During the fight at Wilson's Creek, a part of the company was stationed on the right of Totten's battery, while the balance of the company was ordered down into a deep ravine, at the left, in which it was known a party of Confederates was concealed. An engagement took place. The contest in the ravine continued some time. Totten suddenly wheeled his battery upon the enemy in that quarter, and they soon retreated to high ground behind their lines. In less than twenty minutes after Totten had driven the Confederates from the ravine, the word passed from man to man throughout the army, ``Lyon is killed!'' And soon after, hostilities having ceased upon both sides, the order came for the main part of the Federal force to fall back upon Springfield, while the lesser part was to camp upon the ground, and cover the retreat. That night a corporal was detailed for guard duty. His post was upon a high eminence that overlooked the deep ravine in which the men had engaged the enemy. It was a dreary, lonesome beat. The hours passed slowly away, and at length the morning light began to streak along the western sky, making surrounding objects visible. Presently the corporal heard a drum beating up the morning call. At first he thought it came from the camp of the Confederates across the creek, but as he listened he found that it came from the deep ravine. For a few moments the sound stopped, then began again. The corporal listened closely. The notes of the drum were familiar to him,--and then he knew that it was the drummer-boy from Tennessee playing the morning call. Just then the corporal was relieved from guard duty, and, asking permission, went at once to Eddie's assistance. He started down the hill, through the thick underbrush, and upon reaching the bottom of the ravine, he followed the sound of the drum, and soon found the lad seated upon the ground, his back leaning against a fallen tree, while his drum hung upon a bush in front of him. As soon as the boy saw his rescuer he dropped his drumsticks, and exclaimed:-- ``O Corporal! I am so glad to see you! Give me a drink.'' The soldier took his empty canteen, and immediately turned to bring some water from the brook that he could hear rippling through the bushes near by, when, Eddie, thinking that he was about to leave him, cried out:-- ``Don't leave me, Corporal, I can't walk.'' The corporal was soon back with the water, when he discovered that both the lad's feet had been shot away by a cannon-ball. After satisfying his thirst, Eddie looked up into the corporal's face and said:-- ``You don't think I shall die, do you? This man said I should not,--he said the surgeon could cure my feet.'' The corporal now looked about him and discovered a man lying in the grass near by. By his dress he knew him to belong to the Confederate army. It appeared that he had been shot and had fallen near Eddie. Knowing that he could not live, and seeing the condition of the drummer- boy, he had crawled to him, taken off his buckskin suspenders, and had corded the little fellow's legs below the knees, and then he had laid himself down and died. While Eddie was telling the corporal these particulars, they heard the tramp of cavalry coming down the ravine, and in a moment a scout of the enemy was upon them, and took them both prisoners. The corporal requested the officer in charge to take Eddie up in front of him, and he did so, carrying the lad with great tenderness and care. When they reached the Confederate camp the little fellow was dead. A FLAG INCIDENT BY M. M. THOMAS (ADAPTED) When marching to Chattanooga the corps had reached a little wooded valley between the mountains. The colonel, with others, rode ahead, and, striking into a bypath, suddenly came upon a secluded little cabin surrounded by a patch of cultivated ground. At the door an old woman, eighty years of age, was supporting herself on a crutch. As they rode up she asked if they were ``Yankees,'' and upon their replying that they were, she said: ``Have you got the Stars and Stripes with you? My father fought the Tories in the Revolution, and my old eyes ache for a sight of the true flag before I die.'' To gratify her the colonel sent to have the colors brought that way. When they were unfurled and planted before her door, she passed her trembling hands over them and held them close to her eyes that she might view the stars once more. When the band gave her ``Yankee Doodle,'' and the ```Star-Spangled Banner,'' she sobbed like a child, as did her daughter, a woman of fifty, while her three little grandchildren gazed in wonder. They were Eastern people, who had gone to New Orleans to try to improve their condition. Not being successful, they had moved from place to place to better themselves, until finally they had settled on this spot, the husband having taken several acres of land here for a debt. Then the war burst upon them. The man fled to the mountains to avoid the conscription, and they knew not whether he was alive or dead. They had managed to support life, but were so retired that they saw very few people. Leaving them food and supplies, the colonel and the corps passed on. TWO HERO-STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR BY BEN LA BREE (ADAPTED) I. BRAVERY HONORED BY A FOE In a rifle-pit, on the brow of a hill near Fredericksburg, were a number of Confederate soldiers who had exhausted their ammunition in the vain attempt to check the advancing column of Hooker's finely equipped and disciplined army which was crossing the river. To the relief of these few came the brigade in double-quick time. But no sooner were the soldiers intrenched than the firing on the opposite side of the river became terrific. A heavy mist obscured the scene. The Federal soldiers poured a merciless fire into the trenches. Soon many Confederates fell, and the agonized cries of the wounded who lay there calling for water, smote the hearts of their helpless comrades. ``Water! Water!'' But there was none to give, the canteens were-empty. ``Boys,'' exclaimed Nathan Cunningham, a lad of eighteen, the color-bearer for his regiment, ``I can't stand this any more. They want water, and water they must have. So let me have a few canteens and I'll go for some.'' Carefully laying the colors, which he had borne on many a field, in a trench, he seized some canteens, and, leaping into the mist, was soon out of sight. Shortly after this the firing ceased for a while, and an order came for the men to fall back to the main line. As the Confederates were retreating they met Nathan Cunningham, his canteens full of water, hurrying to relieve the thirst of the wounded men in the trenches. He glanced over the passing column and saw that the faded flag, which he had carried so long, was not there. The men in their haste to obey orders HAD FORGOTTEN OR OVERLOOKED THE COLORS. Quickly the lad sped to the trenches, intent now not only on giving water to his comrades, but on rescuing the flag and so to save the honor of his regiment. His mission of mercy was soon accomplished. The wounded men drank freely. The lad then found and seized his colors, and turned to rejoin his regiment. Scarcely had he gone three paces when a company of Federal soldiers appeared ascending the hill. ``Halt and surrender,'' came the stern command, and a hundred rifles were leveled at the boy's breast. ``NEVER! while I hold the colors,'' was his firm reply. The morning sun, piercing with a lurid glare the dense mist, showed the lad proudly standing with his head thrown back and his flag grasped in his hand, while his unprotected breast was exposed to the fire of his foe. A moment's pause. Then the Federal officer gave his command:-- ``Back with your pieces, men, don't shoot that brave boy.'' And Nathan Cunningham, with colors flying over his head, passed on and joined his regiment. His comrades in arms still tell with pride of his brave deed and of the generous act of a foe. II. THE BRAVERY OF RICHARD KIRTLAND Richard Kirtland was a sergeant in the Second Regiment of South Carolina Volunteers. The day after the great battle of Fredericksburg, Kershaw's brigade occupied the road at the foot of Marye's Hill. One hundred and fifty yards in front of the road, on the other side of a stone wall, lay Sykes's division of the United States Army. Between these troops and Kershaw's command a skirmish fight was continued through the entire day. The ground between the lines was literally covered with dead and dying Federal soldiers. All day long the wounded were calling, ``Water! water! water!'' In the afternoon, Sergeant Kirtland, a Confederate soldier, went to the headquarters of General Kershaw, and said with deep emotion: ``General, all through last night and to-day; I have been hearing those poor wounded Federal soldiers out there cry for water. Let me go and give them some.'' ``Don't you know,'' replied the general, ``that you would get a bullet through you the moment you stepped over the wall?'' ``Yes, sir,'' said the sergeant; ``but if you will let me go I am willing to try it.'' The general reflected a minute, then answered: ``Kirtland, I ought not to allow you to take this risk, but the spirit that moves you is so noble I cannot refuse. Go, and may God protect you!'' In the face of almost certain death the sergeant climbed the wall, watched with anxiety by the soldiers of his army. Under the curious gaze of his foes, and exposed to their fire, he dropped to the ground and hastened on his errand of mercy. Unharmed, untouched, he reached the nearest sufferer. He knelt beside him, tenderly raised his drooping head, rested it gently on his breast, and poured the cooling life-giving water down the parched throat. This done he laid him carefully down, placed the soldier's knapsack under his head, straightened his broken limbs, spread his coat over him, replaced the empty canteen with a full one, then turned to another sufferer. By this time his conduct was understood by friend and foe alike and the firing ceased on both sides. For an hour and a half did he pursue his noble mission, until he had relieved the wounded on all parts of the battlefield. Then he returned to his post uninjured. Surely such a noble deed is worthy of the admiration of men and angels. THE YOUNG SENTINEL BY Z. A. MUDGE (ADAPTED) In the summer of 1862, a young man belonging to a Vermont regiment was found sleeping at his post. He was tried and sentenced to be shot. The day was fixed for the execution, and the young soldier calmly prepared to meet his fate. Friends who knew of the case brought the matter to Mr. Lincoln's attention. It seemed that the boy had been on duty one night, and on the following night he had taken the place of a comrade too ill to stand guard. The third night he had been again called out, and, being utterly exhausted, had fallen asleep at his post. As soon as Mr. Lincoln understood the case, he signed a pardon, and sent it to the camp. The morning before the execution arrived, and the President had not heard whether the pardon had reached the officers in charge of the matter. He began to feel uneasy. He ordered a telegram to be sent to the camp, but received no answer. State papers could not fix his mind, nor could he banish the condemned soldier boy from his thoughts. At last, feeling that he MUST KNOW that the lad was safe, he ordered the carriage and rode rapidly ten miles over a dusty road and beneath a scorching sun. When he reached the camp he found that the pardon had been received and the execution stayed. The sentinel was released, and his heart was filled with lasting gratitude. When the campaign opened in the spring, the young man was with his regiment near Yorktown, Virginia. They were ordered to attack a fort, and he fell at the first volley of the enemy. His comrades caught him up and carried him bleeding and dying from the field. ``Bear witness,'' he said, ``that I have proved myself not a coward, and I am not afraid to die.'' Then, making a last effort, with his dying breath he prayed for Abraham Lincoln. THE COLONEL OF THE ZOUAVES BY NOAH BROOKS (ADAPTED) Among those who accompanied Mr. Lincoln, the President-elect, on his journey from Illinois to the national capital, was Elmer E. Ellsworth, a young man who had been employed in the law office of Lincoln and Herndon, Springfield. He was a brave, handsome, and impetuous youth, and was among the first to offer his services to the President in defense of the Union, as soon as the mutterings of war were heard. Before the war he had organized a company of Zouaves from the Chicago firemen, and had delighted and astonished many people by the exhibitions of their skill in the evolutions through which they were put while visiting some chief cities of the Republic. Now, being commissioned a second lieutenant in the United States Army, he went to New York and organized from the firemen of that city a similar regiment, known as the Eleventh New York. Colonel Ellsworth's Zouaves, on the evening of May 23, were sent with a considerable force to occupy the heights overlooking Washington and Alexandria, on the banks of the Potomac, opposite the national capital. Next day, seeing a Confederate flag flying from the Marshall House, a tavern in Alexandria kept by a secessionist, he went up through the building to the roof and pulled it down. While on his way down the stairs, wilh the flag in his arms, he was met by the tavern-keeper, who shot and killed him instantly. Ellsworth fell, dyeing the Confederate flag with the blood that gushed from his heart. The tavern-keeper was instantly killed by a shot from Private Brownell, of the Ellsworth Zouaves, who was at hand when his commander fell. The death of Ellsworth, needless though it may have been, caused a profound sensation throughout the country, where he was well known. He was among the very first martyrs of the war, as he had been one of the first volunteers. Lincoln was overwhelmed with sorrow. He had the body of the lamented young officer taken to the White House, where it lay in state until the burial took place, and, even in the midst of his increasing cares, he found time to sit alone and in grief-stricken meditation by the bier of the dead young soldier of whose career he had cherished so great hopes. The life-blood from Ellsworth's heart had stained not only the Confederate flag, but a gold medal found under his uniform, bearing the legend: ``Non solum nobis, sed pro patria''; ``Not for ourselves alone, but for the country.'' GENERAL SCOTT AND THE STARS AND STRIPES BY E. D. TOWNSEND (ADAPTED) One day, as the general was sitting at his table in the office, the messenger announced that a person desired to see him a moment in order to present a gift. A German was introduced, who said that he was commissioned by a house in New York to present General Scott with a small silk banner. It was very handsome, of the size of a regimental flag, and was made of a single piece of silk stamped with the Stars and Stripes of the proper colors. The German said that the manufacturers who had sent the banner, wished to express thus the great respect they felt for General Scott, and their sense of his importance to the country in that perilous time. The general was highly pleased, and, in accepting the gift, assured the donors that the flag should hang in his room wherever he went, and enshroud him when he died. As soon as the man was gone, the general desired that the stars might be counted to see if ALL the States were represented. They were ALL there. The flag was then draped between the windows over the couch where the general frequently reclined for rest during the day. It went with him in his berth when he sailed for Europe, after his retirement, and enveloped his coffin when he was interred at West Point. INDEPENDENCE DAY (JULY 4) THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE BY WASHINGTON IRVING While danger was gathering round New York, and its inhabitants were in mute suspense and fearful anticipations, the General Congress at Philadelphia was discussing, with closed doors, what John Adams pronounced: ``The greatest question ever debated in America, and as great as ever was or will be debated among men.'' The result was, a resolution passed unanimously on the 2d of July; ``that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.'' ``The 2d of July,'' adds the same patriot statesman, ``will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to Almighty God. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forth forevermore.'' The glorious event has, indeed, given rise to an annual jubilee; but not on the day designated by Adams. The FOURTH of July is the day of national rejoicing, for on that day the ``Declaration of Independence,'' that solemn and sublime document, was adopted. Tradition gives a dramatic effect to its announcement. It was known to be under discussion, but the closed doors of Congress excluded the populace. They awaited, in throngs, an appointed signal. In the steeple of the State House was a bell, imported twenty-three years previously from London by the Provincial Assembly of Pennsylvania. It bore the portentous text from Scripture: ``Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof.'' A joyous peal from that bell gave notice that the bill had been passed. It was the knell of British domination. THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE BY H. A. GUERBER[4] [4] From The Story of the Thirteen Colonies. Copyright, 1898, by H. A. Guerber. American Book Company, publishers. John Hancock, President of Congress, was the first to sign the Declaration of Independence, writing his name in large, plain letters, and saying:-- ``There! John Bull can read my name without spectacles. Now let him double the price on my head, for this is my defiance.'' Then he turned to the other members, and solemnly declared:-- ``We must be unanimous. There must be no pulling different ways. We must all hang together.'' ``Yes,'' said Franklin, quaintly: ``we must all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.'' We are told that Charles Carroll, thinking that his writing looked shaky, added the words, ``of Carrollton,'' so that the king should not be able to make any mistake as to whose name stood there. A BRAVE GIRL BY JAMES JOHONNOT (ADAPTED)[5] [5] From Stories of Heroic Deeds. Copyright, 1887, by D. Appleton and Company. American Book Company, publishers. In the year 1781 the war was chiefly carried on in the South, but the North was constantly troubled by bands of Tories and Indians, who would swoop down on small settlements and make off with whatever they could lay their hands on. During this time General Schuyler was staying at his house, which stood just outside the stockade or walls of Albany. The British commander sent out a party of Tories and Indians to capture the general. When they reached the outskirts of the city they learned from a Dutch laborer that the general's house was guarded by six soldiers, three watching by night and three by day. They let the Dutchman go, and as soon as the band was out of sight he hastened to Albany and warned the general of their approach. Schuyler gathered his family in one of the upper rooms of his house, and giving orders that the doors and windows should be barred, fired a pistol from a top-story window, to alarm the neighborhood. The soldiers on guard, who had been lounging in the shade of a tree, started to their feet at the sound of the pistol; but, alas! too late, for they found themselves surrounded by a crowd of dusky forms, who bound them hand and foot, before they had time to resist. In the room upstairs was the sturdy general, standing resolutely at the door, with gun in hand, while his black slaves were gathered about him, each with a weapon. At the other end of the room the women were huddled together, some weeping and some praying. Suddenly a deafening crash was heard. The Indian band had broken into the house. With loud shouts they began to pillage and to destroy everything in sight. While they were yet busy downstairs, Mrs. Schuyler sprang to her feet and rushed to the door; for she had suddenly remembered that the baby, who was only a few months old, was asleep in its cradle in a room on the first floor. The general caught his wife in his arms, and implored her not to go to certain death, saying that if any one was to go he would. While this generous struggle between husband and wife was going on, their young daughter, who had been standing near the door, glided by them, and descended the stairs. All was dark in the hall, excepting where the light shone from the dining-room in which the Indians were pillaging the shelves and fighting over their booty. How to get past the dining-room door was the question, but the brave girl did not hesitate. Reaching the lower hall, she walked very deliberately forward, softly but quickly passing the door, and unobserved reached the room in which was the cradle. She caught up the baby, crept back past the open door, and was just mounting the stairs, when one of the savages happened to see her. ``WHIZ''--and his sharp tomahawk struck the stair rail within a few inches of the baby's head. But the frightened girl hurried on, and in a few seconds was safe in her father's arms. As for the Indians, fearing an attack from the near-by garrison, they hastened away with the booty they had collected, and left General Schuyler and his family unharmed. THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY BY JOHN ANDREWS (ADAPTED)[5] [5] From a letter written to a friend in 1773. On November 29, 1773, there arrived in Boston Harbor a ship carrying an hundred and odd chests of the detested tea. The people in the country roundabout, as well as the town's folk, were unanimous against allowing the landing of it; but the agents in charge of the consignment persisted in their refusal to take the tea back to London. The town bells were rung, for a general muster of the citizens. Handbills were stuck up calling on ``Friends! Citizens! Countrymen!'' Mr. Rotch, the owner of the ship, found himself exposed not only to the loss of his ship, but to the loss of the money-value of the tea itself, if he should attempt to send her back without clearance papers from the custom-house; for the admiral kept a vessel in readiness to seize any ship which might leave without those papers. Therefore, Mr. Rotch declared that his ship should not carry back the tea without either the proper clearance or the promise of full indemnity for any losses he might incur. Matters continued thus for some days, when a general muster was called of the people of Boston and of all the neighboring towns. They met, to the number of five or six thousand, at ten o'clock in the morning, in the Old South Meeting- House; where they passed a unanimous vote THAT THE TEA SHOULD GO OUT OF THE HARBOR THAT AFTERNOON! A committee, with Mr. Rotch, was sent to the custom-house to demand a clearance. This the collector said he could not give without the duties first being paid. Mr. Rotch was then sent to ask for a pass from the governor, who returned answer that ``consistent with the rules of government and his duty to the king he could not grant one without they produced a previous clearance from the office.'' By the time Mr. Rotch returned to the Old South Meeting-House with this message, the candles were lighted and the house still crowded with people. When the governor's message was read a prodigious shout was raised, and soon afterward the moderator declared the meeting dissolved. This caused another general shout, outdoors and in, and what with the noise of breaking up the meeting, one might have thought that the inhabitants of the infernal regions had been let loose. That night there mustered upon Fort Hill about two hundred strange figures, SAID TO BE INDIANS FROM NARRAGANSETT. They were clothed in blankets, with heads muffled, and had copper- colored countenances. Each was armed with a hatchet or axe, and a pair of pistols. They spoke a strange, unintelligible jargon. They proceeded two by two to Griffin's Wharf, where three tea-ships lay, each with one hundred and fourteen chests of the ill-fated article on board. And before nine o'clock in the evening every chest was knocked into pieces and flung over the sides. Not the least insult was offered to any one, save one Captain Conner, who had ripped up the linings of his coat and waistcoat, and, watching his opportunity, had filled them with tea. But, being detected, he was handled pretty roughly. They not only stripped him of his clothes, but gave him a coat of mud, with a severe bruising into the bargain. Nothing but their desire not to make a disturbance prevented his being tarred and feathered. The tea being thrown overboard, all the Indians disappeared in a most marvelous fashion. The next day, if a stranger had walked through the streets of Boston, and had observed the calm composure of the people, he would hardly have thought that ten thousand pounds sterling of East India Company's tea had been destroyed the night before. A GUNPOWDER STORY BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE (ADAPTED) [6] From Stories of the Old Dominion. Used by permission of the American Book Company, publishers. In the autumn of 1777 the English decided to attack Fort Henry, at Wheeling, in northwestern Virginia. This was an important border fort named in honor of Patrick Henry, and around which had grown up a small village of about twenty-five log houses. A band of Indians, under the leadership of one Simon Girty, was supplied by the English with muskets and ammunition, and sent against the fort. This Girty was a white man, who, when a boy, had been captured by Indians, and brought up by them. He had joined their tribes, and was a ferocious and bloodthirsty leader of savage bands. When the settlers at Wheeling heard that Simon Girty and his Indians were advancing on the town, they left their homes and hastened into the fort. Scarcely had they done so when the savages made their appearance. The defenders of the fort knew that a desperate fight must now take place, and there seemed little probability that they would be able to hold out against their assailants. They had only forty two fighting men, including old men and boys, while the Indian force numbered about five hundred. What was worse they had but a small amount of gunpowder. A keg containing the main supply had been left by accident in one of the village houses. This misfortune, as you will soon see, brought about the brave action of a young girl. After several encounters with the savages, which took place in the village, the defenders withdrew to the fort. Then a number of Indians advanced with loud yells, firing as they came. The fire was returned by the defenders, each of whom had picked out his man, and taken deadly aim. Most of the attacking party were killed, and the whole body of Indians fell back into the near-by woods, and there awaited a more favorable opportunity to renew hostilities. The men in the fort now discovered, to their great dismay, that their gunpowder was nearly gone. What was to be done? Unless they could get another supply, they would not be able to hold the fort, and they and their women and children would either be massacred or carried into captivity. Colonel Shepherd, who was in command, explained to the settlers exactly how matters stood. He also told them of the forgotten keg of powder which was in a house standing about sixty yards from the gate of the fort. It was plain to all that if any man should attempt to procure the keg, he would almost surely be shot by the lurking Indians. In spite of this three or four young men volunteered to go on the dangerous mission. Colonel Shepherd replied that he could not spare three or four strong men, as there were already too few for the defense. Only one man should make the attempt and they might decide who was to go. This caused a dispute. Just then a young girl stepped forward and said that SHE was ready to go. Her name was Elizabeth Zane, and she had just returned from a boarding-school in Philadelphia. This made her brave offer all the more remarkable, since she had not been bred up to the fearless life of the border. At first the men would not hear of her running such a risk. She was told that it meant certain death. But she urged that they could not spare a man from the defense, and that the loss of one girl would not be an important matter. So after some discussion the settlers agreed that she should go for the powder. The house, as has already been stated, stood about sixty yards from the fort, and Elizabeth hoped to run thither and bring back the powder in a few minutes. The gate was opened, and she passed through, running like a deer. A few straggling Indians were dodging about the log houses of the town; they saw the fleeing girl, but for some reason they did not fire upon her. They may have supposed that she was returning to her home to rescue her clothes. Possibly they thought it a waste of good ammunition to fire at a woman, when they were so sure of taking the fort before long. So they looked on quietly while, with flying skirts, Elizabeth ran across the open, and entered the house. She found the keg of powder, which was not large. She lifted it with both arms, and, holding the precious burden close to her breast, she darted out of the house and ran in the direction of the fort. When the Indians saw what she was carrying they uttered fierce yells and fired. The bullets fell like hail about her, but not one so much as touched her garments. With the keg hugged to her bosom, she ran on, and reached the fort in safety. The gate closed upon her just as the bullets of the Indians buried themselves in its thick panels. The rescued gunpowder enabled the little garrison to hold out until help arrived from the other settlements near Wheeling. And Girty, seeing that there were no further hopes of taking Fort Henry, withdrew his band. Thus a weak but brave girl was the means of saving strong men with their wives and children. It was a heroic act, and Americans should never forget to honor the name of Elizabeth Zane. THE CAPTURE OF FORT TICONDEROGA BY WASHINGTON IRVING (ADAPTED) Some bold spirits in Connecticut conceived the project of surprising the old forts of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, already famous in the French War. Their situation on Lake Champlain gave them the command of the main route into Canada so that the possession of them would be all- important in case of hostilities. They were feebly garrisoned and negligently guarded, and abundantly furnished with artillery and military stores so needed by the patriot army. At this juncture Ethan Allen stepped forward, a patriot, and volunteered with his ``Green Mountain Boys.'' He was well fitted for the enterprise. During the border warfare over the New Hampshire Grants, he and his lieutenants had been outlawed by the Legislature of New York and rewards offered for their apprehension. He and his associates had armed themselves, set New York at defiance, and had sworn they would be the death of any one who should try to arrest them. Thus Ethan Allen had become a kind of Robin Hood among the mountains. His experience as a frontier champion, his robustness of mind and body, and his fearless spirit made him a most desirable leader in the expedition against Fort Ticonderoga. Therefore he was appointed at the head of the attacking force. Accompanied by Benjamin Arnold and two other officers, Allen and his party of soldiers who had been enlisted from several States, set out and arrived at Shoreham, opposite Fort Ticonderoga on the shore of Lake Champlain. They reached the place at night-time. There were only a few boats on hand, but the transfer of men began immediately. It was slow work. The night wore away; day was about to break, and but eighty- three men, with Allen and Arnold, had crossed. Should they wait for the rest to cross over, day would dawn, the garrison wake, and their enterprise might fail. Allen drew up his men, addressed them in his own emphatic style, and announced his intention of making a dash at the fort without waiting for more force. ``It is a desperate attempt,'' said he, ``and I ask no man to go against his will. I will take the lead, and be the first to advance. You that are willing to follow, poise your firelocks!'' Not a firelock but was poised! They mounted the hill briskly but in silence, guided by a boy from the neighborhood. The day dawned as Allen arrived at a sally- port. A sentry pulled trigger on him, but his piece missed fire. He retreated through a covered way. Allen and his men followed. Another sentry thrust at an officer with his bayonet, but was struck down by Allen, and begged for quarter. It was granted on condition of his leading the way instantly to the quarters of the commandant, Captain Delaplace, who was yet in bed. Being arrived there, Allen thundered at the door, and demanded a surrender of the fort. By this time his followers had formed into two lines on the parade-ground, and given three hearty cheers. The commandant appeared at the door half- dressed, the frightened face of his pretty wife peering over his shoulder. He gazed at Allen in bewildered astonishment. ``By whose authority do you act?'' exclaimed he. ``In the name of the Continental Congress!'' replied Allen, with a flourish of his sword, and an oath which we do not care to subjoin. There was no disputing the point. The garrison, like the commandant, had been startled from sleep, and made prisoners as they rushed forth in their confusion. A surrender accordingly took place. The captain and forty-eight men who composed his garrison were sent prisoners to Hartford, in Connecticut. And thus without the loss of a single man, one of the important forts, commanding the main route into Canada, fell into the hands of the patriots. WASHINGTON AND THE COWARDS BY WASHINGTON IRVING (ADAPTED) During the evacuation of New York by Washington, two divisions of the enemy, encamped on Long Island, one British under Sir Henry Clinton, the other Hessian under Colonel Donop, emerged in boats from the deep wooded recesses of Newtown Inlet, and under cover of the fire from the ships began to land at two points between Turtle and Kip's Bays. The breastworks were manned by patriot militia who had recently served in Brooklyn. Disheartened by their late defeat, they fled at the first advance of the enemy. Two brigades of Putnam's Connecticut troops, which had been sent that morning to support them, caught the panic, and, regardless of the commands and entreaties of their officers, joined in the general scamper. At this moment Washington, who had mounted his horse at the first sound of the cannonade, came galloping to the scene of confusion. Riding in among the fugitives he endeavored to rally and restore them to order. All in vain. At the first appearance of sixty or seventy redcoats, they broke again without firing a shot, and fled in headlong terror. Losing all self-command at the sight of such dastardly conduct, Washington dashed his hat upon the ground in a transport of rage. ``Are these the men,'' exclaimed he, ``with whom I am to defend America!'' In a paroxysm of passion and despair he snapped his pistols at some of them, threatened others with his sword, and was so heedless of his own danger that he might have fallen into the hands of the enemy, who were not eighty yards distant, had not an aide-de-camp seized the bridle of his horse, and absolutely hurried him away. It was one of the rare moments of his life when the vehement element of his nature was stirred up from its deep recesses. He soon recovered his self-possession, and took measures against the general peril. LABOR DAY (FIRST MONDAY IN SEPTEMBER) THE SMITHY A HINDU FABLE BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU (ADAPTED) Once words ran high in a smithy. The furnace said: ``If I cease to burn, the smithy must close.'' The bellows said: ``If I cease to blow, no fire, no smithy.'' The hammer and anvil, also, each claimed the sole credit for keeping up the smithy. The ploughshare that had been shaped by the furnace, the bellows, the hammer and the anvil, cried: ``It is not each of you alone, that keeps up the smithy, but ALL TOGETHER.'' THE NAIL BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM (TRANSLATED)[7] [7] From the Riverside Fourth Reader. A merchant had done good business at the fair; he had sold his wares, and filled his bag with gold and silver. Then he set out at once on his journey home, for he wished to be in his own house before night. At noon he rested in a town. When he wanted to go on, the stable-boy brought his horse, saying: ``A nail is wanting, sir, in the shoe of his left hind foot.'' ``Let it be wanting,'' answered the merchant; ``the shoe will stay on for the six miles I have still to go. I am in a hurry.'' In the afternoon he got down at an inn and had his horse fed. The stable-boy came into the room to him and said: ``Sir, a shoe is wanting from your horse's left hind foot. Shall I take him to the blacksmith?'' ``Let it still be wanting,'' said the man; ``the horse can very well hold out for a couple of miles more. I am in a hurry.'' So the merchant rode forth, but before long the horse began to limp. He had not limped long before he began to stumble, and he had not stumbled long before he fell down and broke his leg. The merchant had to leave the horse where he fell, and unstrap the bag, take it on his back, and go home on foot. ``That unlucky nail,'' said he to himself, ``has made all this trouble.'' THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER BY HORACE E. SCUDDER There was once a shoemaker who worked very hard and was honest. Still, he could not earn enough to live on. At last, all he had in the world was gone except just leather enough to make one pair of shoes. He cut these out at night, and meant to rise early the next morning to make them up. His heart was light in spite of his troubles, for his conscience was clear. So he went quietly to bed, left all his cares to God, and fell asleep. In the morning he said his prayers, and sat down to work, when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes, already made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think. He looked at the work. There was not one false stitch in the whole job. All was neat and true. That same day a customer came in, and the shoes pleased him so well that he readily paid a price higher than usual for them. The shoemaker took the money and bought leather enough to make two pairs more. He cut out the work in the evening, and went to bed early. He wished to be up with the sun and get to work. He was saved all trouble, for when he got up in the morning, the work was done. Pretty soon buyers came in, who paid him well for his goods. So he bought leather enough for four pairs more. He cut out the work again overnight, and found it finished in the morning as before. So it went on for some time. What was got ready at night was always done by daybreak, and the good man soon was well-to-do. One evening, at Christmas-time, he and his wife sat over the fire, chatting, and he said: ``I should like to sit up and watch to-night, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me.'' So they left the light burning, and hid themselves behind a curtain to see what would happen. As soon as it was midnight, there came two little Elves. They sat upon the shoemaker's bench, took up all the work that was cut out, and began to ply their little fingers. They stitched and rapped and tapped at such a rate that the shoemaker was amazed, and could not take his eyes off them for a moment. On they went till the job was done, and the shoes stood, ready for use, upon the table. This was long before daybreak. Then they ran away as quick as lightning. The next day the wife said to the shoemaker: ``These little Elves have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them, and do them some good in return. I am vexed to see them run about as they do. They have nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I'll tell you what we must do. I will make each of them a shirt, and a coat and waistcoat, and a pair of pantaloons into the bargain. Do you make each of them a little pair of shoes.'' The good shoemaker liked the thought very well. One evening he and his wife had the clothes ready, and laid them on the table instead of the work they used to cut out. Then they went and hid behind the curtain to watch what the little Elves would do. At midnight the Elves came in and were going to sit down at their work as usual. But when they saw the clothes lying there for them, they laughed and were in high glee. They dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced and capered and sprang about as merry as could be, till at last they danced out of the door, and over the green. The shoemaker saw them no more, but everything went well with him as long as he lived. THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE BY JULlANA HORATIA EWING (ADAPTED) It is well known that the Fairy People cannot abide meanness. They like to be liberally dealt with when they beg or borrow of the human race; and, on the other hand, to those who come to them in need, they are invariably generous. Now there once lived a certain housewife who had a sharp eye to her own interests, and gave alms of what she had no use for, hoping to get some reward in return. One day a Hillman knocked at her door. ``Can you lend us a saucepan, good mother?'' said he. ``There's a wedding in the hill, and all the pots are in use.'' ``Is he to have one?'' asked the servant lass who had opened the door. ``Aye, to be sure,'' answered the housewife; ``one must be neighborly.'' But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, the housewife pinched her arm and whispered sharply: ``Not that, you good-for- nothing! Get the old one out of the cupboard. It leaks, and the Hillmen are so neat, and such nimble workers, that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one obliges the Fairy People, and saves sixpence in tinkering!'' Thus bidden the maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by until the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the Hillman, who thanked her and went away. In due time the saucepan was returned, and, as the housewife had foreseen, it was neatly mended and ready for use. At supper-time the maid filled the pan with milk, and set it on the fire for the children's supper. But in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs refused to drink it. ``Ah, good-for-nothing hussy!'' cried the housewife, as she refilled the pan herself, ``you would ruin the richest with your carelessness! There's a whole quart of good milk wasted at once!'' ``AND THAT'S TWOPENCE!'' cried a voice that seemed to come from the chimney, in a whining tone, like some discontented old body going over her grievances. The housewife had not left the saucepan for two minutes, when the milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. ``The pan must be dirty,'' muttered the good woman in vexation, ``and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs.'' ``AND THAT'S FOURPENCE!'' added the voice in the chimney. After a thorough cleaning the saucepan was once more filled and set on the fire, but with no better success. The milk boiled over again, and was hopelessly spoiled. The housewife shed tears of anger at the waste and cried: ``Never before did such a thing befall me since I kept house! Three quarts of new milk burnt for one meal.'' ``AND THAT'S SIXPENCE!'' cried the voice in the chimney. ``You didn't save the tinkering after all, mother!''
Back to Full Books |