GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYSPart 7 out of 8hand the clods of earth opened, and I saw two small leaves coming forth. But scarcely had I beheld them, when they joined together and became a small stem wrapped in bark; and the stem grew before my eyes,--and it grew thicker and higher and became covered with branches. ``I marveled, but the Man of God motioned me to be silent. `Behold,' said he, `new creations begin.' ``Then he took water in the palm of his hand, and sprinkled the branches three times, and, lo! the branches were covered with green leaves, so that a cool shade spread above us, and the air was fined with perfume. `` `From whence come this perfume and this shade?' cried I. `` `Dost thou not see,' he answered, `these crimson flowers bursting from among the leaves, and hanging in clusters?' ``I was about to speak, but a gentle breeze moved the leaves, scattering the petals of the flowers around us. Scarcely had the falling flowers reached the ground when I saw ruddy pomegranates hanging beneath the leaves of the tree, like almonds on Aaron's rod. Then the Man of God left me, and I was lost in amazement.'' ``Where is he, this Man of God?'' asked Prince Solomon eagerly. ``What is his name? Is he still alive?'' ``Son of David,'' answered Nathan, ``I have spoken to thee of a vision.'' When the Prince heard this he was grieved to the heart. ``How couldst thou deceive me thus?'' he asked. But the Prophet replied: ``Behold in thy father's gardens thou mayest daily see the unfolding of wonder trees. Doth not this same miracle happen to the fig, the date, and the pomegranate? They spring from the earth, they put out branches and leaves, they flower, they fruit,--not in a moment, perhaps, but in months and years,-- but canst thou tell the difference betwixt a minute, a month, or a year in the eyes of Him with whom one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day?'' THE PROUD OAK TREE OLD FABLE[11] [11] From Deutsches Drittes Lesebuch, by W. H. Weick and C. Grebner. Copyright, 1886, by Van Antwerp, Bragg & Co. American Book Company, publishers. (TRANSLATED) The oak said to the reed that grew by the river: ``It is no wonder that you make such a sorrowful moaning, for you are so weak that the little wren is a burden for you, and the lightest breeze must seem like a storm-wind. Now look at me! No storm has ever been able to bow my head. You will be much safer if you grow close to my side so that I may shelter you from the wind that is now playing with my leaves.'' ``Do not worry about me,'' said the reed; ``I have less reason to fear the wind than you have. I bow myself, but I never break. He who laughs last, laughs best!'' That night there came a fearful hurricane. The oak stood erect. The reed bowed itself before the blast. The wind grew more furious, and, uprooting the proud oak, flung it on the ground. When the morning came there stood the slender reed, glittering with dewdrops, and softly swaying in the breeze. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON ADAPTED FROM H. P. MASKEL'S RENDERING OF THE GREEK MYTH On the slopes of the Phrygian hills, there once dwelt a pious old couple named Baucis and Philemon. They had lived all their lives in a tiny cottage of wattles, thatched with straw, cheerful and content in spite of their poverty. As this worthy couple sat dozing by the fireside one evening in the late autumn, two strangers came and begged a shelter for the night. They had to stoop to enter the humble doorway, where the old man welcomed them heartily and bade them rest their weary limbs on the settle before the fire. Meanwhile Baucis stirred the embers, blowing them into a flame with dry leaves, and heaped on the fagots to boil the stew-pot. Hanging from the blackened beams was a rusty side of bacon. Philemon cut off a rasher to roast, and, while his guests refreshed themselves with a wash at the rustic trough, he gathered pot-herbs from his patch of garden. Then the old woman, her hands trembling with age, laid the cloth and spread the table. It was a frugal meal, but one that hungry wayfarers could well relish. The first course was an omelette of curdled milk and eggs, garnished with radishes and served on rude oaken platters. The cups of turned beechwood were filled with homemade wine from an earthen jug. The second course consisted of dried figs and dates, plums, sweet-smelling apples, and grapes, with a piece of clear, white honeycomb. What made the meal more grateful to the guests was the hearty spirit in which it was offered. Their hosts gave all they had without stint or grudging. But all at once something happened which startled and amazed Baucis and Philemon. They poured out wine for their guests, and, lo! each time the pitcher filled itself again to the brim. The old couple then knew that their guests were not mere mortals; indeed, they were no other than Jupiter and Mercury come down to earth in the disguise of poor travelers. Being ashamed of their humble entertainment, Philemon hurried out and gave chase to his only goose, intending to kill and roast it. But his guests forbade him, saying:-- ``In mortal shape we have come down, and at a hundred houses asked for lodging and rest. For answer a hundred doors were shut and locked against us. You alone, the poorest of all, have received us gladly and given us of your best. Now it is for us to punish these impious people who treat strangers so churlishly, but you two shall be spared. Only leave your cottage and follow us to yonder mountain-top.'' So saying, Jupiter and Mercury led the way, and the two old folks hobbled after them. Presently they reached the top of the mountain, and Baucis and Philemon saw all the country round, with villages and people, sinking into a marsh; while their own cottage alone was left standing. And while they gazed, their cottage was changed into a white temple. The doorway became a porch with marble columns. The thatch grew into a roof of golden tiles. The little garden about their home became a park. Then Jupiter, regarding Baucis and Philemon with kindly eyes, said: ``Tell me, O good old man and you good wife, what may we do in return for your hospitality?'' Philemon whispered for a moment with Baucis, and she nodded her approval. ``We desire,'' he replied, ``to be your servants, and to have the care of this temple. One other favor we would ask. From boyhood I have loved only Baucis, and she has lived only for me. Let the selfsame hour take us both away together. Let me never see the tomb of my wife, nor let her suffer the misery of mourning my death.'' Jupiter and Mercury, pleased with these requests, willingly granted both, and endowed Baucis and Philemon with youth and strength as well. The gods then vanished from their sight, but as long as their lives lasted Baucis and Philemon were the guardians of the white temple that once had been their home. And when again old age overtook them, they were standing one day in front of the sacred porch, and Baucis, turning her gaze upon her husband, saw him slowly changing into a gnarled oak tree. And Philemon, as he felt himself rooted to the ground, saw Baucis at the same time turning into a leafy linden. And as their faces disappeared behind the green foliage, each cried unto the other, ``Farewell, dearest love!'' and again, ``Dearest love, farewell!'' And their human forms were changed to trees and branches. And still, if you visit the spot, you may see an oak and a linden tree with branches intertwined. THE UNFRUITFUL TREE BY FRIEDRICH ADOLPH KRUMMACHER A farmer had a brother in town who was a gardener, and who possessed a magnificent orchard full of the finest fruit trees, so that his skill and his beautiful trees were famous everywhere. One day the farmer went into town to visit his brother, and was astonished at the rows of trees that grew slender and smooth as wax tapers. ``Look, my brother,'' said the gardener; ``I will give you an apple tree, the best from my garden, and you, and your children, and your children's children shall enjoy it.'' Then the gardener called his workmen and ordered them to take up the tree and carry it to his brother's farm. They did so, and the next morning the farmer began to wonder where he should plant it. ``If I plant it on the hill,'' said he to himself, ``the wind might catch it and shake down the delicious fruit before it is ripe; if I plant it close to the road, passers-by will see it and rob me of its luscious apples; but if I plant it too near the door of my house, my servants or the children may pick the fruit.'' So, after he had thought the matter over, he planted the tree behind his barn, saying to himself: ``Prying thieves will not think to look for it here.'' But behold, the tree bore neither fruit nor blossoms the first year nor the second; then the farmer sent for his brother the gardener, and reproached him angrily, saying:-- ``You have deceived me, and given me a barren tree instead of a fruitful one. For, behold, this is the third year and still it brings forth nothing but leaves!'' The gardener, when he saw where the tree was planted, laughed and said:-- ``You have planted the tree where it is exposed to cold winds, and has neither sun nor warmth. How, then, could you expect flowers and fruit? You have planted the tree with a greedy and suspicious heart; how, then, could you expect to reap a rich and generous harvest?'' THE DRYAD OF THE OLD OAK BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (ADAPTED) In olden times there was a youth named Rhoecus. One day as he wandered through the wood he saw an ancient oak tree, trembling and about to fall. Full of pity for so fair a tree, Rhoecus carefully propped up its trunk, and as he did so he heard a soft voice murmur:-- ``Rhoecus!'' It sounded like the gentle sighing of the wind through the leaves; and while Rhoecus paused bewildered to listen, again he heard the murmur like a soft breeze:-- ``Rhoecus!'' And there stood before him, in the green glooms of the shadowy oak, a wonderful maiden. ``Rhoecus,'' said she, in low-toned words, serene and full, and as clear as drops of dew, ``I am the Dryad of this tree, and with it I am doomed to live and die. Thou hadst compassion on my oak, and in saving it thou hast saved my life. Now, ask me what thou wilt that I can give, and it shall be thine.'' ``Beauteous nymph,'' answered Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart, ``surely nothing will satisfy the craving of my soul save to be with thee forever. Give to me thy love!'' ``I give it, Rhoecus,'' answered she with sadness in her voice, ``though it be a perilous gift. An hour before sunset meet me here.'' And straightway she vanished, and Rhoecus could see nothing but the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak. Not a sound came to his straining ears but the low, trickling rustle of the leaves, and, from far away on the emerald slope, the sweet sound of an idle shepherd's pipe. Filled with wonder and joy Rhoecus turned his steps homeward. The earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked. The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, and so full of joy was he that he could scarce believe that he had not wings. Impatient for the trysting-time, he sought some companions, and to while away the tedious hours, he played at dice, and soon forgot all else. The dice were rattling their merriest, and Rhoecus had just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, when through the open window of the room there hummed a yellow bee. It buzzed about his ears, and seemed ready to alight upon his head. At this Rhoecus laughed, and with a rough, impatient hand he brushed it off and cried:-- ``The silly insect! does it take me for a rose?'' But still the bee came back. Three times it buzzed about his head, and three times he rudely beat it back. Then straight through the window flew the wounded bee, while Rhoecus watched its fight with angry eyes. And as he looked--O sorrow!--the red disk of the setting sun descended behind the sharp mountain peak of Thessaly. Then instantly the blood sank from his heart, as if its very walls had caved in, for he remembered the trysting-hour-now gone by! Without a word he turned and rushed forth madly through the city and the gate, over the fields into the wood. Spent of breath he reached the tree, and, listening fearfully, he heard once more the low voice murmur:-- ``Rhoecus!'' But as he looked he could see nothing but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then the voice sighed: ``O Rhoecus, nevermore shalt thou behold me by day or night! Why didst thou fail to come ere sunset? Why didst thou scorn my humble messenger, and send it back to me with bruised wings? We spirits only show ourselves to gentle eyes! And he who scorns the smallest thing alive is forever shut away from all that is beautiful in woods and fields. Farewell! for thou canst see me no more!'' Then Rhoecus beat his breast and groaned aloud. ``Be pitiful,'' he cried. ``Forgive me yet this once!'' ``Alas,'' the voice replied, ``I am not unmerciful! I can forgive! But I have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes, nor can I change the temper of thy heart.'' And then again she murmured, ``Nevermore!'' And after that Rhoecus heard no other sound, save the rustling of the oak's crisp leaves, like surf upon a distant shore. DAPHNE BY OVID (ADAPTED) In ancient times, when Apollo, the god of the shining sun, roamed the earth, he met Cupid, who with bended bow and drawn string was seeking human beings to wound with the arrows of love. ``Silly boy,'' said Apollo, ``what dost thou with the warlike bow? Such burden best befits my shoulders, for did I not slay the fierce serpent, the Python, whose baleful breath destroyed all that came nigh him? Warlike arms are for the mighty, not for boys like thee! Do thou carry a torch with which to kindle love in human hearts, but no longer lay claim to my weapon, the bow!'' But Cupid replied in anger: ``Let thy bow shoot what it will, Apollo, but my bow shall shoot THEE!'' And the god of love rose up, and beating the air with his wings, he drew two magic arrows from his quiver. One was of shining gold and with its barbed point could Cupid inflict wounds of love; the other arrow was of dull silver and its wound had the power to engender hate. The silver arrow Cupid fixed in the breast of Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneus; and forthwith she fled away from the homes of men, and hunted beasts in the forest. With the golden arrow Cupid grievously wounded Apollo, who fleeing to the woods saw there the Nymph Daphne pursuing the deer; and straightway the sun-god fell in love with her beauty. Her golden locks hung down upon her neck, her eyes were like stars, her form was slender and graceful and clothed in clinging white. Swifter than the light wind she flew, and Apollo followed after. ``O Nymph! daughter of Peneus,'' he cried, ``stay, I entreat thee! Why dost thou fly as a lamb from the wolf, as a deer from the lion, or as a dove with trembling wings Bees from the eagle! I am no common man! I am no shepherd! Thou knowest not, rash maid, from whom thou art flying! The priests of Delphi and Tenedos pay their service to me. Jupiter is my sire. Mine own arrow is unerring, but Cupid's aim is truer, for he has made this wound in my heart! Alas! wretched me! though I am that great one who discovered the art of healing, yet this love may not be healed by my herbs nor my skill!'' But Daphne stopped not at these words, she flew from him with timid step. The winds fluttered her garments, the light breezes spread her flowing locks behind her. Swiftly Apollo drew near even as the keen greyhound draws near to the frightened hare he is pursuing. With trembling limbs Daphne sought the river, the home of her father, Peneus. Close behind her was Apollo, the sun-god. She felt his breath on her hair and his hand on her shoulder. Her strength was spent, she grew pale, and in faint accents she implored the river:-- ``O save me, my father, save me from Apollo, the sun-god!'' Scarcely had she thus spoken before a heaviness seized her limbs. Her breast was covered with bark, her hair grew into green leaves, and her arms into branches. Her feet, a moment before so swift, became rooted to the ground. And Daphne was no longer a Nymph, but a green laurel tree. When Apollo beheld this change he cried out and embraced the tree, and kissed its leaves. ``Beautiful Daphne,'' he said, ``since thou cannot be my bride, yet shalt thou be my tree. Henceforth my hair, my lyre, and my quiver shall be adorned with laurel. Thy wreaths shall be given to conquering chiefs, to winners of fame and joy; and as my head has never been shorn of its locks, so shalt thou wear thy green leaves, winter and summer--forever!'' Apollo ceased speaking and the laurel bent its new-made boughs in assent, and its stem seemed to shake and its leaves gently to murmur. BIRD DAY THE OLD WOMAN WHO BECAME A WOODPECKER BY PHOEBE CARY (ADAPTED) Afar in the Northland, where the winter days are so short and the nights so long, and where they harness the reindeer to sledges, and where the children look like bear's cubs in their funny, furry clothes, there, long ago, wandered a good Saint on the snowy roads. He came one day to the door of a cottage, and looking in saw a little old woman making cakes, and baking them on the hearth. Now, the good Saint was faint with fasting, and he asked if she would give him one small cake wherewith to stay his hunger. So the little old woman made a VERY SMALL cake and placed it on the hearth; but as it lay baking she looked at it and thought: ``That is a big cake, indeed, quite too big for me to give away.'' Then she kneaded another cake, much smaller, and laid that on the hearth to cook, but when she turned it over it looked larger than the first. So she took a tiny scrap of dough, and rolled it out, and rolled it out, and baked it as thin as a wafer; but when it was done it looked so large that she could not bear to part with it; and she said: ``My cakes are much too big to give away,''-- and she put them on the shelf. Then the good Saint grew angry, for he was hungry and faint. ``You are too selfish to have a human form,'' said he. ``You are too greedy to deserve food, shelter, and a warm fire. Instead, henceforth, you shall build as the birds do, and get your scanty living by picking up nuts and berries and by boring, boring all the day long, in the bark of trees.'' Hardly had the good Saint said this when the little old woman went straight up the chimney, and came out at the top changed into a red- headed woodpecker with coal-black feathers. And now every country boy may see her in the woods, where she lives in trees boring, boring, boring for her food. THE BOY WHO BECAME A ROBIN AN OJIBBEWAY LEGEND BY HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT (ADAPTED) Once upon a time there was an old Indian who had an only son, whose name was Opeechee. The boy had come to the age when every Indian lad makes a long fast, in order to secure a Spirit to be his guardian for life. Now, the old man was very proud, and he wished his son to fast longer than other boys, and to become a greater warrior than all others. So he directed him to prepare with solemn ceremonies for the fast. After the boy had been in the sweating lodge and bath several times, his father commanded him to lie down upon a clean mat, in a little lodge apart from the rest. ``My son,'' said he, ``endure your hunger like a man, and at the end of TWELVE DAYS, you shall receive food and a blessing from my hands.'' The boy carefully did all that his father commanded, and lay quietly with his face covered, awaiting the arrival of his guardian Spirit who was to bring him good or bad dreams. His father visited him every day, encouraging him to endure with patience the pangs of hunger and thirst. He told him of the honor and renown that would be his if he continued his fast to the end of the twelve days. To all this the boy replied not, but lay on his mat without a murmur of discontent, until the ninth day; when he said:-- ``My father, the dreams tell me of evil. May I break my fast now, and at a better time make a new one?'' ``My son,'' replied the old man, ``you know not what you ask. If you get up now, all your glory will depart. Wait patiently a little longer. You have but three days more to fast, then glory and honor will be yours.'' The boy said nothing more, but, covering himself closer, he lay until the eleventh day, when he spoke again:-- ``My father,'' said he, ``the dreams forebode evil. May I break my fast now, and at a better time make a new one?'' ``My son,'' replied the old man again, ``you know not what you ask. Wait patiently a little longer. You have but one more day to fast. To-morrow I will myself prepare a meal and bring it to you.'' The boy remained silent, beneath his covering, and motionless except for the gentle heaving of his breast. Early the next morning his father, overjoyed at having gained his end, prepared some food. He took it and hastened to the lodge intending to set it before his son. On coming to the door of the lodge what was his surprise to hear the boy talking to some one. He lifted the curtain hanging before the doorway, and looking in saw his son painting his breast with vermilion. And as the lad laid on the bright color as far back on his shoulders as he could reach, he was saying to himself:-- ``My father has destroyed my fortune as a man. He would not listen to my requests. I shall be happy forever, because I was obedient to my parent; but he shall suffer. My guardian Spirit has given me a new form, and now I must go!'' At this his father rushed into the lodge, crying: ``My son! my son! I pray you leave me not!'' But the boy, with the quickness of a bird, flew to the top of the lodge, and perching upon the highest pole, was instantly changed into a most beautiful robin redbreast. He looked down on his father with pity in his eyes, and said:-- ``Do not sorrow, O my father, I am no longer your boy, but Opeechee the robin. I shall always be a friend to men, and live near their dwellings. I shall ever be happy and content. Every day will I sing you songs of joy. The mountains and fields yield me food. My pathway is in the bright air.'' Then Opeechee the robin stretched himself as if delighting in his new wings, and caroling his sweetest song, he flew away to the near-by trees. THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW BY A. B. MITFORD (ADAPTED) Once upon a time there lived a little old man and a little old woman. The little old man had a kind heart, and he kept a young sparrow, which he cared for tenderly. Every morning it used to sing at the door of his house. Now, the little old woman was a cross old thing, and one day when she was going to starch her linen, the sparrow pecked at her paste. Then she flew into a great rage and cut the sparrow's tongue and let the bird fly away. When the little old man came home from the hills, where he had been chopping wood, he found the sparrow gone. ``Where is my little sparrow?'' asked he. ``It pecked at my starching-paste,'' answered the little old woman, ``so I cut its evil tongue and let it fly away.'' ``Alas! Alas!'' cried the little old man. ``Poor thing! Poor thing! Poor little tongue-cut sparrow! Where is your home now?'' And then he wandered far and wide seeking his pet and crying:-- ``Mr. Sparrow, Mr. Sparrow, where are you living?'' And he wandered on and on, over mountain and valley, and dale and river, until one day at the foot of a certain mountain he met the lost bird. The little old man was filled with joy and the sparrow welcomed him with its sweetest song. It led the little old man to its nest-house, introduced him to its wife and small sparrows, and set before him all sorts of good things to eat and drink. ``Please partake of our humble fare,'' sang the sparrow; ``poor as it is, you are welcome.'' ``What a polite sparrow,'' answered the little old man, and he stayed for a long time as the bird's guest. At last one day the little old man said that he must take his leave and return home. ``Wait a bit,'' said the sparrow. And it went into the house and brought out two wicker baskets. One was very heavy and the other light. ``Take the one you wish,'' said the sparrow, ``and good fortune go with you.'' ``I am very feeble,'' answered the little old man, ``so I will take the light one.'' He thanked the sparrow, and, shouldering the basket, said good-bye. Then he trudged off leaving the sparrow family sad and lonely. When he reached home the little old woman was very angry, and began to scold him, saying:-- ``Well, and pray where have you been all these days? A pretty thing, indeed, for you to be gadding about like this!'' ``Oh,'' he replied, ``I have been on a visit to the tongue-cut sparrow, and when I came away it gave me this wicker basket as a parting gift.'' Then they opened the basket to see what was inside, and lo and behold! it was full of gold, silver, and other precious things! The little old woman was as greedy as she was cross, and when she saw all the riches spread before her, she could not contain herself for joy. ``Ho! Ho!'' cried she. ``Now I'll go and call on the sparrow, and get a pretty present, too!'' She asked the old man the way to the sparrow's house and set forth on her journey. And she wandered on and on over mountain and valley, and dale and river, until at last she saw the tongue-cut sparrow. ``Well met, well met, Mr. Sparrow,'' cried she. ``I have been looking forward with much pleasure to seeing you.'' And then she tried to flatter it with soft, sweet words. So the bird had to invite her to its nest-house, but it did not feast her nor say anything about a parting gift. At last the little old woman had to go, and she asked for something to carry with her to remember the visit by. The sparrow, as before, brought out two wicker baskets. One was very heavy and the other light. The greedy little old woman, choosing the heavy one, carried it off with her. She hurried home as fast as she was able, and closing her doors and windows so that no one might see, opened the basket. And, lo and behold! out jumped all sorts of wicked hobgoblins and imps, and they scratched and pinched her to death. As for the little old man he adopted a son, and his family grew rich and prosperous. THE QUAILS A LEGEND OF THE JATAKA FROM THE RIVERSIDE FOURTH READER Ages ago a flock of more than a thousand quails lived together in a forest in India. They would have been happy, but that they were in great dread of their enemy, the quail-catcher. He used to imitate the call of the quail; and when they gathered together in answer to it, he would throw a great net over them, stuff them into his basket, and carry them away to be sold. Now, one of the quails was very wise, and he said:-- ``Brothers! I've thought of a good plan. In future, as soon as the fowler throws his net over us, let each one put his head through a mesh in the net and then all lift it up together and fly away with it. When we have flown far enough, we can let the net drop on a thorn bush and escape from under it.'' All agreed to the plan; and next day when the fowler threw his net, the birds all lifted it together in the very way that the wise quail had told them, threw it on a thorn bush and escaped. While the fowler tried to free his net from the thorns, it grew dark, and he had to go home. This happened many days, till at last the fowler's wife grew angry and asked her husband:-- ``Why is it that you never catch any more quail?'' Then the fowler said: ``The trouble is that all the birds work together and help one another. If they would only quarrel, I could catch them fast enough.'' A few days later, one of the quails accidentally trod on the head of one of his brothers, as they alighted on the feeding-ground. ``Who trod on my head?'' angrily inquired the quail who was hurt. ``Don't be angry, I didn't mean to tread on you,'' said the first quail. But the brother quail went on quarreling. ``I lifted all the weight of the net; you didn't help at all,'' he cried. That made the first quail angry, and before long all were drawn into the dispute. Then the fowler saw his chance. He imitated the cry of the quail and cast his net over those who came together. They were still boasting and quarreling, and they did not help one another lift the net. So the hunter lifted the net himself and crammed them into his basket. But the wise quail gathered his friends together and flew far away, for he knew that quarrels are the root of misfortune. THE MAGPIE'S NEST BY JOSEPH JACOBS All the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach them how to build nests. For the magpie is the cleverest bird of all at building nests. So she put all the birds round her and began to show them how to do it. First of all she took some mud and made a sort of round cake with it. ``Oh, that's how it's done!'' said the thrush, and away it flew; and so that's how thrushes build their nests. Then the magpie took some twigs and arranged them round in the mud. ``Now I know all about it!'' said the blackbird, and off it flew; and that's how the blackbirds make their nests to this very day. Then the magpie put another layer of mud over the twigs. ``Oh, that 's quite obvious!'' said the wise owl, and away it flew; and owls have never made better nests since. After this the magpie took some twigs and twined them round the outside. ``The very thing!'' said the sparrow, and off he went; so sparrows make rather slovenly nests to this day. Well, then Madge magpie took some feathers and stuff, and lined the nest very comfortably with it. ``That suits me!'' cried the starling, and off it flew; and very comfortable nests have starlings. So it went on, every bird taking away some knowledge of how to build nests, but none of them waiting to the end. Meanwhile Madge magpie went on working and working without looking up, till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry: ``Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o!'' At last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across, so she said: ``One's enough.'' But the turtle-dove kept on saying: ``Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o!'' Then the magpie got angry and said: ``One's enough, I tell you!'' Still the turtle-dove cried: ``Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o!'' At last, and at last, the magpie looked up and saw nobody near her but the silly turtle-dove, and then she got rarely angry and flew away and refused to tell the birds how to build nests again. And that is why different birds build their nests differently. THE GREEDY GEESE FROM IL LIBRO D'ORO (ADAPTED) Many years ago there was near the sea a convent famed for the rich crops of grain that grew on its farm. On a certain year a large flock of wild geese descended on its fields and devoured first the corn, and then the green blades. The superintendent of the farm hastened to the convent and called the lady abbess. ``Holy mother,'' said he, ``this year the nuns will have to fast continually, for there will be no food.'' ``Why is that?'' asked the abbess. ``Because,'' answered the superintendent, ``a flood of wild geese has rained upon the land, and they have eaten up the corn, nor have they left a single green blade.'' ``Is it possible,'' said the abbess, ``that these wicked birds have no respect for the property of the convent! They shall do penance for their misdeeds. Return at once to the fields, and order the geese from me to come without delay to the convent door, so that they may receive just punishment for their greediness.'' ``But, mother,'' said the superintendent, ``this is not a time for jesting! These are not sheep to be guided into the fold, but birds with long, strong wings, to fly away with.'' ``Do you understand me!'' answered the abbess. ``Go at once, and bid them come to me without delay, and render an account of their misdeeds.'' The superintendent ran back to the farm, and found the flock of evildoers still there. He raised his voice and clapping his hands, cried:-- ``Come, come, ye greedy geese! The lady abbess commands you to hasten to the convent door!'' Wonderful sight! Hardly had he uttered these words than the geese raised their necks as if to listen, then, without spreading their wings, they placed themselves in single file, and in regular order began to march toward the convent. As they proceeded they bowed their heads as if confessing their fault and as though about to receive punishment. Arriving at the convent, they entered the courtyard in exact order, one behind the other, and there awaited the coming of the abbess. All night they stood thus without making a sound, as if struck dumb by their guilty consciences. But when morning came, they uttered the most pitiful cries as though asking pardon and permission to depart. Then the lady abbess, taking compassion on the repentant birds, appeared with some nuns upon a balcony. Long she talked to the geese, asking them why they had stolen the convent grain. She threatened them with a long fast, and then, softening, began to offer them pardon if they would never again attack her lands, nor eat her corn. To which the geese bowed their heads low in assent. Then the abbess gave them her blessing and permission to depart. Hardly had she done so when the geese, spreading their wings, made a joyous circle above the convent towers, and flew away. Alighting at some distance they counted their number and found one missing. For, alas! in the night, when they had been shut in the courtyard, the convent cook, seeing how fat they were, had stolen one bird and had killed, roasted, and eaten it. When the birds discovered that one of their number was missing, they again took wing and, hovering over the convent, they uttered mournful cries, complaining of the loss of their comrade, and imploring the abbess to return him to the flock. Now, when the lady abbess heard these melancholy pleas, she assembled her household, and inquired of each member where the bird might be. The cook, fearing that it might be already known to her, confessed the theft, and begged for pardon. ``You have been very audacious,'' said the abbess, ``but at least collect the bones and bring them to me.'' The cook did as directed, and the abbess at a word caused the bones to come together and to assume flesh, and afterwards feathers, and, lo! the original bird rose up. The geese, having received their lost companion, rejoiced loudly, and, beating their wings gratefully, made many circles over the sacred cloister, before they flew away. Neither did they in future ever dare to place a foot on the lands of the convent, nor to touch one blade of grass. THE KING OF THE BIRDS BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM (TRANSLATED) One day the birds took it into their heads that they would like a master, and that one of their number must be chosen king. A meeting of all the birds was called, and on a beautiful May morning they assembled from woods and fields and meadows. The eagle, the robin, the bluebird, the owl, the lark, the sparrow were all there. The cuckoo came, and the lapwing, and so did all the other birds, too numerous to mention. There also came a very little bird that had no name at all. There was great confusion and noise. There was piping, hissing, chattering and clacking, and finally it was decided that the bird that could fly the highest should be king. The signal was given and all the birds flew in a great flock into the air. There was a loud rustling and whirring and beating of wings. The air was full of dust, and it seemed as if a black cloud were floating over the field. The little birds soon grew tired and fell back quickly to earth. The larger ones held out longer, and flew higher and higher, but the eagle flew highest of any. He rose, and rose, until he seemed to be flying straight into the sun. The other birds gave out and one by one they fell back to earth; and when the eagle saw this he thought, ``What is the use of flying any higher? It is settled: I am king!'' Then the birds below called in one voice: ``Come back, come back! You must be our king! No one can fly as high as you.'' ``Except me!'' cried a shrill, shrill voice, and the little bird without a name rose from the eagle's back, where he had lain hidden in the feathers, and he flew into the air. Higher and higher he mounted till he was lost to sight, then, folding his wings together, he sank to earth crying shrilly: ``I am king! I am king!'' ``You, our king!'' the birds cried in anger; ``you have done this by trickery and cunning. We will not have you to reign over us.'' Then the birds gathered together again and made another condition, that he should be king who could go the deepest into the earth. How the goose wallowed in the sand, and the duck strove to dig a hole! All the other birds, too, tried to hide themselves in the ground. The little bird without a name found a mouse's hole, and creeping in cried:-- ``I am king! I am king!'' ``You, our king!'' all the birds cried again, more angrily than before. ``Do you think that we would reward your cunning in this way? No, no! You shall stay in the earth till you die of hunger!'' So they shut up the little bird in the mouse's hole, and bade the owl watch him carefully night and day. Then all the birds went home to bed, for they were very tired; but the owl found it lonely and wearisome sitting alone staring at the mouse's hole. ``I can close one eye and watch with the other,'' he thought. So he closed one eye and stared steadfastly with the other; but before he knew it he forgot to keep that one open, and both eyes were fast asleep. Then the little bird without a name peeped out, and when he saw Master Owl's two eyes tight shut, he slipped from the hole and flew away. From this time on the owl has not dared to show himself by day lest the birds should pull him to pieces. He flies about only at night-time, hating and pursuing the mouse for having made the hole into which the little bird crept. And the little bird also keeps out of sight, for he fears lest the other birds should punish him for his cunning. He hides in the hedges, and when he thinks himself quite safe, he sings out: ``I am king! I am king!'' And the other birds in mockery call out: ``Yes, yes, the hedge-king! the hedge-king!'' THE DOVE WHO SPOKE TRUTH BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN The dove and the wrinkled little bat once went on a journey together. When it came toward night a storm arose, and the two companions sought everywhere for a shelter. But all the birds were sound asleep in their nests and the animals in their holes and dens. They could find no welcome anywhere until they came to the hollow tree where old Master Owl lived, wide awake in the dark. ``Let us knock here,'' said the shrewd bat; ``I know the old fellow is not asleep. This is his prowling hour, and but that it is a stormy night he would be abroad hunting.--What ho, Master Owl!'' he squeaked, ``will you let in two storm- tossed travelers for a night's lodging?'' Gruffly the selfish old owl bade them enter, and grudgingly invited them to share his supper. The poor dove was so tired that she could scarcely eat, but the greedy bat's spirits rose as soon as he saw the viands spread before him. He was a sly fellow, and immediately began to flatter his host into good humor. He praised the owl's wisdom and his courage, his gallantry and his generosity; though every one knew that however wise old Master Owl might be, he was neither brave nor gallant. As for his generosity--both the dove and the bat well remembered his selfishness toward the poor wren, when the owl alone of all the birds refused to give the little fire-bringer a feather to help cover his scorched and shivering body. All this flattery pleased the owl. He puffed and ruffled himself, trying to look as wise, gallant, and brave as possible. He pressed the bat to help himself more generously to the viands, which invitation the sly fellow was not slow to accept. During this time the dove had not uttered a word. She sat quite still staring at the bat, and wondering to hear such insincere speeches of flattery. Suddenly the owl turned to her. ``As for you, Miss Pink-Eyes,'' he said gruffly, ``you keep careful silence. You are a dull table- companion. Pray, have you nothing to say for yourself?'' ``Yes,'' exclaimed the mischievous bat; ``have you no words of praise for our kind host? Methinks he deserves some return for this wonderfully generous, agreeable, tasteful, well-appointed, luxurious, elegant, and altogether acceptable banquet. What have you to say, O little dove?'' But the dove hung her head, ashamed of her companion, and said very simply: ``O Master Owl, I can only thank you with all my heart for the hospitality and shelter which you have given me this night. I was beaten by the storm, and you took me in. I was hungry, and you gave me your best to eat. I cannot flatter nor make pretty speeches like the bat. I never learned such manners. But I thank you.'' ``What!'' cried the bat, pretending to be shocked, ``is that all you have to say to our obliging host? Is he not the wisest, bravest, most gallant and generous of gentlemen? Have you no praise for his noble character as well as for his goodness to us? I am ashamed of you! You do not deserve such hospitality. You do not deserve this shelter.'' The dove remained silent. Like Cordelia in the play she could not speak untruths even for her own happiness. ``Truly, you are an unamiable guest,'' snarled the owl, his yellow eyes growing keen and fierce with anger and mortified pride. ``You are an ungrateful bird, Miss, and the bat is right. You do not deserve this generous hospitality which I have offered, this goodly shelter which you asked. Away with you! Leave my dwelling! Pack off into the storm and see whether or not your silence will soothe the rain and the wind. Be off, I say!'' ``Yes, away with her!'' echoed the bat, flapping his leathery wings. And the two heartless creatures fell upon the poor little dove and drove her out into the dark and stormy night. Poor little dove! All night she was tossed and beaten about shelterless in the storm, because she had been too truthful to flatter the vain old owl. But when the bright morning dawned, draggled and weary as she was, she flew to the court of King Eagle and told him all her trouble. Great was the indignation of that noble bird. ``For his flattery and his cruelty let the bat never presume to fly abroad until the sun goes down,'' he cried. ``As for the owl, I have already doomed him to this punishment for his treatment of the wren. But henceforth let no bird have anything to do with either of them, the bat or the owl. Let them be outcasts and night-prowlers, enemies to be attacked and punished if they appear among us, to be avoided by all in their loneliness. Flattery and inhospitality, deceit and cruelty,-- what are more hideous than these? Let them cover themselves in darkness and shun the happy light of day. ``As for you, little dove, let this be a lesson to you to shun the company of flatterers, who are sure to get you into trouble. But you shall always be loved for your simplicity and truth. And as a token of our affection your name shall be used by poets as long as the world shall last to rhyme with LOVE.'' THE BUSY BLUE JAY BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER (ADAPTED) One of the most interesting birds who ever lived in my Bird Room was a blue jay named Jakie. He was full of business from morning till night, scarcely ever a moment still. Poor little fellow! He had been stolen from the nest before he could fly, and reared in a house, long before he was given to me. Of course he could not be set free, for he did not know how to take care of himself. Jays are very active birds, and being shut up in a room, my blue jay had to find things to do, to keep himself busy. If he had been allowed to grow up out of doors, he would have found plenty to do, planting acorns and nuts, nesting, and bringing up families. Sometimes the things he did in the house were what we call mischief because they annoy us, such as hammering the woodwork to pieces, tearing bits out of the leaves of books, working holes in chair seats, or pounding a cardboard box to pieces. But how is a poor little bird to know what is mischief? Many things which Jakie did were very funny. For instance, he made it his business to clear up the room. When he had more food than he could eat at the moment, he did not leave it around, but put it away carefully,--not in the garbage pail, for that was not in the room, but in some safe nook where it did not offend the eye. Sometimes it was behind the tray in his cage, or among the books on the shelf. The places he liked best were about me,--in the fold of a ruffle or the loop of a bow on my dress, and sometimes in the side of my slipper. The very choicest place of all was in my loosely bound hair. That, of course, I could not allow, and I had to keep very close watch of him, for fear I might have a bit of bread or meat thrust among my locks. In his clearing up he always went carefully over the floor, picking up pins, or any little thing he could find, and I often dropped burnt matches, buttons, and other small things to give him something to do. These he would pick up and put nicely away. Pins Jakie took lengthwise in his beak, and at first I thought he had swallowed them, till I saw him hunt up a proper place to hide them. The place he chose was between the leaves of a book. He would push a pin far in out of sight, and then go after another. A match he always tried to put in a crack, under the baseboard, between the breadths of matting, or under my rockers. He first placed it, and then tried to hammer it in out of sight. He could seldom get it in far enough to suit him, and this worried him. Then he would take it out and try another place. Once the blue jay found a good match, of the parlor match variety. He put it between the breadths of matting, and then began to pound on it as usual. Pretty soon he hit the unburnt end and it went off with a loud crack, as parlor matches do. Poor Jakie jumped two feet into the air, nearly frightened out of his wits; and I was frightened, too, for I feared he might set the house on fire. Often when I got up from my chair a shower of the bird's playthings would fall from his various hiding-places about my dress,--nails, matches, shoe-buttons, bread-crumbs, and other things. Then he had to begin his work all over again. Jakie liked a small ball or a marble. His game was to give it a hard peck and see it roll. If it rolled away from him, he ran after it and pecked again; but sometimes it rolled toward him, and then he bounded into the air as if he thought it would bite. And what was funny, he was always offended at this conduct of the ball, and went off sulky for a while. He was a timid little fellow. Wind or storm outside the windows made him wild. He would fly around the room, squawking at the top of his voice; and the horrible tin horns the boys liked to blow at Thanksgiving and Christmas drove him frantic. Once I brought a Christmas tree into the room to please the birds, and all were delighted with it except my poor little blue jay, who was much afraid of it. Think of the sadness of a bird being afraid of a tree! II Jakie had decided opinions about people who came into the room to see me, or to see the birds. At some persons he would squawk every moment. Others he saluted with a queer cry like ``Ob-ble! ob-ble! ob-ble!'' Once when a lady came in with a baby, he fixed his eyes on that infant with a savage look as if he would like to peck it, and jumped back and forth in his cage, panting but perfectly silent. Jakie was very devoted to me. He always greeted me with a low, sweet chatter, with wings quivering, and, if he were out of the cage, he would come on the back of my chair and touch my cheek or lips very gently with his beak, or offer me a bit of food if he had any; and to me alone when no one else was near, he sang a low, exquisite song. I afterwards heard a similar song sung by a wild blue jay to his mate while she was sitting, and so I knew that my dear little captive had given me his sweetest--his love-song. One of Jakie's amusements was dancing across the back of a tall chair, taking funny little steps, coming down hard, ``jouncing'' his body, and whistling as loud as he could. He would keep up this funny performance as long as anybody would stand before him and pretend to dance too. My jay was fond of a sensation. One of his dearest bits of fun was to drive the birds into a panic. This he did by flying furiously around the room, feathers rustling, and squawking as loud as he could. He usually managed to fly just over the head of each bird, and as he came like a catapult, every one flew before him, so that in a minute the room was full of birds flying madly about, trying to get out of his way. This gave him great pleasure. Once a grasshopper got into the Bird Room, probably brought in clinging to some one's dress in the way grasshoppers do. Jakie was in his cage, but he noticed the stranger instantly, and I opened the door for him. He went at once to look at the grasshopper, and when it hopped he was so startled that he hopped too. Then he picked the insect up, but he did not know what to do with it, so he dropped it again. Again the grasshopper jumped directly up, and again the jay did the same. This they did over and over, till every one was tired laughing at them. It looked as if they were trying to see who could jump the highest. There was another bird in the room, however, who knew what grasshoppers were good for. He was an orchard oriole, and after looking on awhile, he came down and carried off the hopper to eat. The jay did not like to lose his plaything; he ran after the thief, and stood on the floor giving low cries and looking on while the oriole on a chair was eating the dead grasshopper. When the oriole happened to drop it, Jakie,--who had got a new idea what to do with grasshoppers,--snatched it up and carried it under a chair and finished it. I could tell many more stories about my bird, but I have told them before in one of my ``grown-up'' books, so I will not repeat them here. BABES IN THE WOODS BY JOHN BURROUGHS One day in early May, Ted and I made an expedition to the Shattega, a still, dark, deep stream that loiters silently through the woods not far from my cabin. As we paddled along, we were on the alert for any bit of wild life of bird or beast that might turn up. There were so many abandoned woodpecker chambers in the small dead trees as we went along that I determined to secure the section of a tree containing a good one to take home and put up for the bluebirds. ``Why don't the bluebirds occupy them here?'' inquired Ted. ``Oh,'' I replied, ``blue birds do not come so far into the woods as this. They prefer nesting-places in the open, and near human habitations.'' After carefully scrutinizing several of the trees, we at last saw one that seemed to fill the bill. It was a small dead tree- trunk seven or eight inches in diameter, that leaned out over the water, and from which the top had been broken. The hole, round and firm, was ten or twelve feet above us. After considerable effort I succeeded in breaking the stub off near the ground, and brought it down into the boat. ``Just the thing,'' I said; ``surely the bluebirds will prefer this to an artificial box.'' But, lo and behold, it already had bluebirds in it! We had not heard a sound or seen a feather till the trunk was in our hands, when, on peering into the cavity, we discovered two young bluebirds about half grown. This was a predicament indeed! Well, the only thing we could do was to stand the tree-trunk up again as well as we could, and as near as we could to where it had stood before. This was no easy thing. But after a time we had it fairly well replaced, one end standing in the mud of the shallow water and the other resting against a tree. This left the hole to the nest about ten feet below and to one side of its former position. Just then we heard the voice of one of the parent birds, and we quickly paddled to the other side of the stream, fifty feet away, to watch her proceedings, saying to each other, ``Too bad! too bad!'' The mother bird had a large beetle in her beak. She alighted upon a limb a few feet above the former site of her nest, looked down upon us, uttered a note or two, and then dropped down confidently to the point in the vacant air where the entrance to her nest had been but a few moments before. Here she hovered on the wing a second or two, looking for something that was not there, and then returned to the perch she had just left, apparently not a little disturbed. She hammered the beetle rather excitedly upon the limb a few times, as if it were in some way at fault, then dropped down to try for her nest again. Only vacant air there! She hovers and hovers, her blue wings flickering in the checkered light; surely that precious hole MUST be there; but no, again she is baffled, and again she returns to her perch, and mauls the poor beetle till it must be reduced to a pulp. Then she makes a third attempt, then a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, till she becomes very much excited. ``What could have happened? Am I dreaming? Has that beetle hoodooed me?'' she seems to say, and in her dismay she lets the bug drop, and looks bewilderedly about her. Then she flies away through the woods, calling. ``Going for her mate,'' I said to Ted. ``She is in deep trouble, and she wants sympathy and help.'' In a few minutes we heard her mate answer, and presently the two birds came hurrying to the spot, both with loaded beaks. They perched upon the familiar limb above the site of the nest, and the mate seemed to say, ``My dear, what has happened to you? I can find that nest.'' And he dived down, and brought up in the empty air just as the mother had done. How he winnowed it with his eager wings! How he seemed to bear on to that blank space! His mate sat regarding him intently, confident, I think, that he would find the clue. But he did not. Baffled and excited, he returned to the perch beside her. Then she tried again, then he rushed down once more, then they both assaulted the place, but it would not give up its secret. They talked, they encouraged each other, and they kept up the search, now one, now the other, now both together. Sometimes they dropped down to within a few feet of the entrance to the nest, and we thought they would surely find it. No, their minds and eyes were intent only upon that square foot of space where the nest had been. Soon they withdrew to a large limb many feet higher up, and seemed to say to themselves, ``Well, it is not there, but it must be here somewhere; let us look about.'' A few minutes elapsed, when we saw the mother bird spring from her perch and go straight as an arrow to the nest. Her maternal eye had proved the quicker. She had found her young. Something like reason and common sense had come to her rescue; she had taken time to look about, and behold! there was that precious doorway. She thrust her head into it, then sent back a call to her mate, then went farther in, then withdrew. ``Yes, it is true, they are here, they are here!'' Then she went in again, gave them the food in her beak, and then gave place to her mate, who, after similar demonstrations of joy, also gave them his morsel. Ted and I breathed freer. A burden had been taken from our minds and hearts, and we went cheerfully on our way. We had learned something, too; we had learned that when in the deep woods you think of bluebirds, bluebirds may be nearer you than you think. THE PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT BY HARRY M. KIEFFER (ADAPTED) ``Old Abe'' was the war-eagle of the Eighth Wisconsin Volunteers. Whoever it may have been that first conceived the idea, it was certainly a happy thought to make a pet of an eagle. For the eagle is our national bird, and to carry an eagle along with the colors of a regiment on the march, and in battle, and all through the whole war, was surely very appropriate, indeed. ``Old Abe's'' perch was on a shield, which was carried by a soldier, to whom, and to whom alone, he looked as to a master. He would not allow any one to carry or even to handle him, except this soldier, nor would he ever receive his food from any other person's hands. He seemed to have sense enough to know that he was sometimes a burden to his master on the march, however, and, as if to relieve him, would occasionally spread his wings and soar aloft to a great height, the men of all regiments along the line of march cheering him as he went up. He regularly received his rations from the commissary, like any enlisted man. Whenever fresh meat was scarce, and none could be found for him by foraging parties, he would take things into his own claws, as it were, and go out on a foraging expedition himself. On some such occasions he would be gone two or three days at a time, during which nothing whatever was seen of him; but he would invariably return, and seldom would come back without a young lamb or a chicken in his talons. His long absences occasioned his regiment not the slightest concern, for the men knew that, though he might fly many miles away in quest of food, he would be quite sure to find them again. In what way he distinguished the two hostile armies so accurately that he was never once known to mistake the gray for the blue, no one can tell. But so it was, that he was never known to alight save in his own camp, and amongst his own men. At Jackson, Mississippi, during the hottest part of the battle before that city, ``Old Abe'' soared up into the air, and remained there from early morning until the fight closed at night, no doubt greatly enjoying his bird's-eye view of the battle. He did the same at Mission Ridge. He was, I believe, struck by Confederate bullets two or three times, but his feathers were so thick that his body was not much hurt. The shield on which he was carried, however, showed so many marks of Confederate balls that it looked on top as if a groove plane had been run over it. At the Centenial celebration held in Philadelphia, in 1876, ``Old Abe'' occupied a prominent place on his perch on the west side of the nave in the Agricultural Building. He was evidently growing old, and was the observed of all observers. Thousands of visitors, from all sections of the country, paid their respects to the grand old bird, who, apparently conscious of the honors conferred upon him, overlooked the sale of his biography and photographs going on beneath his perch with entire satisfaction. As was but just and right, the soldier who had carried him during the war continued to have charge of him after the war was over, until the day of his death, which occurred at the capital of Wisconsin, in 1881. THE MOTHER MURRE BY DALLAS LORE SHARP One of the most striking cases of mother-love which has ever come under my observation, I saw in the summer of 1912 on the bird rookeries of the Three-Arch Rocks Reservation off the coast of Oregon. We were making our slow way toward the top of the outer rock. Through rookery after rookery of birds, we climbed until we reached the edge of the summit. Scrambling over this edge, we found ourselves in the midst of a great colony of nesting murres--hundreds of them--covering this steep rocky part of the top. As our heads appeared above the rim, many of the colony took wing and whirred over us out to sea, but most of them sat close, each bird upon its egg or over its chick, loath to leave, and so expose to us the hidden treasure. The top of the rock was somewhat cone-shaped, and in order to reach the peak and the colonies on the west side we had to make our way through this rookery of the murres. The first step among them, and the whole colony was gone, with a rush of wings and feet that sent several of the top- shaped eggs rolling, and several of the young birds toppling over the cliff to the pounding waves and ledges far below. We stopped, but the colony, almost to a bird, had bolted, leaving scores of eggs, and scores of downy young squealing and running together for shelter, like so many beetles under a lifted board. But the birds had not every one bolted, for here sat two of the colony among the broken rocks. These two had not been frightened off. That both of them were greatly alarmed, any one could see from their open beaks, their rolling eyes, their tense bodies on tiptoe for flight. Yet here they sat, their wings out like props, or more like gripping hands, as if they were trying to hold themselves down to the rocks against their wild desire to fly. And so they were, in truth, for under their extended wings I saw little black feet moving. Those two mother murres were not going to forsake their babies! No, not even for these approaching monsters, such as they had never before seen, clambering over their rocks. What was different about these two? They had their young ones to protect. Yes, but so had every bird in the great colony its young one, or its egg, to protect, yet all the others had gone. Did these two have more mother-love than the others? And hence, more courage, more intelligence? We took another step toward them, and one of the two birds sprang into the air, knocking her baby over and over with the stroke of her wing, and coming within an inch of hurling it across the rim to be battered on the ledges below. The other bird raised her wings to follow, then clapped them back over her baby. Fear is the most contagious thing in the world; and that flap of fear by the other bird thrilled her, too, but as she had withstood the stampede of the colony, so she caught herself again and held on. She was now alone on the bare top of the rock, with ten thousand circling birds screaming to her in the air above, and with two men creeping up to her with a big black camera that clicked ominously. She let the multitude scream, and with threatening beak watched the two men come on. A motherless baby, spying her, ran down the rock squealing for his life. She spread a wing, put her bill behind him and shoved him quickly in out of sight with her own baby. The man with the camera saw the act, for I heard his machine click, and I heard him say something under his breath that you would hardly expect a mere man and a game-warden to say. But most men have a good deal of the mother in them; and the old bird had acted with such decision, such courage, such swift, compelling instinct, that any man, short of the wildest savage, would have felt his heart quicken at the sight. ``Just how compelling might that mother- instinct be?'' I wondered. ``Just how much would that mother-love stand?'' I had dropped to my knees, and on all fours had crept up within about three feet of the bird. She still had chance for flight. Would she allow me to crawl any nearer? Slowly, very slowly, I stretched forward on my hands, like a measuring-worm, until my body lay flat on the rocks, and my fingers were within three INCHES of her. But her wings were twitching, a wild light danced in her eyes, and her head turned toward the sea. For a whole minute I did not stir. I was watching--and the wings again began to tighten about the babies, the wild light in the eyes died down, the long, sharp beak turned once more toward me. Then slowly, very slowly, I raised my hand, touched her feathers with the tip of one finger-- with two fingers--with my whole hand, while the loud camera click-clacked, click-clacked hardly four feet away! It was a thrilling moment. I was not killing anything. I had no long-range rifle in my hands, coming up against the wind toward an unsuspecting creature hundreds of yards away. This was no wounded leopard charging me; no mother-bear defending with her giant might a captured cub. It was only a mother-bird, the size of a wild duck, with swift wings at her command, hiding under those wings her own and another's young, and her own boundless fear! For the second time in my life I had taken captive with my bare hands a free wild bird. No, I had not taken her captive. She had made herself a captive; she had taken herself in the strong net of her mother-love. And now her terror seemed quite gone. At the first touch of my hand I think she felt the love restraining it, and without fear or fret she let me reach under her and pull out the babies. But she reached after them with her bill to tuck them back out of sight, and when I did not let them go, she sidled toward me, quacking softly, a language that I perfectly understood, and was quick to respond to. I gave them back, fuzzy and black and white. She got them under her, stood up over them, pushed her wings down hard around them, her stout tail down hard behind them, and together with them pushed in an abandoned egg that was close at hand. Her own baby, some one else's baby, and some one else's forsaken egg! She could cover no more; she had not feathers enough. But she had heart enough; and into her mother's heart she had already tucked every motherless egg and nestling of the thousands of frightened birds, screaming and wheeling in the air high over her head. THE END REFERENCE LISTS FOR STORY-TELLING AND COLLATERAL READING REFERENCE LISTS FOR STORY-TELLING AND COLLATERAL READING (The grades assigned are merely suggestive, as some of the stories may be used in higher or lower grades than here indicated.) NEW YEAR'S DAY For grades 1-4. An All-the-Year-Round Story, in Poulsson, In the Child's World; Peter the Stone-Cutter, in Macdonell, Italian Fairy Book; The Forest Full of Friends, in Alden, Why the Chimes Rang. For grades 5-8. A Chinese New Year's in California, in Our Holidays Retold from St. Nicholas; A New Year's Talk, in Stevenson, Days and Deeds (prose); Story of the Year, in Andersen, Stories and Tales; The Animals' New Year's Eve, in Lagerlof, Further Adventures of Nils. LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY For grades 1-4. A Westfield Incident, in Moores, Abraham Lincoln, page 87; Lincoln and the Little Horse, in Werner's Readings, no. 46; Lincoln and the Pig, in Gross, Lincoln's Own Stories; Lincoln and the Small Dog, in Moores, Aoraham Lincoln, page 25. For grades 5-6. A Backwoods Boyhood, in Moores, Abraham Lincoln; Choosing Abe Lincoln Captain, in Schauffler, Lincoln's Birthday; Following the Surveyor's Chain, in Baldwin, Abraham Lincoln; His Good Memory of Names, in Gallaher, Best Lincoln Stories; Lincoln and the Doorkeeper, in Gross, Lincoln's Own Stories, page 78, Lincoln and the Unjust Client, in Moores, Abraham Lincoln, page 46; Lincoln's Kindness to a Disabled Soldier, in Gallaher, Best Lincoln Stories; The Clary's Grove Boys, in Noah Brooks, Abraham Lincoln page 51; The Snow Boys, in Noah Brooks, Abraham Lincoln page 122. For grades 7-8. Counsel Assigned, Andrews; He Knew lincoln, Tarbell; Lincoln and the Sleeping Senhnel, Chittenden; Lincoln Remembered Him, in Gallaher, Best Lincoln Stories; Lincoln's Springfield Farewell, in Moores, Abraham lincoln, page 82; Perfect Tribute, Andrews. SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY For grades 1-4. A Sunday Valentine, in White, When Molly was Six; Beauty and the Beast, in Lang, Blue Fairy Book, East of the Sun and West of the Moon, in Lang, Blue Fairy Book; The Fair One With Golden Locks, in Scudder, Children's Book; The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, in Scudder, Children's Book; The Valentine (poem), in Brown, Fresh Posies. For grades 5-6. Gracieuse and Percinet, in D'Aulnoy, Fairy Tales; Jorinda and Joringel, in Grimm, German Household Tales; The Day- Dream, Tennyson (poem), in Story-Telling Poems; The Singing, Soaring Lark, in Grimm, German Household Tales William and the Werewolf, in Darton, Wonder Book of Old Romance. For grades 7-8. As You Like It, Shakespeare; Brunhild, in Baldwin, Story of Siegfried; Floris and Blanchefleur, in Darton, Wonder Book of Old Romance; Palamon and Arcita, in Darton, Tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims; The Fair Maid of Perth, Scott, chapters 2-6; The Singing Leaves, Lowell (poem); The Tempest, Shakespeare. WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY For grades 1-4. Little George Washington, and Great George Washington, in Wiggin and Smith, Story Hour; The Virginia Boy, in Wilson, Nature Study, Second Reader. For grades 54. A Christmas Surprise, in Tappan, American Hero Stories Dolly Madison, in Tappan, American Hero Stories; Going to Sea, in Scudder, George Washinyton, page 33; How George Washington was Made Commander-in-Chief, in Tomlinson, War for Independence; The Home of Washington, and The Appearance of the Enemy, in Madison, Peggy Owen at Yorktown; Young Washington in the Woods, in Eggleston, Strange Stories from History. For grades 7-8. Anecdotes and Stories, in Schauffler, Washington's Birthday; He Resigns his Commission, in Lodge, George Washington, vol. I, page 338; The British at Mount Vernon, in Lodge, George Washington, vol. I, page 295; The Young Surveyor, in Scudder, George Washington; Washington Offered the Supreme Power, in Lodge, George Washington, vol. I, page 328; Washington's Farewell to His Officers, in Lodge, George Washington, vol. I, page 387. RESURRECTION DAY (EASTER) For grades 1-4. Easter Eggs, von Schmid; The Boy Who Discovered the Spring, in Alden, Why the Chimes Rang; Herr Oster Hase, in Bailey and Lewis, For the Children's Hour; The Legend of Easter Eggs, O'Brien (poem), in Story-Telling Poems; The Rabbit's Ransom, Vawter; The White Hare, in Stevenson, Days and Deeds (prose). For grades 5-8. Easter, Gilder (poem); The General's Easter Box, in Our Holidays Retold from St. Nicholas; The Trinity Flower, Ewing; What Easter is, in Stevenson, Days and Deeds (prose). MAY DAY For grades 1-4. A Story of the Springtime, in Kupfer, Legends of Greeee and Rome; How the Water Lily Came, in Judd, Wigwam Stories; The Brook in the King's Garden, in Alden, Why the Chimes Rang; The Legend of the Dandelion, in Bailey and Lewis, For the Children's Hour; The Lilac Bush, in Riverside Fourth Reader; The Maple Leaf and the Violet, in Wiggin and Smith, Story Flour; The Story of the Anemone in Coe, First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller; The Story of the First Butterflies, in Holbrook, Book of Nature Myths; The Story of the First Snowdrops, in Holbrook, Book of Nature Myths; The Story of the Rainbow, in Coe, First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller; Two Little Seeds, in MacDonald, David Elginbrod, chapter, ``The Cave in the Straw; ``Why the Morning-Glory Climbs, in Bryant, How to Tell Stories to Children.
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