PART TWO THE USE OF STORY-TELLING TO ILLUMINATE SOME SCHOOLROOM SUBJECTS—STORIES FOR TELLING (continued 4)

The mistress looked at him in amazement. Then she laughed loudly. “I, go hungry,” she exclaimed, “I, the richest of all the rich of Stavoren! It is impossible!”

Then she took a diamond ring, held it up for the people to see, and tossed it into the ocean. “When that ring returns into my hand,” she said, “I shall believe what the captain has said.” And she drove away in her splendid carriage, and boasted to the citizens of what she had done.

The next day one of her servants came running to her in wild excitement. “Madame,” she cried, “the cook has found this in the stomach of a fish he is preparing for dinner.” And she held up the diamond ring the woman had tossed into the sea the day before.

The great lady of Stavoren opened her eyes wide and wider. She was amazed and frightened, for she remembered the captain’s words. “Can it be,” she thought, “that they are to come true?”

It proved to be just as she feared, for that same afternoon she received word of the destruction of all her ships, of the loss of all her houses and lands, of the pillaging of her chests of gold. She was no longer the richest woman in Stavoren, but was as poor as any beggar. She went from house to house, begging for food as pitifully as the people at the port had begged her for wheat, but no one helped her, and at last she died from cold and hunger.

The other rich folk of Stavoren still lived on in the old selfish way. They drove through the streets in sumptuous carriages. They wore costly clothing and jewels, they danced and feasted and sailed their vessels out across the seas, forgetful of every one but themselves. There were still many poor in the city, but they neither thought nor cared about them. They believed themselves to be so great and powerful that nothing could harm them, and they refused to listen to advice.

After a while the port of Stavoren became blocked by a great sandbank. It rose just at the spot where the lady’s cargo had been thrown into the sea, and was covered with wheat. Ships could no longer go in and out. Commerce was ruined, and because there were no vessels to unload, the poor lost the only way they had of making a living. They begged the rich people to help them dig the bar away, but they refused. They had enough to eat and plenty of gold, so what cared they for the distress of the laborers?

Then something else happened. One night as they feasted, a man came running into the banquet hall. “I have found two fish in my well,” he said. “The dike is broken. Protect the city! Protect the houses of the poor that are close to the sea wall and will be swept away.”

But one of the great folk said haughtily, “Let the beggars take care of themselves. The sea cannot harm us. We must finish the banquet.” They turned away from him and went on with their revelry, but only for a short time. A few hours later the entire dike gave away, and the ocean rolled in and covered the houses,—not only the huts of the poor which were in the low quarter of the city, but even the palaces of the rich who had declared they could not be harmed. The great perished as well as the humble, and the waves of the Zuider Zee rolled where the banquet laughter had sounded.

It rolls there still. The sailors say that sometimes when the weather is fine and the sea is smooth as glass, they see spires and domes and stately columns far down under the water. They declare, too, that often strange, weird music like the sound of distant bells falls upon their ears, and then they look and listen and nod to each other, for they think of the palaces and chimes of Stavoren, once the fairest city of the Netherlands, submerged hundreds of years ago while the poor cried for help and the mighty danced.

THE LUCK BOAT OF LAKE GENEVA

A Swiss Legend

(Geography)

The Alpine herdsmen say that in the marvelous long ago an enchanted boat was seen gliding up and down the blue waters of Lake Geneva. Neither oars nor sails were needed to speed it over the waves, for it was drawn by singing swans and carried a fairy crew. A radiant creature in a robe whiter than goat’s milk stood on the prow, her gleaming hair rippling down over the hem of her garment. She bore a golden basket of rare fruits and flowers, and although she scattered the contents with lavish hand upon the sprites at her feet, it was never empty. Sometimes the vessel touched the shore, and then the soil around that spot produced as never soil produced before or since, and if any peasant was so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of the boat, he and his children became rich beyond want and were blessed and happy to the end of their days.

For hundreds of years the magic ship sailed the lake, and as it touched the shore frequently and numbers of peasants saw it, there was wonderful prosperity in Old Helvetia.

But a great misfortune befell the country and the glad, abundant days became but a memory. A steamboat was brought to Geneva, and it plowed, a screaming, snorting monster, across the waters. The noise terrified the gentle swans, and with one wild cry they flew away. Never again did the peasants catch a glimpse of the white-robed fairy and the shining sprites. Never again did the music of the snowy pilots gladden their ears.

The Luck Boat disappeared, and with it went prosperity from the land of Geneva. But marvelous things like that are never forgotten. Those who had seen the fairy craft in their youth told the story to their sons and daughters, who passed it on to their children and their children’s children, and although the mountain folk of today have never beheld it, they know just how it looked. They have pictured it so often in their minds, that their artists have pictured it on paper, and so it has become the custom for the peasants around Lake Geneva to send “Luck cards” to their friends on New Year’s Day. These are gay, colored postals containing a likeness of the Luck Boat, and to those of whom a peasant is fondest he sends as many as he can afford, because to receive them is supposed to bring good fortune, just as a glimpse of the swan-drawn vessel was said to do in the marvelous long ago.

WHY THE JAPANESE LOVE THE STORK

A Japanese Legend

(Geography)

Ages ago, in the Japanese city of Nagasaki, there lived a young and handsome noble named Vasobiove. Life seemed very beautiful to him. He loved the blossoms that are so sweet and abundant in his native Saikaido, loved the racing and the wrestling matches, the sunset on the purple Gulf of Sinabara, the evening festivals with the dances of the geisha girls, and his only sorrow was the thought that he could not live forever.

“Alas, to have to leave this beautiful world!” he often sighed.

At which his old father would say, “Fear not, my son. By the time you are threescore years and ten you will think differently.”

But the young noble would shake his head and reply, “Nay, nay, I want to live always, always.”

One day an aged pilgrim came into Nagasaki and rested on a stone outside Vasobiove’s garden. The owner was walking under the tulip trees, and seeing the sad-looking man in the sun and dust of the road, called and bade him come into the shade of his park.

Leaning heavily upon his staff, the wanderer came and sat down beside the fountain, and the young noble asked him many a question of lands and men he had seen.

“Is it throughout the world as here in Japan,” he questioned, “that people must die even while they yearn to live?”

The aged pilgrim nodded.

“Yea,” he answered, “in all the lands through which I have journeyed. But men have told me that there is a region where death never comes.”

The young noble leaned forward eagerly. “Where is it,” he questioned, “ah, where? Tell me, for I mean to go to that land.”

The pilgrim shook his head, saying, “That you cannot do, my son. It is in the Happy Islands of Everlasting Life, but although mortals have seen them in the distance, never has one succeeded in entering there.”

“But I must, I will reach that land!” Vasobiove exclaimed.

His father, who was old and wise, begged him not to go.

“You will perish on the way,” he said sorrowfully. “But even if you reach and enter the islands, you will not be happy. That which is best for us is given to us, and after a long life, death is good.”

But Vasobiove shook his head and objected, “No, no! I go to the Everlasting Islands.” And the next day he set out from Nagasaki in a boat.

Straight southward he journeyed and eastward. Storms raged and tropic heat beat fiercely on his head, but he pressed onward, and at last, in spite of wave and tempest, reached the green shore of Horaisan. It was the land no mortal had ever entered, the Happy Islands of Everlasting Life.

Vasobiove’s cup of joy was full. There was no sorrow there, no birth or death, no tempest and black weather or flight of time—nothing but dancing, music, splendid men and beautiful women, with enchanted flowers of unfading beauty in the groves and gardens, and always iridescent reaches of the sea beyond. There were wrestling matches, such as were not dreamed of in Nagasaki, long days filled with feasting, and long nights of dance and song.

Vasobiove smiled the smile of the contented.

“At last!” he said. “It is good to know that I shall live forever.”

Two hundred years he spent in the eternal mirth of Horaisan, and then, somehow, he longed for other things. The music he had loved grew wearisome, the never ending dance became hateful to his eyes.

He wanted to return to Nagasaki, but there was no way. The boat that had carried him to the islands had long since fallen into decay, and it was impossible to get another. He must stay forever and ever in the land of dance and song, and the thought became hideous.

Then he heard a weird cry. Looking behind him, he saw a giant stork settling on the bank of a lake to catch some of the rainbow fish within.

A happy thought came to him. No, he would not dwell eternally in Horaisan. He would go back to Nagasaki.

Catching the bird, he tamed it, and one morning while the islanders reveled and the sea was as many colored as the enchanted blossoms in the gardens, he flew away, borne by the giant stork back to the sweet land of Saikaido, back to the shining Gulf of Sinabara, and his native Nagasaki. He would live as his fathers had lived, he would die when his time came, and never again would he pine for a land where all was revelry and beauty and song.

Ever since that time the Japanese have loved the stork. They picture it upon their royal banners and upon the walls of their houses, and give it the freedom of their gardens. Whenever a youth becomes dissatisfied and yearns for a land where delights are never ending, they tell him the story of the man who went to the Everlasting Islands, show a picture of the stork that carried him back to Nagasaki, and say,

“Even as it was with Vasobiove, so would it be with you.”

WHY GRIZZLY BEAR GOES ON ALL FOURS

A Shasta Legend. Adapted from Bancroft

(Indian Folk Tale—Geography—Ethics)

Ages ago, before there were any mountains or valleys or rivers flowing seaward, Great Spirit lived up in the sky, higher than the most distant star. All about him were snow heaps and white cloud billows, so thick he could not see through them, and he wondered what lay beyond.

“I will make a hole and see,” he said.

So, taking a sharp rock, he bored an opening through the cloud floor and looked below. A strange sight met his eyes. There lay the world, but a very different world from the one we know. It was flat like a table, with no hills or valleys, or rivers, or growing things, and Great Spirit said, “I will build a teepee there, and then I shall make it better.”

The snow heaps lying around him made him think of a good way of building a wigwam; so he pushed some down through the floor window, working day and night through many, many moons, until he had the pyramid white men call Mount Shasta. He built a fire and lived in the teepee, and then he walked abroad.

It was a fine land for a home, but lonely and too flat. He wanted mountains and valleys; so he created them. Then he wanted living and growing things about him; so he said, “I will make men and animals too.”

He dug holes in the ground with his fingers, some large, some small, and when he breathed into them, trees of many sizes and kinds rose out of the earth. Then he stripped leaves from the branches and scattered them about, and they became men. He caused snow from the mountain sides to melt and flow in streams, and now, instead of the flat, brown vastness, there were uplands and lowlands, green fields and snowy peaks, and rivers running seaward, and other leaves stripped from the branches and torn into bits became fishes that swim.

“Now I shall make beasts of every kind,” he said, and as he spoke he smote down a mighty tree. He broke it into pieces, some large, some small, which he turned into animals of various sizes and varying strength. Grizzly Bear he created from the heaviest part of the trunk, and the bear stood before him, on his hind legs, straight and powerful like a young hunter, stronger than any other creature of the earth.

It pleased Great Spirit to have living creatures around him, and he did not go back to the cloud world, but stayed in the teepee. The Indians knew he was inside, because often they saw the smoke from his flaming coals curl far above the peaks.

Many, many moons he dwelt there and grew so lonely that he sent for Little Daughter. She came and lived with him, made his moccasins and tended his fire, and was happy.

One day there was a mighty storm. The wind raged fiercely, sending the smoke back through the smoke hole into Great Spirit’s face. He did not like that, and bade Little Daughter go up to command the wind to stop.

She did as she was told, and put her head out through the hole to call to the wind. But never having beheld the world before, she grew very curious at the strange sights that met her eyes, and leaned out far, far, to see all she could.

Suddenly she fell, and the wind carried her to the land of the Grizzly Bear. Little Daughter did not want to stay there and begged to be taken back to the teepee of her father.

“Let her stay here and work for me,” Mother Grizzly growled, and Young Grizzly agreed, saying, “Yes, let her work.”

So they would neither go with her nor let her try to find the way herself.

Great Spirit knew Little Daughter was in the land of the Grizzly Bear, and he went to take her home. When she told him how she had begged to go back, but was forced to stay and work, he was very angry.

“I shall punish you,” he said to the bears. “Never again shall you walk upright like a man; always you must go on all fours.”

Taking Little Daughter, he went back to the snow teepee, and they lived there for ages and ages, always keeping the fire burning, and always the Indians saw the smoke come out through the smoke hole.

At last the white men came, and as Great Spirit did not like the palefaces, he went away and the fire died out. But the teepee they call Mount Shasta is still there, although smoke no longer curls above it, and Grizzly Bear still goes on all fours, never standing upright except when he is fighting.

THE LUCK BOY OF TOY VALLEY

(Geography—Ethics—Manual Training)

In a chalet high up among the Austrian mountains, blue-eyed Franz was very unhappy because his mother and brother Johan were going to Vienna and he had to stay at home with his old grandfather. He bit his lips to keep back the tears as he watched the packing of the box that was to carry their clothing. Then his mother tried to comfort him.

“Never mind, lad,” she said. “I’ll send you a present from Vienna, and we’ll call it a ‘luck gift’ and hope it will bring good luck. If it does you’ll be a luck boy.”

He smiled even if he did feel sad. He had often heard of luck children, for among the Tyrolean peasants there were many stories of those who had been led by fairies to have such wonderful good fortune that ever afterward they were spoken of as the elf-aided, or “Glücks Kinder,” and it was so delightful to think about being one of them that he forgot his sorrow. Of course it would be very fine to travel down to Vienna and go into the service of a rich noble there, as his mother and brother were to do, but it would be still better to be a “Glücks Kind,” and such things sometimes did happen. So he did not feel sad any more, but whistled and sang and helped with the packing.

Early next morning the post chaise rattled up to the door, and Johan and the mother drove away. Franz watched them go down the winding white road, calling after them in sweet Tyrolean words of endearment until they were out of sight. Then he went back into the hut and began to sandpaper some blocks that his grandfather needed for his work. The old man was a maker of picture frames, all carved and decorated with likenesses of mountain flowers, and these, when sent to Innsbruck and Vienna, brought the money that gave him his living. The figures were too fine and difficult for Franz to carve, but he could lend a hand at fetching blocks and sandpapering. He worked with a vim, for Tyrolean boys think it a disgrace to shirk, but all the while his thoughts were on the luck gift.

“I wonder what it will be?” he said to his grandfather. They took turns at guessing, until it was time to feed the goats and house the chickens for the night.

A week later the man who had driven Johan and his mother away came by on his return from Vienna, and Franz fairly flew out to get his gift.

“It is something very big,” he called to the old frame maker as he took a bulging bag. “See, it is stuffed full!” And he expected to find something very wonderful.

But when he opened it, he thought it wasn’t wonderful at all. There was a blue velvet jacket, trimmed with gold braid and fastened with glittering buttons, such as Tyrolean boys wore in those days, and in one of the pockets he found a shining knife.

“Well, of all things!” he exclaimed as he held them up for his grandfather to see. “It’s a splendid jacket, and the knife is a beauty, but I don’t see where the luck part comes in.”

But Hals Berner was old and wise, and a knowing smile played over his wrinkled face as he spoke. “It won’t be the first time luck has hidden in a knife,” he said, as he bent over his carving.

Franz did not know what he meant. He had always had a knife, for being of a carver’s family he was taught to whittle when he was a very little fellow, and he had become remarkably skillful for one of his years. But no wonderful good fortune had come to him, and he was very sure that although each of the presents was nice, neither would bring luck, and he sent that word to Johan. But the brother wrote back from the city, “It will surely turn out to be a luck gift, Franz. Just wait and see.” And still the boy wondered.

Winter came and icy winds blew down from the peaks. There was no word from Vienna now, for the valley was shut in by a glittering wall, and travel over the snow-drifted passes was impossible. There were other boys in the village, but each had his work indoors, and there was little time to play, so Franz had no chance for games. He helped his grandfather part of the day and sometimes whittled for his own amusement. It was a lonely life there in the hut, with just the old frame maker, who was often too busy to talk, so Franz was glad to do something to keep him busy. Now he made rings and tops and then just fantastic sticks or blocks.

One day, as he whittled, his grandfather said, “Why don’t you make an animal, Franz?”

The boy looked up in surprise. “I don’t think I can,” he answered.

“Not unless you try,” came the reply. “But if you do that you may surprise yourself.”

Franz hated to have any one think he was afraid to make an attempt, so he exclaimed, “I wonder if I could make a sheep?”

“Begin and see,” the old man advised.

The boy went to work. At first it was discouraging. After many minutes of whittling there was little to suggest what he had in mind. But then, with an occasional turn of the knife by the frame maker, and now and then a bit of advice, the boy began to see that a sheep would grow out of the block, and when it did he felt like a hero who has won a battle.

“It wasn’t a bit hard, was it, lad?” Hals Berner asked when it was finished.

And Franz agreed that it was not.

That was the beginning, and every day thereafter Franz worked at his whittling, and animal after animal grew under his knife. He was so busy he did not have time to be lonely, and had quite forgotten how sad he had felt over having to stay at home. It was such fun to see the figures come out of the wood and feel that he had made them. Of course they were crude, and not half so handsome as those his grandfather could have made; but any one could tell what they were, and that was worth a great deal.

By spring he had a whole menagerie, and when his mother came home she found he had been a busy boy, and a happy one as well.

“All made with the luck knife,” Johan said as he looked over the work.

“So grandfather says,” Franz answered. “It’s a splendid knife, but I don’t see yet where the luck comes in.”

And again the knowing smile went over the old man’s face.

One day soon afterward his mother had word from the man who had been her employer in Vienna that his little son was not well, and he was sending him to regain his health in the mountain air. A week later the child arrived with his nurse, and the first thing that attracted his attention was Franz’s menagerie.

“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “dogs, cats, sheep, goats, lions, elephants, and all made of wood! I want them.”

“He means that he wants to buy them,” his nurse explained. “Will you sell them, Franz?”

For a minute the boy hesitated. That menagerie had meant many months of whittling, and he loved every animal in it, and if Johan hadn’t interrupted, probably he would have refused.

“Why, Franz,” the brother exclaimed, “it begins to look like a luck knife after all.”

That put a thought into his mind that caused him to answer, “Yes, take them. I can make some more.”

So, when the child went back to Vienna he took a wooden menagerie from the Tyrolean mountains. Other Viennese children, seeing it, wanted to possess one, and orders began to pour in to Franz, far more than he could fill. Then other villagers took up the work, until all over the valley people were making animals and toys.

The work grew to be a big industry, and toys from the Grödner Thal were sent all over Germany, and even to the lands beyond. One generation after another went on with the work, and although it is two hundred years since Franz began it, the craft continues there to this day. At Christmas time shops in every land are filled with toys from the Tyrolean mountains, and although they do not know the story, thousands of children have been happier because of a peasant boy’s whittling.

So out of the bag sent back from Vienna there came in truth a luck gift, and it wasn’t the fine jacket either, but the knife with which Franz whittled his first sheep. The boy had found out that luck doesn’t mean something sent by fairies, but the doing a thing so well that it brings a rich reward, and although he lived to be a very old man, he never got over being grateful that his mother made him stay behind when she and Johan went to the city.

The little valley among the Austrian Alps is still called Grödner Thal on the maps, but because of the animals and toys that have come out of it, it is almost as well known by another name. If you are good guessers you can surely tell what it is, especially if you know that the peasants still speak of the lad who made the first menagerie there as the Luck Boy of Toy Valley.

THE EMPEROR’S VISION

Adapted from the Swedish of Selma Lagerlöf

From Lagerlöf’s Christ Legends. Copyright, 1908, by Henry Holt & Co.

(Medieval Legend—Ethics)

When Augustus was Emperor of Rome and Herod was King of Jerusalem, a great and holy night sank down over the earth. It was the darkest night that any one had seen, and one could not find the way on the most familiar road. How could it be otherwise, since all the stars stayed at home in their houses and the fair moon hid her face?

The silence was as profound as the darkness. The rivers stood still in their courses, the wind did not stir, and even the aspen leaves had ceased to quiver. Everything was as motionless as if turned to stone, and the grass was afraid to grow, lest it disturb the holy night.

There was no cruelty or wickedness. Wild beasts did not seek their prey, but lay in the forest depths and wondered; serpents did not sting or dogs bark, and no false key could have picked a lock, no knife could have drawn a drop of blood.

In Rome, the mighty city, a group of people came from the Emperor’s palace at the Palatine and took the path across the Forum which led to the Capitol. During the day the senators had asked the Emperor if he had any objection to their erecting a temple in his honor on Rome’s sacred hill, but he had given no answer. He did not know if it would be agreeable to the gods for him to own a temple next to theirs, and he wanted to ascertain their will in the matter by offering a sacrifice. Therefore he and his trusted friends were on their way to the Capitol.

Augustus let them carry his litter, for he was old and the stairs leading to the Capitol were long. He held in his hands the cage of doves for the sacrifice. No priests or soldiers accompanied him, only his nearest friends. Torch bearers walked in front of him to light the ways through the black darkness, and behind him followed slaves who carried the tripod, knives, and charcoal for the sacred fire. He chatted gayly with his followers, and all were so interested in the conversation that they did not notice the stillness over the earth. Only when they reached the highest point on Capitol Hill did they realize that something unusual was taking place.

There they saw a most remarkable thing. An old woman, so bent and twisted that at first they thought it must be a distorted olive tree, was standing on the very edge of the cliff, and they knew her to be the sibyl who had lived as many years as the sand grains by the sea.

“Why does she come from her cave tonight?” they whispered. “What does she foretell for the Emperor and the Empire?”

She stood there as if she had gone up on the hillside that she might see what was happening far away, and the night was so dark, so dark!

Then Augustus and his retinue remarked how profound was the stillness. They could not hear even Tiber’s hollow murmur, and they feared some disaster was impending. But no one cared to show that he was afraid. They told Augustus it was a good omen, and counseled him to hurry with the sacrifice.

The sibyl seemed not to notice the Emperor’s train moving up to the Capitol. In fact, she did not see them. She was in a distant land making her way over something higher than grass tufts. She was walking among great flocks of sleeping sheep.

Then she saw a shepherd’s fire. It burned in the middle of the field, and she groped her way to it. The shepherds lay asleep in its glow, and beside them were the long, spiked sticks with which they defended their flocks from wild beasts. Jackals with glittering eyes and bushy tails stole up toward the blaze, but the men did not hurl the sticks at them. The dogs continued to sleep, the sheep did not flee, and the beasts of prey lay down to rest beside human beings.

Only this the sibyl saw. She did not know that a sacrificial fire was being kindled behind her. She did not see the Roman Emperor take a dove from the cage to use as an offering. She was in the far hills of Galilee, among slumbering shepherds and sheep.

Then, wonderful sight, a company of angels singing gloriously flew back and forth above the wide plain. They moved in long, swaying lines like migratory birds. Some held lutes in their hands, some zithers and harps, and their songs rang out as merry as child laughter, as carefree as lark trills. The shepherds wakened, marveling at what they heard and saw, then rose up to go to the mountain city to tell of the miracle.

Behind the sibyl, on the summit of Capitol Hill, still stood the train of Augustus. But he did not make the sacrifice. Although he exerted his full strength to hold the dove’s frail body, it flung itself free and disappeared into the night.

And the shepherds, what of them?

They groped their way forward on a narrow, winding path. Suddenly, in the light up there on the mountain, a great heavenly body kindled, and the city beneath it glittered like silver in the starlight.

All the fluttering angel throngs hastened thither, shouting for joy, and the shepherds hurried so that they almost ran. Upon reaching the city, they found the angels had assembled over a stable near the gate. It was a wretched structure with a roof of straw, and a naked cliff for a wall. But over it hung the star, and thither flocked more and more angels. Some seated themselves on the roof or alighted on the steep mountain wall back of the house, others poised themselves in air on outspread pinions, while high up, high up, the sky was illuminated by creatures with wings as white as pearl.

The instant the star kindled over the mountain city all nature awoke. Trees swayed, the Tiber began to murmur, stars twinkled, and the moon stood out of the sky and lighted the world. Out of the clouds a dove circled down and alighted on the shoulders of Augustus.

The Emperor was proud and happy, and his friends and slaves fell at his feet.

“Hail, Cæsar!” they cried. “Thou art the god who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!”

This cry of homage was so loud that the sibyl heard it and roused from her vision. She turned from her place at the edge of the cliff and came down among the people, so twisted, so shriveled, so terrifying in her tangled hair and marks of age, that they fell back in awe. With one hand she clutched the hand of the Emperor, with the other she pointed toward the east.

“Look!” she commanded.

The vaulted heavens opened before his eyes, and his glance traveled slowly to the distant Orient. He saw a lowly stable behind a steep rock wall and shepherds kneeling in an open doorway. He saw a young mother with a child upon her knees, resting on a bundle of straw.

The sibyl’s big, knotty fingers pointed toward the Babe.

“Hail, Cæsar!” she cried in a burst of scornful laughter. “There is the God who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!”

Augustus shrank back from her as from a maniac. But upon the sibyl fell the mighty spirit of prophecy. Her dim eyes began to burn, her hands were stretched toward heaven, her voice rang out with such resonance and power that it must have been heard throughout the world. And she uttered words which she seemed to be reading among the stars.

“Upon Capitol Hill shall the Redeemer of the world be worshiped—Christ, but not frail mortals.”

When she had said this she strode past the terror-stricken men and disappeared down the mountain.

On the following day Augustus forbade the people to raise a temple to him on Capitol Hill. In place of it he built a sanctuary to the new-born God-Child, and called it Heaven’s Altar—Ara Cœli.

THE SHEPHERD WHO TURNED BACK

Retold from a Syrian Legend

(Ethics)

This is a story they tell in Palestine when the Christmas stars shine out and Syrian children sit, cross-legged and big-eyed, in front of the old grandfather, listening to his tales by the light of the charcoal fire, while the moon flings its veil across the jagged Hebron Hills and the far, high peaks out Moab way are white as wool.

On the wonderful night when the star in the east proclaimed glad tidings to the Magi, and these three wise ones started away from their pleasant homes on a long and perilous journey, marvelous things are said to have happened in every quarter of the earth. Away in imperial Rome, the Emperor Augustus, straight and proud in his litter, was borne up the long stairway leading to Capitol Hill to invoke his gods on the spot where the people were to erect a temple to him. But suddenly the darkness broke away and he beheld a manger in a distant land and a Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and as the voices of his subjects shouted, “Hail, Cæsar, thou art the god who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!” instead of feeling great and exalted like a sovereign he felt very small and humble, for he knew that One just born was mightier than Cæsar, and would rule not only Rome, but all the earth.

And on that same night, where the mountains break southward from Bethlehem to form the high plateau of Bêt Sahûr, there were shepherds guarding their white-fleeced charges—six in all, five of whom slept by the gate of the sheepfold while one walked up and down, starting whenever he heard a stirring among the flocks and going in the direction of the sound to make sure that all was well.

Sometimes he added wood to the fire, for the night was cold and a wind from the white peaks eastward brought numbness to his hands, and sometimes he stood and looked over the scene he knew so well—the pools of Solomon, shimmering darkly under the moon, and the broad vales of Boaz, bare and lifeless now, but yellow with ripened grain and gay with reapers’ songs in harvest time. As a child he had played there with his brothers, as a boy he had roamed up and down the ravines, and now, alone in the darkness, it gladdened him to live again those days in memory.

Midnight drew near, yet he had no desire to sleep. The world was very silent, very still, for the wind had died away, and the Ilwa, in its rocky bed below, seemed to rest instead of surging Jordan-ward. Into the hoot of the owls came a note of unwonted tenderness, and even the cries of the jackals, that always made the night watch hideous and sent terror to the hearts of the herders, softened to a sound like a song. The man felt the calm and it soothed him, and although he had followed the flocks all day long and the hills were steep and jagged, he knew no weariness, but a strange sense of peace and delight, and as he looked at his companions wrapped in their rough skin coats and dreaming beside the embers, he wondered if they felt in sleep a sensation as exquisite as the one he experienced awaking.

“How bright the heavens are tonight!” he thought as he looked up to where a golden haze began to gleam around the crescent of the moon. Billions of stars glittered in the purple spaces, and directly over the center of the fold was a cluster large and brilliant that he had not seen before.

It grew warmer, too, and instead of the sting of winter that had kept the men close by the fire after darkness fell, a balm came into the air, a softness like that of May. Never had he dreamed there could be such a winter night, and almost he felt tempted to rouse his companions that they too might enjoy it.

But suddenly he stiffened and stood watching, cold with fear. A glory came, and across the sky, which flamed as if on fire, floated a white-winged heavenly host singing the glad tidings of the Messiah come. The flocks started up and ran wildly about the fold. The sleeping shepherds wakened and crouched on the ground, half dazed with fear.

The bright ones flew about the heavens. They moved in shining columns down from the heights and fluttered above the fold, whiter than the sheep, then glided across to the rugged cliffs, and sat there as if on couches of down. And ever as they marched or floated or poised on glittering pinions ready for another flight, they blended their voices in a triumphal chorus as if all the hosts of heaven had descended to make melody among the Judean hills.

“What is it?” one of the shepherds asked in a voice that shook.

Then, like an answering message, came a jubilant anthem, “Fear not, for unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour which is Christ the Lord.”

As if a soothing hand had touched their fleeces, the sheep settled to rest again; the fear left the hearts of the shepherds, and in a radiance which dimmed and paled as they went, the shining ones floated upward out of sight, singing, “Glory to God in the Highest, Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.”

For several minutes the keepers of the flocks stood silent, too bewildered either to think or to speak. Then, by the peace among the sheep and the perfect calm of the night, they realized a marvelous thing had happened, and one of the herders lifted his voice.

“Didst hear?” he spoke in tones of reverence. “They say the Christ is born.”

“Aye,” a companion answered, “in the city of David, which is Bethlehem. Let us go and seek him.” And his comrades, speaking agreement, said they would journey there together.

Now, when subjects go into the presence of a loved sovereign, they bear with them tokens of loyalty and affection. Those who are rich give priceless gifts, and those who are poor offer the best out of their scanty possessions and the fullness of their hearts. And so these herders of Bêt Sahûr, having nothing but their flocks, each chose the lamb he prized most, and cradling it tenderly in his firm, warm arms, left the sheepfold and started for the town.

Down over the cliffs they hurried, along perilous slopes and across chasms that seemed like great black mouths agape; yet they did not fear, for a light from above showed the path as plain as noontide and there was no danger of falling. From one rock to another they proceeded, from ledge to ledge they made their way, and soon were well down into the ravine, from the bottom of which the road led to the town. Directly above, so close that had they looked up they could have counted some of them, the sheep lay white and shining under the stars; but the thoughts of the shepherds were on Bethlehem, which, straight ahead, still showed a few flickering tapers, and not on the flocks behind.

Ben Ezra, he who had stood on the night watch, was the most stalwart of the six, and he it was who led the descent to the valley.

“Ah,” he exclaimed when at last their feet struck the white firmness of the road, “from here on the way is smooth and easy. Let us hasten, brethren, and soon we shall be there.”

And as he spoke he smoothed the fleece of the warm, white bundle he carried, which bleated softly at his caress.

Just then was heard the cry of a lamb.

The shepherds stopped and listened, for having spent their lives among the flocks, they knew the helplessness of the sheep, and although rugged, fierce-looking men, their hearts were tender toward the weak and appealing. The bleat of a ram or ewe never failed to call them from their meals by day or their rest by night; and now other thoughts left their minds, and they remembered only their charges alone on the hill. Then, thinking of the glory in the sky and the word of the heavenly host that the Christ was born in Bethlehem, one of them said, “Come. Methinks all is well. Did we not feel on the hills that God would take care of the sheep? Let us on to Bethlehem and seek the King.”

But another of the number, he who stood sentinel while his comrades slept, shook his head and demurred.

“Nay,” he said. “Take my lamb and say ’tis the gift of Ben Ezra, but I must go back. It is my night on the watch, and a good shepherd is not deaf to the cry of a sheep.”

He gave his tiny white burden into the keeping of one of his companions and turning, hurried back to the cliffs, while the others went ahead to Bethlehem. He knew it would take much longer to make the climb than it had taken for the descent, and a fear seized him that perhaps jackals had broken upon the flock and he might reach the fold too late to save the sheep. But as he moved forward the mounting of the first cliff seemed no task at all. Hands invisible seemed to lift him up the mountain way, and he reached the sheepfold easily and quickly.

A great relief came. The flocks lay silent, stirring only when a lamb or ewe moved a white leg and turned as it slept, but there was no sign or sound of danger, not even the howl of a jackal away on the mountain side or the moving shadow of a panther creeping stealthily upon the fold. Then he knew that in truth God was watching over the sheep, and that the lamb had probably cried out in wonder, even as he and his brethren might have done.

Secure in the thought that the flock was safe, he started down the mountain toward Bethlehem, musing upon the strange things that had come to pass that night. His comrades were far ahead, and he knew he could not overtake them. Perhaps already they had reached the town and found the place of the Child, while he yet had a long way to go. But his feet sped over the spaces and he swung lightly along, the shaggy skin of his shepherd’s cloak flapping as he went. He was not sorry he had gone back, even though it meant he must journey alone, for there was a peace in his heart that could not have been there had he gone ahead hearing the cry of a lamb.

At last he reached Bethlehem and asked one of the soldiers who guarded the gate, “Where is it that the Christ is born?”

“The Christ?” the man repeated like one dazed. “He is not in Bethlehem. Better get you back to the hills, which is the place of shepherds.”

Ben Ezra stood firm.

“He must be here,” he insisted, “for so sang the angels at Bêt Sahûr, saying, ‘In the city of David,’ which is Bethlehem.”

Whereupon some of the guardsmen smiled and pointed to their heads, and some laughed jeeringly.

There was one, however, a tall, gentle-faced archer, who smiled and spoke kindly, “They say a man child has come to the stable beyond the khan, where Joseph ben David the Nazarene and his wife have taken shelter. You might try there.”

The shepherd nodded and thanked him, his dark eyes moistly tender and in his face a light that silenced the mockers.

“Thither will I go,” he exclaimed, and hurried on his way, bowing his head reverently as he came in sight of the place.

Now it happened when Ben Ezra reached the stable where Joseph ben David was abiding because of the multitude in the khan, that he found the Child lying in a manger, and the other shepherds who had gone before knelt beside Him, looking into His gentle eyes and marveling. Around them on the ground, softly bleating as if they too understood the marvel and rejoiced in it, were the lambs the men had brought as offerings to the Babe; and some of the townsfolk too were there, murmuring in awed tones and looking on the scene in wide-eyed wonder. No one noticed the herder who entered late, or saw him fall on his knees beside the manger. But as his sturdy head drooped low, the Child lifted His tiny hand as if in blessing and smiled down on Ben Ezra’s upturned face; and then the keepers of the sheep knew that thus God had chosen to reward him who had not been deaf to the cry of a lamb.

For many a year after that time, the Syrian herders say, Ben Ezra tended his sheep on the hills. Through summer and winter he abode in the pasture place, his only respite from toil being the rare visits he made to the village where his wife and wee ones dwelt; but he never was weary, and his flocks never went astray. To his children and his children’s children he told the story of how he went back to the hills that night and how he was rewarded, bidding them to be ever mindful of the fact that he who is tender to the sheep serves well a higher Master. And as years rolled into decades and centuries passed away, all the herders of Judea came to know the story and to shape their lives by it, so that to this day the Syrian shepherds have remained men of tender heart and simple faith. And when strangers visit the land and wonder at the gentleness of the keepers of the flocks, some old grandfather or brown-eyed boy is ever ready to explain what it is that has kept them sweet and serene, and tells the story of Ben Ezra, the shepherd who on the wonderful night went back to the hills, and so came late to Bethlehem.

THE PET RAVEN

A Legend of the Rhine

(Geography—Ethics)

One autumn morning a thousand years ago, a boy and a girl stood in a forest path beside the Rhine. His great eyes, brown and full of feeling, looked wistfully into the face of the golden-haired maiden, while his clumsy hands stroked tenderly the glossy feathers of a young raven.

“Father says it is a poor gift to offer a princess,” he said as he held the bird toward her, “but I have nothing else. Will you please take it?”

Blue-eyed Willeswind smiled. She was the petted child of a baron and accustomed to receiving gifts, but something about this boy’s earnestness touched her in an unusual way. He was only a forester’s son, with but little to break the monotony of his life of toil, and it seemed wonderful that he should be willing to part with his only treasure.

“I cannot take your only pet, Rupert,” she said kindly, “but it is good of you to offer it.”

Disappointment crept into the boy’s dark eyes.

“Oh, please,” he pleaded. “I want you to have it, because you bound up my foot with healing herbs when I tore it on the brambles in the wood. Please take it.”

The girl answered with a smile that made her face very lovely, “Of course I shall take it, and I will keep it always because you gave it to me.” Reaching over, she took the fluttering creature from the big dark hands, and stroked it gently as it quivered at the strange touch. Then she made her way back to the castle over a carpet of fallen leaves, while Rupert the forester’s son hurried to the hunting lodge, happy in the thought that he had made a gift to her who had been kind to him.

“She will keep it and feed it and be glad I did not forget,” he thought as he fed the falcons that evening, while up in the castle court Willeswind was busy with her pet.

“See how glossy its feathers are!” she said as her brother Othmar came near. “Rupert gave it to me, and I promised to keep it always.”

The young squire laughed. “A raven is sure to be a bother,” he said. “Better let it fly into the woods.”

Willeswind shook her golden head. “No, no,” she exclaimed, “I like it. Your horses and hounds and falcons are far more bother than one raven, yet you would not think of being without them.”

Othmar mounted his horse and rode out to his archery practice, thinking how soon his sister would tire of the bird. But she did not tire of it. It was different from any pet she had ever owned, and she cared for it and trained it.

Seven years passed, and the brother had grown from a squire to a knight, and upon the death of his father the baron, became lord of the castle. Willeswind too had changed from the slender maid who stood under the November trees with Rupert the forester’s son. She was now the stateliest of all the great ladies on the Rhine. But her hair was still the color of sun-kissed straw, and her eyes the same sympathetic ones, as blue as wood gentians. Rupert was tall and stalwart, one of the sturdiest vassals of Castle Stolzenfels, and although Willeswind seldom saw him, she remembered him kindly because he had given her the pet raven which she still kept and loved. She spent many hours teaching it tricks, and the bird was so clever that it learned rapidly. Sometimes it flew into the forest and came back with flowers and leaves for its mistress. Sometimes it winged its way across the river and brought sprigs of the sweet wild berries growing there.

Everything was bright about the castle, for the young master and mistress were kind to those who served them, and there were no happier vassals along the Rhine than theirs.

One day in springtime, when the elder flowers were creamiest and swallows were teaching their nestlings to fly, a stranger came riding along the river. Past the postern gate his armored steed dashed, and straight he sat in his saddle as he called to Lord Othmar.

“I bring a challenge from the great lord who is my master,” he spoke defiantly as the young knight moved forth to meet him. With flashing eyes he tossed his gauntlet to the ground.

A murmur went among the vassals who stood by. To throw down a gauntlet was to invite war, and all waited for the master to act. But the silence was only for a minute. Then came a shouting and clashing of arms, for with defiance in his face Othmar picked up the glove and flung it back at the rider. That meant war, which in those days was believed to be a glorious thing.

The strange knight rode away along the Rhine shore as rapidly as he had come, while in the great courtyard of Castle Stolzenfels began the marshaling of vassals and preparation for fighting. The women burnished arms and gave all the aid they could, while the Lady Willeswind moved here and there, making suggestions where they were needed. All night long the sound of clanging armor was heard, and the next morning, when the men of Castle Stolzenfels went out of the castle gate to meet the enemy, Rupert the forester’s son marched at the head of the vassals.

Willeswind stood at the tower window and watched them go along the winding river road, thinking sadly of the days and nights of danger into which they went. Perhaps they would not return. Perhaps, too, some robber band might pillage the castle while they were away, for all the able-bodied men had gone to battle, and in those days many brigand hordes ravaged the Rhine valley, which the handful of old men at Stolzenfels would not be able to hold back. But she was brave, and although danger threatened, she faced it as a baron’s daughter should.

Autumn came, with swallows and martins flying southward, and still the battling raged away in the northland, sometimes with victory for Othmar and his men, sometimes with defeat, but always with dread for the anxious hearts of those who waited at home.

One night the wind raged like a mad thing, whipping the Rhine into foam. As the castle mistress sat in the great hall among the women, a servant entered, saying that a pilgrim stood at the outer gate, begging shelter from the night and storm.

“He is white and bent,” the man explained. “Shall I let him come inside?”

Willeswind’s heart was big and tender. “Yes, let him come,” she said.

A moment later he followed the servant through the hall to the sleeping quarters, a hobbling figure leaning heavily on a staff. Willeswind pitied him as he went by, but thought his face seemed hard and cruel.

A few days later she sat alone with her maid, in that same great hall, looking happier than she had looked for many weeks. “A courier came by with word from Othmar,” she said. “He sends greetings, says the worst of the fighting is over, and soon they will be home. I feel quite safe again.”

Suddenly the door was violently thrust open. The maid screamed and Willeswind turned pale, for a man in heavy armor strode into the room. She knew he was one of the dreaded robber barons who terrorized the Rhine valley, and knew too, as she looked into his savage face, that it was the same man who, in the guise of a pilgrim, had sought shelter there a few nights before.

“I have come to take you with me,” he said in a voice of thunder, “for I mean you to be my wife.”

Willeswind shuddered. She knew how wicked and cruel he was, and that it was her great wealth he craved, for Stolzenfels was one of the richest estates on the river. “That can never be, sir,” she answered haughtily. “So go back whence you came.”

He looked at her with an evil smile. “You give me a blithe refusal now,” he exclaimed, “but in three days I will come again and it will be sad for you if I get not a different answer.”

The robber chief strode out, and Willeswind and the trembling maid looked at each other in terror.

“My lady,” the woman spoke, as soon as the outer gate clanged and they knew the man was beyond hearing, “you must get away from here.”

“Yes,” answered the mistress, “I must leave Stolzenfels and seek refuge at some other castle.”

So that same afternoon a little cavalcade wended its way through the woods, over the carpet of leaves that late autumn had whipped from the trees. It was Willeswind and her attendants, bound for the home of another baron, where she would be protected until the return of Othmar and his men. Beside her rode Hulda the maid, and on her shoulder sat the pet raven.

But they did not go far. Suddenly from behind some thickly growing brush a band of horsemen appeared. One rider, taller and heavier than the others, called out orders to his men.

“To my castle!” he shouted.

Willeswind knew well they were the tones of the robber baron, and that she was now a prisoner in his power.

Sad indeed was her heart as the men turned her horse’s head away from her road to safety, and tears came into her blue eyes as she caught a glimpse of the Stolzenfels towers.

“Oh, my home,” she murmured, “when shall I see you again?”

On they went through the forest, along that part of the river whose gray cliffs she had known since childhood, then into unfamiliar country as they neared the castle of the robber chief.

“If only they will let us stay together,” she murmured to Hulda as they drew rein at the gate.

They rode in through the courtyard, and then, dismounting, the baron led the two women up a winding stairway to the tower.

“Here you may stay,” he said savagely, “and decide what to do.”

Then, striding out, he bolted the heavy door.

They looked around. The windows were covered with an iron grating, and there was no possible way of escape.

“We cannot get away,” said Hulda, “so let us make the best of it and find something to eat, for I am hungry.”

But there was no food about the place, and they realized then that he meant to starve Willeswind into obeying him.

But suddenly a bright thought came to her, and she smiled.

“He cannot do it, though, for I have my raven.” And stroking its glossy wings she said, “Berries, pet, berries.”

Her hours of training had been well spent. For as if it understood, the bird spread its shining wings and flew out between the grating. After a while it returned with a sprig of crimson berries, the fragrant, juicy Rhine buds, and laid them in its mistress’ lap.

Many trips it made during the days that followed, and the woodland fruit kept the women from starvation, for it contained both nourishment and water.

So, instead of growing weak and wan, they kept their strength, and the baron could not understand how, with neither food nor water, Willeswind remained strong and well, and as defiant as ever. But to Willeswind and Hulda it was no mystery, and they were full of gratitude to the raven.

One morning Hulda stood by the window, looking out over the woods at the sunlight on the river. Suddenly she gave an excited cry. “Some horsemen are riding up the Rhine road!” she exclaimed. “They are coming this way.”

Willeswind flew to the casement and watched as they drew near. Straight along the forest path they advanced, so close that the watchers could see their faces.

“Oh!” cried the lady of Stolzenfels. “It is Othmar and his men. The war is over and they are coming home.”

She called loudly, waving her handkerchief between the grating, and Othmar saw and heard. “We are up here, prisoners in the tower!” she shouted, as he galloped nearer. And a minute later the Stolzenfels men were battering at the castle gate.

“For your mistress, comrades!” called Rupert the forester’s son, as he led the charge.

The robber baron knew the Stolzenfels force was too strong for him to hold out against, for with right on their side they had even greater strength. He surrendered, and the captives were freed.

The Stolzenfels towers never looked as fair to their owners, as when on the return they beheld them through the trees. It was a joyful homecoming to both lord and vassal, and to the raven, for he flew in and out of its windows as if overcome with gladness. Othmar watched its joyous flight with a smile.

“We will always keep the bird,” he said, “for it saved you from the baron’s power.”

And they did keep it until it died. Then, in memory of its service, they placed its stone image on the castle gate and carved its likeness on the Stolzenfels shield.

Centuries passed. The robber bands that had been the terror of the Rhine valley became a part of the past, and Castle Stolzenfels fell into decay, for hundreds of years being one of the noblest ruins on the river. Then the German emperor restored it. He rebuilt the crumbling towers and bastions where bats made their nests, furnished it after the fashion of long ago, and today it is a favorite summer home of the imperial family. And still on the outer gate a stone raven stands, and to all who know the Rhine stories it speaks eloquently of that olden time when knights were bold, and of a gratitude offering made by the forester’s son to the daughter of the castle.

JUSSIEU AND THE HELIOTROPE

(Science—Nature Study)

In the year of Our Lord 1735, Joseph de Jussieu, the famous botanist, came into the presence of Louis the Fifteenth and besought him to give his royal sanction to a mission that was considered very wonderful in those days.

“I would go to South America to study the plant life there,” he said, “and mayhap I may discover something that will bring glory to France.”

The king looked with favor upon the venture, and a little later the botanist and his attendants sailed out of the port of Havre, toward the distant land of the Andes.

Many months they were on the way, now tossing on the high seas at the mercy of wind and wave, now threading a perilous path through the selvas. At last they ascended the snow-capped Cordilleras, examining every tree and plant they found.

“We will take back seeds of every rare specimen,” Jussieu said, “and great will be the rejoicing in France.”

One day, as the botanist and his men made their way from a deep ravine up a sunny slope, they smelled something wonderfully fragrant.

“Such a powerful odor must come from a gigantic, gorgeous flower,” the naturalist said. And they searched eagerly, each man anxious to discover the prize. But the only gorgeous flower they found was a clump of flaming peonies, which, although regally beautiful, were devoid of fragrance.

Then one of the men stumbled upon a plant bearing clusters of tiny purple blossoms. The odor was very heavy around it, and he knew he had found the perfume giver.

“Ah!” he exclaimed in disappointment, “it is not half so stately as our fleur-de-lis.”

Jussieu came and examined it with great interest, and although it was a small, unpretentious flower, thought it a precious find. He noticed that the most perfect blossoms were on the sunny side of the plant, and that they seemed to reach the sun. He named it “heliotrope,” from Greek words meaning “to turn toward the sun,” and when he returned to France took with him some of the seeds, which were planted in the royal garden.

The princesses, who were always looking for something novel, became greatly excited about the purple blossoms from the Andes. They called it the flower of love, and no bouquet was deemed fit to offer a court lady that did not contain at least a sprig of it. Being greatly in demand, it was very costly. People speculated in it, and for a time fortunes were won and lost, as during the tulip craze in Holland.

Then, after a while, when all the florists grew quantities of heliotrope, it became so common that it went out of favor as the court flower. But it was just as popular as ever, because it had lost none of its grace and fragrance. It grew in the gardens of the people, and there was no peasant too poor to own a plant.

So the dainty heliotrope that is still the favorite of the gardens is a traveled and storied flower. It grew on the slope of the Andes. It crossed the broad seas and was planted in a royal garden. It gladdened the peasants and townsfolk of Lorraine and Brittany and Provence, and still it scatters its fragrance and reaches out its petals toward the sun.

THE FALL OF LONDON BRIDGE

(History)

Almost everybody, whether he be ten or seventy-five, has played the good old game of London Bridge, but not everybody knows that once upon a time the bridge really did fall down.

It was nine hundred years ago—before William the Conqueror was born, and the United States had not even been thought of. Up in the cold, white northland lived a race of fearless vikings, and down in pleasant England reigned a weak, unable king. His name was Ethelred, and because he was always behind time with his plans and his work, people called him the Unready, and in the day in which he lived it was a very serious thing for a king to be unready.

Ever since the Danes had discovered what a fair land England was, they had wanted to take it. They came with their armies in King Alfred’s time. They returned again during the reign of his sons, and when young Ethelred ascended the throne and word went forth of how unable and unready he was, their boats brought a mighty army and surrounded the island. Danish soldiers camped on the broad English moorlands, Danish songs echoed through the woods of Kent and Surrey and sounded in the streets of London town. The invaders were in full possession of the city. They held the royal castle, and their generals slept in King Ethelred’s beds, while he had to take a bunk wherever he could find one. They were bold, brave, and strong. They had leaders who knew not the meaning of fear and were always ready, and it seemed that this time they would take the kingdom.

Yet they didn’t take it after all, for there were other brave, bold men who came to Ethelred’s aid.

Twenty ships sailed down from the seas of Norway, twenty goodly vessels bearing blue and crimson sails, for the boy king Olaf, who dwelt in the far north country, had heard of the plight of Ethelred the Unready and said to his men, “Let us go and fight for him as we fight for our own land.”

At these words the soldiers cheered and bent to the oars, and thus they went to England.

In from the sea they came and up the broad green Thames toward London town. The people along the river despaired at sight of their standard, for they thought another army was coming to attack them. But the sorrow turned to rejoicing when King Ethelred met them just below the city, and Olaf said, in loud, clear tones, “I have brought my soldiers to fight for thee.”

Then there rang out such a blast of welcome as never English war horns sounded before or since.

Olaf lost no time. The men of the north country fought for the love of fighting, and he was eager to hurl his army against the Danes.

“First we will take the fort they have built to command the Thames,” he exclaimed. “Then we will drive them from the city.”

King Ethelred shook his head.

“It will not be easy to do that,” he said. “Thrice already my army has tried it, but the Danish soldiers are thick on London Bridge. We cannot get near enough to attack the fort, because whenever the ships start up the river arrows and spears and stones come down upon them and they are driven back.”

King Olaf stood thinking and did not answer. Finally he said, “Then we must tear down the bridge.”

Ethelred looked at him as if he thought him crazy. “Tear down the bridge!” he repeated in amazement. “That is impossible. London Bridge is strong, and neither of us has an army of giants.”

Young Olaf looked at him and smiled, thinking how little this man knew of warfare.

“Do as I bid you,” he said, “and you shall see it fall.”

Ethelred had little faith in the viking’s words, but he was in so terrible a plight that he was willing to do anything that might pull him out of it. Who wouldn’t be, with a Danish general sleeping in his bed?

King Olaf gave some orders to his men. Then he said to Ethelred, “Bring your ships alongside mine, and we will get them ready.”

He ordered the men to make broad, flat roofs for every vessel, for he knew they could not tear down London Bridge unless protected from the spears and arrows of the Danes. The enemy had seized so much of King Ethelred’s lumber that he hadn’t half enough to make the roofs, so they tore down houses that the command might be carried out.

Finally everything was ready, and the fleet of England and the fleet of Norway moved side by side up the Thames. The Danish soldiers laughed as they saw the queer-looking vessels coming toward them, thinking what fun it would be to drive back the boats of Ethelred the Unready, as they had done several times before. But the Danes didn’t know as much as they thought they knew, and although their spears and arrows flew fast, the lumbering warships came on.

Then the soldiers on the bridge shot their bows and threw their javelins as they had not done before. They hurled great rocks down upon the vessels, damaging some of them so much that they had to turn back. But they did not harm or frighten Olaf the viking. He called to his men and cheered them on, and nearer, nearer these good ships came, until they were close to the piles of London Bridge.

Then they stopped a moment, still under the rain of stones and spears and arrows, and the Danish soldiers wondered what it meant. They could not see the thick, strong cables that were wound around the heavy supports of the bridge. They could not see the soldiers of Olaf lash the other ends fast to the vessels. But a moment later they understood all they had not seen. The ships turned with a sudden spurt. The Danish soldiers felt a mighty tug and pull. The roofed warships darted down the river, and then was heard the fall of London Bridge.

How joyfully the men of England shouted, for now they could push ahead and attack the fort. They took it too, and drove the enemy out of the city. Danish warriors no longer slept under satin covers in the castle of King Ethelred. Danish songs no longer resounded through the woods of Kent and Surrey and across the broad, sea-lapped moorlands. The soldiers routed the Danes and drove them out of the country, and Olaf the boy viking sailed back to his far, white northland, rejoicing in the thought that he had saved his kingdom to Ethelred, which he could not have done but for the fall of London Bridge.

HOW THEY CAME TO HAVE KITE DAY IN CHINA

Retold from a Chinese Folk Tale

(Physical Education)

In the lovely province of Kwang Tung, a sage named Ng Chew lived in the far-off time. He not only was versed in the lore of past and present, but knew future events as well, and used his knowledge and his power to benefit mankind.

One night in a vision he saw that a pestilence was about to sweep over the valley in which he lived, and his first thought was that he must save his people. He went from house to house telling the news and bidding every one flee with him to the mountains, and a few hours after he started on his mission the homes in the lowlands were deserted.

Up on the heights the people were safe in the crisp, clean air. But after many days had passed they wanted to return to their homes. They thought of the growth in the rice fields and of the approaching harvest time. “We have been here long enough,” they declared. “By this time the danger is over and we ought to go back.” But the wise Ng Chew knew it was not safe to return, and urged them to stay. There were a few who would not listen to his words. They started back to the lowlands, and Ng Chew wondered how he could keep the others on the mountain. Then a happy thought crossed his mind. He set everybody to making and flying kites, and soon had them so interested that they were glad to stay.

Days afterward, when he knew the danger was past, he led them back to the valley. Then they realized what a blessed thing he had done in keeping them on the mountain, for all who had refused to stay there with him had died of the pestilence.

The people’s hearts were filled with gratitude toward the man who had saved them.

“We will honor Ng Chew as long as he lives,” they said. “When his birthday comes we will all fly kites.”

This they did. Each year, on the birthday of Ng Chew, they left the rice fields and spent the day flying kites.

The word spread beyond the little valley and from province to province, until all over the land kite flying marked the birthday of the sage of Kwang Tung. The wise man died and centuries passed, but still the Chinese keep Kite Day, honoring him who in the long ago led his people to safety in the mountains.

THE STORY OF A STONE

By David Starr Jordan

(Science)

Once on a time, a great many years ago, so many, many years that one grows very tired in trying to think how long ago it was; in those old days when the great Northwest consisted of a few ragged and treeless hills, full of copper and quartz, bordered by a dreary waste of sand flats, over which the Gulf of Mexico rolled its warm and turbid waters as far north as Escanaba and Eau Claire; in the days when Marquette Harbor opened out towards Baffin’s Bay, and the Northern Ocean washed the crest of Mount Washington and wrote its name upon the Pictured Rocks; when the tide of the Pacific, hemmed in by no snow-capped Sierras, came rushing through the Golden Gate between the Ozarks and the north peninsula of Michigan, and swept over Plymouth Rock and surged up against Bunker Hill; in the days when it would have been fun to study geography, for there were no capitals, nor any products, and all the towns were seaports—in fact, an immensely long time ago there lived somewhere in the northeastern part of the state of Wisconsin, not far from the city of Oconto, a little jellyfish. It was a curious little fellow, about the shape of half an apple, and the size of a pin’s head; and it floated around in the water, and ate little things, and opened and shut its umbrella pretty much as the jellyfishes do now on a sunny day off Nahant Beach when the tide is coming in. It had a great many little feelers that hung down all around like so many little snakes; so it was named Medusa, after a queer woman who lived a long while ago, when all sorts of stories were true. She wore snakes instead of hair, and used to turn people into stone images if they dared to make faces at her. So this little Medusa floated around, and opened and shut her umbrella for a good while,—a month or two, perhaps; we don’t know how long. Then one morning, down among the seaweeds, she laid a whole lot of tiny eggs, transparent as crab-apple jelly, and smaller than the dewdrop on the end of a pine leaf. That was the last thing she did; then she died, and our story henceforth concerns only one of those little eggs.

One day the sun shone down into the water—the same sun that shines over the Oconto sawmills now—and touched these eggs with life; and a little fellow whom we will call Favosites, because that was his name, woke up inside the egg, and came out into the world. He was only a little piece of floating jelly, shaped like a cartridge pointed at both ends, or like a grain of barley, although very much smaller. He had a great number of little paddles on his sides. These kept flapping all the time, so that he was constantly in motion. And at night all these little paddles shone with a rich green light, to show him the way through the water. It would have done you good to see them some night when all the little fellows had their lamps burning at once, and every wave as it rose and fell was all aglow with Nature’s fireworks, which do not burn the fingers and leave no smell of sulphur.

So the little Favosites kept scudding along in the water, dodging from one side to the other to avoid the ugly creatures that tried to eat him. There were crabs and clams of a fashion neither you nor I shall ever see alive. There were huge animals with great eyes, savage jaws like the beak of a snapping turtle and surrounded by long feelers. They sat in the end of a long, round shell, shaped like a length of stove pipe, and glowered like an owl in a hollow log; and there were smaller ones that looked like lobsters in a dinner horn. But none of these caught the little fellow, else I should not have had this story to tell.

At last, having paddled about long enough, Favosites thought of settling in life. So he looked around till he found a flat bit of shell that just suited him. Then he sat down upon it and grew fast, like old Holger Danske in the Danish myth, or Frederick Barbarossa in the German one. He did not go to sleep, however, but proceeded to make himself a home. He had no head, but between his shoulders he made an opening which would serve him for mouth and stomach. Then he put a whole row of feelers out, and commenced catching little worms and floating eggs and bits of jelly and bits of lime,—everything he could get,—and cramming them into his mouth. He had a great many curious ways, but the funniest of them all was what he did with the bits of lime. He kept taking them in, and tried to wall himself up inside with them, as a person would “stone a well,” or as though a man should swallow pebbles and stow them away in his feet and all around under the skin, till he had filled himself all full with them, as the man filled Jim Smiley’s frog.

Little Favosites became lonesome all alone in the bottom of that old ocean among so many outlandish neighbors. So one night, when he was fast asleep and dreaming as only a coral animal can dream, there sprouted out from his side, somewhere near where his sixth rib might have been if he had had any ribs, another little Favosites; and this one very soon began to eat worms and to wall himself up as if for dear life. Then from these two another and another little bud came out, and other little Favosites were formed. They all kept growing up higher and cramming themselves fuller and fuller of stone, till at last there were so many and they were so crowded together that there was not room for them to grow round, and so they had to become six-sided like the cells of a honeycomb. Once in a while some one in the company would feel jealous because the others got more of the worms, or would feel uneasy at sitting still so long and swallowing lime. Such a one would secede from the little union without even saying “good-by,” and would put on the airs of the grandmother Medusa, and would sail around in the water, opening and shutting its umbrella, at last laying more eggs, which for all we know may have hatched out into more Favosites.

So the old Favosites died, or ran away, or were walled up by the younger ones, and new ones filled their places, and the colony thrived for a long while, until it had accumulated a large stock of lime.

But one day there came a freshet in the Menominee River, or in some other river, and piles of dirt and sand and mud were brought down, and all the little Favosites’ mouths were filled with it. This they did not like, and so they died; but we know that the rock house they were building was not spoiled, for we have it here. But it was tumbled about a good deal in the dirt, and the rolling pebbles knocked the corners off, and the mud worked into the cracks, and its beautiful color was destroyed. There it lay in the mud for ages, till the earth gave a great, long heave that raised Wisconsin out of the ocean, and the mud around our little Favosites packed and dried into hard rock and closed it in. So it became part of the dry land, and lay embedded in the rocks for centuries and centuries, while the old-fashioned ferns grew above it, and whispered to it strange stories of what was going on above ground in the land where things were living.

Then the time of the first fishes came, and the other animals looked in wonder at them, as the Indians looked on Columbus. Some of them were like the little gar-pike of our river here, only much larger,—big as a stove pipe, and with a crust as hard as a turtle’s. Then there were sharks, of strange forms, and some of them had teeth like bowie knives, with tempers to match. And the time of the old fishes came and went, and many more times came and went, but still Favosites lay in the ground at Oconto.

Then came the long, hot, wet summer, when the mists hung over the earth so thick that you might have had to cut your way through them with a knife; and great ferns and rushes, big as an oak and tall as a steeple, grew in the swamps of Indiana and Illinois. Their green plumes were so long and so densely interwoven that the Man in the Moon might have fancied that the earth was feathering out. Then all about, huge reptiles, with jaws like the gates of doom and teeth like cross-cut saws, and little reptiles with wings like bats, crawled, and swam, and flew.

But the ferns died, and the reptiles died, and the rush trees fell in the swamps, and the Illinois and the Sangamon and the Wabash and all the other rivers covered them up. They stewed away under layers of clay and sand, till at last they turned into coal and wept bitter tears of petroleum. But all this while Favosites lay in the rocks in Wisconsin.

Then the mists cleared away, and the sun shone, and the grass began to grow, and strange animals came from somewhere or nowhere to feed upon it. There were queer little striped horses, with three or four hoofs on each foot, and no bigger than a Newfoundland dog, but as smart as ever you saw. There were great hairy elephants, with teeth like sticks of wood. There were hogs with noses so long that they could sit on their hind legs and root. And there were many still stranger creatures which no man ever saw alive. But still Favosites lay in the ground and waited.

And the long, long summer passed by, and the autumn, and the Indian summer. At last the winter came, and it snowed and snowed, and it was so cold that the snow did not go off till the Fourth of July. Then it snowed and snowed till the snow did not go off at all. And then it became so cold that it snowed all the time, till the snow covered the animals, and then the trees, and then the mountains. Then it would thaw a little, and streams of water would run over the snow. Then it would freeze again, and the snow would pack into solid ice. So it went on snowing and thawing and freezing, till nothing but snowbanks could be seen in Wisconsin, and most of Indiana was fit only for a skating rink. And the animals and plants which could get away, all went south to live, and the others died and were frozen into the snow.

So it went on for a great many years. I dare not tell you how long, for you might not believe me. Then the spring came, the south winds blew, and the snow began to thaw. Then the ice came sliding down from the mountains and hills and from the north toward the south. It went on, tearing up rocks, little and big, from the size of a chip to the size of a house, crushing forests as you would crush an eggshell, and wiping out rivers as you would wipe out a chalk mark. So it came pushing, grinding, thundering along,—not very fast, you understand, but with tremendous force, like a plow drawn by a million oxen, for a thousand feet of ice is very heavy. And the ice plow scraped over Oconto, and little Favosites was torn from the place where he had lain so long; but by good fortune he happened to fall into a crevice of the ice where he was not much crowded, else he would have been ground to powder and I should not have had this story to tell. And the ice melted as it slid along, and it made great torrents of water, which, as they swept onward, covered the land with clay and pebbles. At last the ice came to a great swamp overgrown with tamarack and balsam. It melted here; and all the rocks and stones and dirt it had carried—little Favosites and all—were dumped into one great heap.

It was a very long time after, and man had been created, and America had been discovered, and the War of the Revolution and the Civil War had all been fought to the end, and a great many things had happened, when one day a farmer living near Grand Chute, in Outagamie County, Wisconsin, was plowing up his clover field to sow to winter wheat. He picked up in the furrow a curious little bit of “petrified honeycomb,” a good deal worn and dirty, but still showing plainly the honey cells and the bee bread. Then he put it into his pocket and carried it home, and gave it to his boy Charley to take to the teacher and hear what he would say about it. And this is what he said.