THE MOUNTAIN DWARF.

BY ANNIE L. BELCHER.

You all know the old proverb, "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones"? Well, I am going to tell you a story about it.

Years ago there stood a beautiful castle on the summit of a mountain. It had many towers and many wings, and was built entirely of glass. It stood in the midst of a garden brilliant with unknown flowers, and filled with trees weighted down with strange delicious fruits.

People from various parts of the world came to see this wonderful garden, with its glass palace, and strange birds and fruits and flowers; and not the least strange part about it was its master, christened, by order of the Mountain King, the Mountain Dwarf. He was an odd, grotesque little creature, with thin, crooked legs, and a sharp shrewd face set in a mass of yellow hair. He wore costly satins and velvets, and all his garments were trimmed with wee silver bells that kept up a perpetual jingling that seemed impertinently to assert their master's supremacy over all the world. It pleased this curious little man to build himself a glass castle. He liked that men should watch him dine from golden plates, and drink rare wine from diamond goblets. Admiration was to him the breath of life, and he was most happy when his neighbors were most envious. He laughed aloud when strangers, toiling up the hill, were forced to shield their eyes from the dazzling glare of the sun shining on his palace.

Half-way between the summit of this mountain and the pretty village at its foot stood a miner's settlement—a pitiful collection of log-huts so rudely put together that they kept out neither snow nor rain. In these huts lived the families of the men who toiled night and day in the mine underneath the hill. It was these half-starved, hard-worked men that made the money that enabled the Mountain Dwarf to live like a Mountain King. But little thought he of the poor wretches underneath his feet, save that their settlement was an eyesore, and must be destroyed. He denied their right to homes and families. Those uneducated machines, men! They were lower than the brutes, and but fit to live in mines. He had no thought of helping them to a higher life; he only wished to push them lower.

Every evening after sunset the Mountain Dwarf would wrap himself in his sable cloak, and walk down to the miners' homes, followed by a retinue of servants. At the first sound of the tinkling bells, women and children would rush from the huts and hide themselves in the forest.

One night he stood alternately gazing on the wretched hovels beside him and the castle on the hill. As he looked, his rage escaped all bounds.

"Down with that rubbish!" he shrieked, pointing to the settlement. "They have disgraced me enough. Strangers have to pass this to see my palace. Down with these huts!"

"But the miners and their wives and children!" ventured the boldest of the servants.

The Mountain Dwarf looked at the man with his small cruel eyes. "Ha! ha!" he yelled. "You dare defend them. Good! We will send you to the mines and work you hard. Now let every man take a stone and let him aim it well."

All the servants trembled, and the poor fellow who had pleaded for the miners fell on his knees with loud sobs. But not one man stooped to raise a stone.

"What!" thundered the Dwarf. "You dare defy me! Then I'll stone them down myself. Their ugly huts have stood in sight of my castle long enough."

With fiendish glee he danced from hut to hut, hurling stones that giants could barely move as though they were but pebbles, until not one log was left upon another. Then he clapped his hands and snapped his fingers in the air, and led the servants home. The Mountain Dwarf was in an ecstasy of delight, and roared with laughter, when the women and children crept timidly from the woods and sobbed over their ruined homes.

When the moon was at its full, and the castle lay shimmering in its yellow light with the pale soft tints of an opal, a long still line of men crept up the hill and through the beautiful gardens, close up to the castle walls. Their faces were fierce yet quiet, as though some great purpose was controlling their actions, and behind them some little distance came the women and children that had wept over the fallen settlement. They could see the Mountain Dwarf on his silver bed with its silken draperies, and even in sleep his lips wore the sneering smile of triumph they had worn a few hours earlier. The men looked from the bed to the stones in their hands, and then at one another.

"It is time," said a low voice, and every right arm stretched itself up and backward and flung a stone. There was a terrible crash.

"Again!" said the same low voice, and again with military precision the right hands went up and back, and the stones flew, and again came that terrible crash.

The Mountain Dwarf, stunned and bruised and bleeding, raised himself in his bed.

"Who is it?" he moaned feebly.

"The miners," came back in a terrible shout.

"Ah me!" he gasped. "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones." They were his last words, and they have grown into a proverb.