Chapter III: Part 3

The king and his followers soon adapted themselves to life in exile. During the daytime they hunted game which lurked in the thickets; in the evening they gathered together in the deep cave and held council. Then it was that the king sat on his rude throne lit by two candles.

The king’s page with sinking heart saw the candles grow fewer and fewer until there were but two left. Then at last came an evening when the lights were missing from the king’s throne. In a dark corner of the cave the little page sat grieving because he could not see his king’s face.

It happened one morning that the lad wandered to the edge of the woodland where the highway separated the richly coloured forest trees from a stretch of meadowland where the white mist was slowly lifting. On the roadside was an old woman carrying a large sack on her bent shoulders. When she reached the place where the king’s page was standing she set her sack on the ground and looked wistfully at the meadow, then at the deep ditch which separated the field from the highway.

“Shall I help you across the ditch?” asked the king’s page.

“Thank you, my lad,” said the old woman. “Perhaps I’d better not go across. It would be hard for me to reach the highway again. But I should like a few of those tall mullein spikes. I’ve none in my bag so fine as those growing in the meadow.”

“I’ll gather some for you” said the king’s page.

He leaped across the ditch, and soon filled his hands with the tall mullein spikes.

The old woman was delighted. She tucked them into her bag and said, “They make such fine winter candles. Thank you, my lad.”

“Winter candles!” exclaimed the king’s page.

“Aye,” nodded the old woman. “Dip them in tallow, a thin coat will do--and you have candles fit for a king. Thank you kindly.”

“We are in sore need of candles where I live, but----” the page stopped.

“Use mullein spikes. They make candles fit for a king, I say,” and the old woman picked up her sack.

“But we have no tallow,” said the lad.

“I can spare you a lump of tallow, my boy. Come along with me to my cottage,” said the old woman.

So the king’s page carried the sack of mullein spikes to the old woman’s cottage and she gave him a large lump of tallow. On his way back he leaped across the ditch again and filled his arms with tall mullein spikes. He hurried back to the cave, melted the tallow, and dipped the weeds into the liquid fat.

When the king and his party returned that evening to the cave, two tall candles were standing on the rude throne.

“See,” cried the king’s page, “we have a fresh supply of candles.”

“Tell us where you got them,” said the surprised king.

“They are made from spikes of the mullein weed,” explained the king’s page. Then he told his majesty about the afternoon’s adventure.

“The mullein weed shall have a new name,” declared the king. “It shall be called the King’s Candles.”

A few days later the king called his followers around his throne seat and said, “A message has come to me declaring that the usurper has been driven out of my country. Tomorrow we’ll hold a feast in the palace, and the table shall be lighted by ‘King’s Candles.’”

Every year since that far-off time when the reigning king holds an autumn festival, the banquet table is lighted with mullein spikes dipped in tallow, and they are called the “King’s Candles.”

“The mullein’s yellow candles burn
Over the heads of dry, sweet fern.”

A LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN-ROD

FRANCES WELD DANIELSON

(From “Story-Telling Time.” Used by permission of Pilgrims Press.)

Once there were a great many weeds in a field. They were very ugly-looking weeds, and they didn’t seem to be the least bit of use in the world. The cows would not eat them, the children would not pick them, and even the bugs did not seem to like them very well.

“I don’t see what we’re here for,” said one of the weeds. “We are not any good.”

“No good at all,” growled a dozen little weeds, “only to catch dust.”

“Well, if that’s what we’re here for,” cried a very tall weed, “then I say let’s catch dust! I suppose somebody’s got to do it. We can’t all bear blueberries or blossom into hollyhocks.”

“But it isn’t pleasant work at all,” whined a tiny bit of a weed.

“No whining allowed in this field,” laughed a funny little fat weed, with a hump in his stalk. “We’re all going to catch dust, so let’s see which one can catch the most. What do you say to a race?”

The little fat weed spoke in such a jolly voice that the weeds all cheered up at once, and before long they were as busy as bees, and as happy as Johnnie-jump-ups. They worked so well stretching their stalks and spreading out their fingers that before the summer was half over they were able to take every bit of dust that flew up from the road. In the field beyond, where the clover grew and the cows fed, there was not any to be seen.

One morning, toward the end of summer, the weeds were surprised to see a number of people standing by the fence looking at them. Pretty soon some children came and gazed at them. Then the weeds noticed that people driving by called each other’s attention to them. They were much surprised at this, but they were still more surprised when one day some children climbed the fence and commenced to pick them.

“See,” cried a little girl, “how all the dust has been changed to gold!”

The weeds looked at each other, and, sure enough, they were all covered with gold-dust.

“A fairy has done it,” they whispered one to the other.

But the fairies were there on the spot, and declared they had had nothing to do with it.

“You did it yourselves,” cried the queen of the fairies. “You were happy in your work, and a cheerful spirit always changes dust into gold. Didn’t you know it?”

“You’re not weeds any more, you’re flowers,” sang the fairies.

“Golden-rod, golden-rod!” shouted the children.

GOLDEN-ROD

Pretty, slender golden-rod,
Like a flame of light,
On the quiet, lonely way,
Glows your torch so bright.

With your glorious golden staff,
Gay in autumn hours,
Now you lead to wintry rest,
All the lovely flowers.

Cheering with a joyous face,
All that pass you by,
How you light the meadows round,
With your head so high.
ANNA E. SKINNER.

THE LITTLE WEED

“You’re nothing but a weed,” said the children in the fall. The little weed hung its head in sorrow. No one seemed to think that a weed was of any use.

By and by the snow came and the cold winds blew. There were many hungry little birds hunting for food.

“Twit! Twit Twee!
See! See! See!”

sang a merry little bird one cold morning.

“Here is a lovely weed full of nice brown seeds!” And he made a good meal from those seeds that morning. Then three other little birds came to share the feast.

The little weed was so happy that she held her head up straight and tall again.

“That is what I was meant for,” she said. “I am good for something. Four hungry little birds had as many seeds as they wished for their breakfast. Next year I’ll grow as many seeds as I can to feed many more hungry little birds. Good-bye, little birds,” she called out to the little feathery friends. “Come again next year. I’ll have another dinner for you.”

“Good-bye, little weed,” sang the birds. “We have had a fine meal and we thank you very much. You’ll see us again next year. It is so hard to get enough to eat during the cold weather, and we are grateful to you for holding your seeds for us.”

“It’s nice to find that one is of some use after all, isn’t it?” called out the little weed to her neighbour in the next field.

--_Selected._

GOLDEN-ROD AND PURPLE ASTER

FLORA J. COOKE

Once upon a time a strange, wise woman lived in a little hut which stood on the top of a hill. She looked so grim and severe that people were afraid to go near her. It was said that she could change people into anything she wished.

One day two little girls who lived at the foot of the hill were playing together. One was named Golden Hair and the other Blue Eyes. After a while they sat down on the grassy hillside to rest.

“I should like to do something to make everybody happy,” said Blue Eyes.

“So should I,” said Golden Hair. “Let us ask the woman who lives on the hilltop about it. She is very wise and can surely tell us just what to do.”

“Oh, yes,” said Blue Eyes, and away they started at once.

It was a long, long walk to the top of the hill. Many times the little girls stopped to rest under the oak trees which shaded their pathway.

They could find no flowers, but they made a basket of oak leaves and filled it with berries for the wise woman.

The birds were singing in the treetops, and the squirrels were frisking about in the branches. Golden Hair and Blue Eyes stopped to laugh and talk with them.

The little girls walked on and on up the rocky pathway. After a while the sun went down, the birds stopped their singing, and the squirrels went to bed. The evening wind was resting. How still and cool it was on the hillside!

Presently the moon and stars came out. Then the frogs and toads awoke, beetles and fireflies flew about and the night music began.

Golden Hair and Blue Eyes were growing very tired, but on and on they climbed until at last they reached the hut on the hilltop where the strange, wise woman lived.

“See, she is standing at the gate,” said Golden Hair. “How stern she looks.”

The little girls clung close together, and when they reached the gate Golden Hair said bravely, “We know you are very wise and we came to see if you would tell us how to make everyone happy.”

“Please let us stay together,” said timid Blue Eyes.

As she opened the gate for the children, the wise woman was seen to smile in the moonlight. Golden Hair and Blue Eyes were never seen again at the foot of the hill. The next morning beautiful, waving golden-rod and purple asters grew all over the hillside.

Some people say that these two bright flowers, which grow side by side, could tell the secret if they would, of what became of the two little girls on that moonlight night.

(Adapted.)

WILD ASTERS

CHILD

White and purple asters, watching by the brook,
Tell me where you got your starry eyes.

ASTERS

Dearie, in their play the baby angels took
Blossoms from the garden of the skies.

Tossed them downward to us over heaven’s wall,
And we caught and kept them,--that is all.

SILVER-ROD

EDITH M. THOMAS

Who knows not Silver-rod, the lovely and reverend Golden-rod beautified and sainted, looking moonlit and misty even in the sunshine! In this soft canescent afterbloom beginning at the apex of the flower cluster and gradually spreading downward, the eye finds an agreeable relief from the recent dazzle of yellow splendour. I almost forget that the herb is not literally in bloom, that is, no longer ministered to by sunshine and dew. Is there not, perhaps, some kind of bee that loves to work among these plumy blossoms gathering a concentrated form of nectar, pulverulent _flower_ of honey? I gently stir this tufted staff, and away floats a little cloud of pappus, in which I recognize the golden-and silver-rods of another year, if the feathery seeds shall find hospitable lodgment in the earth. Two other plants in the wild herbarium deserve to be ranked with my subject for grace and dignity with which they wear their seedy fortunes: iron-weed, with its pretty daisy-shaped involucres; and life-everlasting, which, having provided its own cerements and spices, now rests embalmed in all the pastures; it is still pleasantly odorous, and, as often as I meet it, puts me in mind of an old-fashioned verse which speaks of the “actions of the just” and their lasting bloom and sweetness. On a chill November day I fancy that the air is a little softer in places where Silver-rod holds sway and that there spirits of peace and patience have their special haunts.

* * * * *

A white butterfly met a thistle-ball in the airy highway. Expressions of mutual surprise were exchanged.

“Hello! I thought you were one of us,” said the butterfly.

“And I,” returned the thistle-ball, “took you for a white pea-blossom.”

PIMPERNEL, THE SHEPHERD’S CLOCK

I’ll go and look at the Pimpernel
And see if she thinks the clouds look well.
For if the sun shine
And ’tis like to be fine,
I’ll go to the fair.

So Pimpernel, what bode the clouds in the sky;
If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I.

Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up
Her little gold star in her coral cup.
And unto the maid
A warning she said:
“Though the sun seems down
There’s a gathering frown
O’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky
So, tarry at home! for a storm is nigh!”

A LEGEND OF THE GENTIAN

(Hungarian)

Many years ago the poor people of Hungary suffered from a terrible sickness which had afflicted them for a long time. Thousands of them had been stricken and many had died, for nothing could be found to cure them or relieve their sufferings in any way.

At last the people appealed to their good King Ladislaw for help. Messenger after messenger was sent to beg him to bring about some relief. But the good king could do nothing, and he was obliged to send the messengers away without help and without hope.

One day the king sat thinking about the needs of his people. “What can I do for my people?” he asked himself over and over again. “I have sent them away without help and without hope. God alone knows what will help them. He will give me a sign. My arrow shall bring me the message.” And the good king prayed that divine guidance would direct an arrow shot into the air.

His Majesty shot the arrow and watched where it fell. And, behold, it pierced the root of a gentian!

The king then sent his servants to gather many roots of this plant and make from them a medicine for his suffering people. And the cure was so wonderful that from that day his people have called the gentian “The Herb of King Ladislaw.”

“Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with the heaven’s own blue,
That openest when, the quiet light,
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.”

QUEEN ASTER

LOUISA M. ALCOTT

For many seasons the Golden-rods had reigned over the meadow, and no one thought of choosing a king from any other family, for they were strong and handsome, and loved to rule.

But one autumn something happened which caused a great excitement among the flowers. It was proposed to have a queen, and such a thing had never been heard of before. It began among the Asters; for some of them grew outside the wall beside the road, and saw and heard what went on in the great world. These sturdy plants told the news to their relations inside; and so the Asters were unusually wise and energetic flowers, from the little white stars in the grass to the tall sprays tossing their purple plumes above the mossy wall.

“Things are moving in the great world, and it is time we made a change in our little one,” said one of the roadside Asters, after a long talk with a wandering wind. “Matters are not going well in the meadow; for the Golden-rods rule, and they care only for money and power, as their name shows. Now, we are descended from the stars, and are both wise and good, and our tribe is even larger than the Golden-rod tribe; so it is but fair that we should take our turn at governing. It will soon be time to choose, and I propose our stately cousin, Violet Aster, for queen this year. Whoever agrees with me, say Aye.”

Quite a shout went up from all the Asters; and the late Clovers and Buttercups joined in it, for they were honest, sensible flowers, and liked fair play. To their great delight the Pitcher-plant, or Forefathers’ Cup, said “Aye” most decidedly, and that impressed all the other plants; for this fine family came over in the _Mayflower_, and was much honoured everywhere.

But the proud Cardinals by the brook blushed with shame at the idea of a queen; the Fringed Gentians shut their blue eyes that they might not see the bold Asters; and Clematis fainted away in the grass, she was so shocked. The Golden-rods laughed scornfully, and were much amused at the suggestion to put them off the throne where they had ruled so long.

“Let those discontented Asters try it,” they said. “No one will vote for that foolish Violet, and things will go on as they always have done; so, dear friends, don’t be troubled, but help us elect our handsome cousin who was born in the palace this year.”

In the middle of the meadow stood a beautiful maple, and at its foot lay a large rock overgrown by a wild grapevine. All kinds of flowers sprang up here; and this autumn a tall spray of Golden-rod and a lovely violet Aster grew almost side by side, with only a screen of ferns between them. This was called the palace; and seeing their cousin there made the Asters feel that their turn had come, and many of the other flowers agreed with them that a change of rulers ought to be made for the good of the kingdom.

So when the day came to choose, there was great excitement as the wind went about collecting the votes. The Golden-rods, Cardinals, Gentians, Clematis, and Bitter-sweet voted for the Prince, as they called the handsome fellow by the rock. All the Asters, Buttercups, Clovers, and Pitcher-plants voted for Violet; and to the surprise of the meadow the Maple dropped a leaf, and the Rock gave a bit of lichen for her also. They seldom took part in the affairs of the flower people,--the tree living so high above them, busy with its own music, and the rock being so old that it seemed lost in meditation most of the time; but they liked the idea of a queen (for one was a poet, the other a philosopher), and both believed in gentle Violet.

Their votes won the day, and with loud rejoicing by her friends she was proclaimed queen of the meadow and welcomed to her throne.

“We will never go to Court or notice her in any way,” cried the haughty Cardinals, red with anger.

“Nor we! Dreadful, unfeminine creature! Let us turn our backs and be grateful that the brook flows between us,” added the Gentians, shaking their fringes as if the mere idea soiled them.

Clematis hid her face among the vine leaves, feeling that the palace was no longer a fit home for a delicate, high-born flower like herself. All the Golden-rods raged at this dreadful disappointment, and said many untrue and disrespectful things of Violet. The Prince tossed his yellow head behind the screen, and laughed as if he did not mind, saying carelessly:

“Let her try; she never can do it, and will soon be glad to give up and let me take my proper place.”

So the meadow was divided: one half turned its back on the new queen; the other half loved, admired, and believed in her; and all waited to see how the experiment would succeed. The wise Asters helped her with advice; the Pitcher-plant refreshed her with the history of the brave Puritans who loved liberty and justice, and suffered to win them; the honest Clovers sweetened life with their sincere friendship, and the cheerful Buttercups brightened her days with kindly words and deeds. But her best help came from the rock and the tree,--for when she needed strength she leaned her delicate head against the rough breast of the rock, and courage seemed to come to her from the wise old stone that had borne the storms of a hundred years; when her heart was heavy with care or wounded by unkindness, she looked up to the beautiful tree, always full of soft music, always pointing heavenward, and was comforted by these glimpses of a world above her.

The first thing she did was to banish the evil snakes from her kingdom; for they lured the innocent birds to death, and filled many a happy nest with grief.

The next task was to stop the red and black ants from constantly fighting; for they were always at war, to the great dismay of more peaceful insects. She bade each tribe keep in its own country, and if any dispute came up, to bring it to her, and she would decide it fairly. This was a hard task; for the ants loved to fight, and would go on struggling after their bodies were separated from their heads, so fierce were they. But she made them friends at last, and every one was glad.

Another reform was to purify the news that came to the meadow. The wind was telegraph-messenger; but the birds were reporters, and some of them very bad ones. The larks brought tidings from the clouds, and were always welcome; the thrushes from the wood, and all loved to hear their pretty romances; the robins had domestic news, and the lively wrens bits of gossip and witty jokes to relate. But the magpies made such mischief with their ill-natured tattle and evil tales, and the crows criticised and condemned every one who did not believe and do just as they did; so the magpies were forbidden to go gossiping about the meadow, and the gloomy black crows were ordered off the fence where they liked to sit cawing dismally for hours at a time.

Every one felt safe and comfortable when this was done, except the Cardinals, who liked to hear their splendid dresses and fine feasts talked about, and the Golden-rods, who were so used to living in public that they missed the excitement, as well as the scandal of the magpies and the political and religious arguments and quarrels of the crows.

A hospital for sick and homeless creatures was opened under the big burdock leaves; and there several belated butterflies were tucked up in their silken hammocks to sleep till spring, a sad lady-bug, who had lost all her children, found comfort in her loneliness, and many crippled ants sat talking over their battles, like old soldiers, in the sunshine.

It took a long time to do all this, and it was a hard task, for the rich and powerful flowers gave no help. But the Asters worked bravely, so did the Clovers and Buttercups and the Pitcher-plant kept open house with the old-fashioned hospitality one so seldom sees nowadays. Everything seemed to prosper, and the meadow grew more beautiful day by day. Safe from their enemies, the snakes, birds came to build in all the trees and bushes, singing their gratitude so sweetly that there was always music in the air. Sunshine and shower seemed to love to freshen the thirsty flowers and keep the grass green, till every plant grew strong and fair, and passers-by stopped to look, saying with a smile:--

“What a pretty little spot this is!”

The wind carried tidings of these things to other colonies, and brought back messages of praise and good-will from other rulers, glad to know the experiment worked so well.

This made a deep impression on the Golden-rods and their friends, for they could not deny that Violet had succeeded better than any one dared to hope; and the proud flowers began to see that they would have to give in, own they were wrong, and become loyal subjects of this wise and gentle queen.

“We shall have to go to Court if ambassadors keep coming with such gifts and honours to Her Majesty; for they wonder not to see us there, and will tell that we are sulking at home instead of shining as _we_ only can,” said the Cardinals, longing to display their red velvet robes at the feasts which Violet was obliged to give in the palace when kings came to visit her.

“Our time will soon be over, and I’m afraid we must humble ourselves or lose all the gaiety of the season. It is hard to see the good old ways changed; but if they must be, we can only gracefully submit,” answered the Gentians, smoothing their delicate blue fringes, eager to be again the belles of the ball.

Clematis astonished every one by suddenly beginning to climb the maple-tree and shake her silvery tassels like a canopy over the Queen’s head.

“I cannot live so near her and not begin to grow. Since I must cling to something, I choose the noblest I can find, and look up, not down, forevermore,” she said; for like many weak and timid creatures, she was easily guided, and it was well for her that Violet’s example had been a brave one.

Prince Golden-rod had found it impossible to turn his back entirely upon Her Majesty, for he was a gentleman with a really noble heart under his yellow cloak; so he was among the first to see, admire, and love the modest, faithful flower who grew so near him. He could not help hearing her words of comfort or reproof to those who came to her for advice. He saw the daily acts of charity which no one else discovered; he knew how many trials came to her, and how bravely she bore them.

“She had done more than ever we did to make the kingdom beautiful and safe and happy, and I’ll be the first to own it, to thank her and offer my allegiance,” he said to himself, and waited for a chance.

One night when the September moon was shining over the meadow, and the air was balmy with the last breath of summer, the Prince ventured to serenade the Queen on his wind-harp. He knew she was awake; for he had peeped through the ferns and seen her looking at the stars with her violet eyes full of dew, as if something troubled her. So he sang his sweetest song, and Her Majesty leaned nearer to hear it; for she much longed to be friends with the gallant Prince, because both were born in the palace and grew up together very happily till coronation time came.

As he ended she sighed, wondering how long it would be before he told her what she knew was in his heart.

Golden-rod heard the soft sigh, and forgetting his pride, he pushed away the screen, and whispered, while his face shone and his voice showed how much he felt.

“What troubles you, sweet neighbour? Forget and forgive my unkindness, and let me help you if I can,--I dare not say as Prince Consort, though I love you dearly; but as a friend and faithful subject, for I confess that you are fitter to rule than I.”

As he spoke the leaves that hid Violet’s golden heart opened wide and let him see how glad she was, as she bent her stately head and answered softly.

“There is room upon the throne for two: share it with me as King, and let us rule together.”

What the Prince answered only the moon knows; but when morning came all the meadow was surprised and rejoiced to see the gold and purple flowers standing side by side, while the maple showered its rosy leaves over them, and the old rock waved his crown of vine-leaves as he said:

“This is as it should be; love and strength going hand in hand, and justice making the earth glad.”

The lands are lit
With all the autumn blaze of golden-rod,
And everywhere the purple asters nod
And bend and wave and flit.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

THE WEEDS

CARL EWALD

It was a beautiful, fruitful season. Rain and sunshine came by turns just as it was best for the corn. As soon as ever the farmer began to think that things were rather dry, you might depend upon it that next day it would rain. And when he thought that he had had rain enough, the clouds broke at once, just as if they were under his command.

So the farmer was in good humour, and he did not grumble as he usually does. He looked pleased and cheerful as he walked over the field with his two boys.

“It will be a splendid harvest this year,” he said. “I shall have my barns full, and shall make a pretty penny. And then Jack and Will shall have some new trousers, and I’ll let them come with me to market.”

“If you don’t cut me soon, farmer, I shall sprawl on the ground,” said the rye, and she bowed her heavy ear quite down towards the earth.

The farmer could not hear her talking, but he could see what was in her mind, and so he went home to fetch his scythe.

“It is a good thing to be in the service of man,” said the rye. “I can be quite sure that all my grain will be cared for. Most of it will go to the mill: not that that proceeding is so very enjoyable, but it will be made into beautiful new bread, and one must put up with something for the sake of honour. The rest the farmer will save, and sow next year in his field.”

At the side of the field, along the hedge, and the bank above the ditch, stood the weeds. There were dense clumps of them--thistle and burdock, poppy and harebell, and dandelion; and all their heads were full of seed. It had been a fruitful year for them also, for the sun shines and the rain falls just as much on the poor weed as on the rich corn.

“No one comes and mows _us_ down and carries us to a barn,” said the dandelion, and he shook his head, but very cautiously, so that the seeds should not fall before their time. “But what will become of all our children?”

“It gives me a headache to think of it,” said the poppy. “Here I stand with hundreds and hundreds of seeds in my head, and I haven’t the faintest idea where I shall drop them.”

“Let us ask the rye to advise us,” answered the burdock.

And so they asked the rye what they should do.

“When one is well off, one had better not meddle with other people’s business,” answered the rye. “I will give you only one piece of advice: take care you don’t throw your stupid seed on to the field, for then you will have to settle accounts with _me_.”

This advice did not help the wild flowers at all, and the whole day they stood pondering what they should do. When the sun set they shut up their petals and went to sleep; but the whole night through they were dreaming about their seed, and next morning they had found a plan.

The poppy was the first to wake. She cautiously opened some little trap-doors at the top of her head, so that the sun could shine right in on the seeds. Then she called to the morning breeze, who was running and playing along the hedge.

“Little breeze,” she said, in friendly tones, “will you do me a service?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the breeze. “I shall be glad to have something to do.”

“It is the merest trifle,” said the poppy. “All I want of you is to give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds may fly out of the trap-doors.”

“All right,” said the breeze.

And the seeds flew out in all directions. The stalk snapped, it is true; but the poppy did not mind about that.

“Good-bye,” said the breeze, and would have run on farther.

“Wait a moment,” said the poppy. “Promise me first that you will not tell the others, else they might get hold of the same idea, and then there would be less room for my seeds.”

“I am mute as the grave,” answered the breeze, running off.

“Ho! ho!” said the harebell. “Haven’t you time to do me a little, tiny service?”

“Well,” said the breeze, “what is it?”

“I merely wanted to ask you to give me a little shake,” said the harebell. “I have opened some trap-doors in my head, and I should like to have my seed sent a good way off into the world. But you mustn’t tell the others, or else they might think of doing the same thing.”

“Oh! of course not,” said the breeze, laughing. “I shall be as dumb as a stone wall.” And then she gave the flower a good shake and went on her way.

“Little breeze, little breeze,” called the dandelion, “whither away so fast?”

“Is there something the matter with you too?” asked the breeze.

“Nothing at all,” answered the dandelion. “Only I should like a few words with you.”

“Be quick then,” said the breeze, “for I am thinking seriously of lying down and having a rest.”

“You cannot help seeing,” said the dandelion, “what trouble we are in this year to get all our seeds put out in the world; for, of course, one wishes to do what one can for one’s children. What is to happen to the harebell and the poppy and the poor burdock I really don’t know. But the thistle and I have put our heads together, and we have hit on a plan. Only we must have you to help us.”

“That makes _four_ of them,” thought the breeze, and she could not help laughing out loud.

“What are you laughing at?” asked the dandelion. “I saw you whispering just now to the harebell and poppy; but if you breathe a word to them, I won’t tell you anything.”

“Why, of course not,” said the breeze. “I am mute as a fish. What is it you want?”

“We have set up a pretty little umbrella on the top of our seeds. It is the sweetest little plaything imaginable. If you will only blow a little on me, the seeds will fly into the air and fall down wherever you please. Will you do so?”

“Certainly,” said the breeze.

And hush! it went over the thistle and the dandelion and carried all the seeds with it into the cornfield.

The burdock still stood and pondered. Its head was rather thick, and that was why it waited so long. But in the evening a hare leapt over the hedge.

“Hide me! Save me!” he cried. “The farmer’s dog Trusty is after me.”

“You can creep behind the hedge,” said the burdock, “then I will hide you.”

“You don’t look able to do that,” said the hare, “but in time of need one must help oneself as one can.” And so he got in safely behind the hedge.

“Now you may repay me by taking some of my seeds with you over into the cornfield,” said the burdock; and it broke off some of its many heads and fixed them on the hare.

A little later Trusty came trotting up to the hedge.

“Here’s the dog,” whispered the burdock, and with one spring the hare leapt over the hedge and into the rye.

“Haven’t you seen the hare, burdock?” asked Trusty. “I see I have grown too old to go hunting. I am quite blind in one eye, and I have completely lost my scent.”

“Yes, I have seen him,” answered the burdock; “and if you will do me a service, I will show you where he is.”

Trusty agreed, and the burdock fastened some heads on his back, and said to him:

“If you will only rub yourself against the stile there in the cornfield, my seeds will fall off. But you must not look for the hare there, for a little while ago I saw him run into the wood.” Trusty dropped the burrs on the field and trotted to the wood.

“Well, I’ve sent my seeds out in the world all right,” said the burdock, laughing as if much pleased with itself; “but it is impossible to say what will become of the thistle and the dandelion and the harebell and the poppy.”

Spring had come round once more, and the rye stood high already.

“We are pretty well off on the whole,” said the rye plants. “Here we stand in a great company, and not one of us but belongs to our own noble family. And we don’t get in each other’s way in the very least. It is a grand thing to be in the service of man.”

But one fine day a crowd of little poppies, and thistles and dandelions, and burdocks and harebells poked up their heads above ground, all amongst the flourishing rye.

“What does _this_ mean?” asked the rye. “Where in the world are _you_ sprung from?”

And the poppy looked at the harebell and asked: “Where did _you_ come from?”

And the thistle looked at the burdock and asked: “Where in the world have _you_ come from?”

They were all equally astonished, and it was an hour before they had explained. But the rye was the angriest, and when she had heard all about Trusty and the hare and the breeze she grew quite wild.

“Don’t be in such a passion, you green rye,” said the breeze, who had been lying behind the hedge and hearing everything. “I ask no one’s permission, but do as I like; and now I’m going to make you bow to me.”

Then she passed over the young rye, and the thin blades swayed backwards and forwards.

“You see,” she said, “the farmer attends to his rye, because that is _his_ business. But the rain and the sun and I--we attend to all of you without respect of persons. To our eyes the poor weed is just as pretty as the rich corn.”

(Abridged.)

AUTUMN FIRES

In the other gardens
And all up the vale
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers;
The red fire blazes,
The gray smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer!
Fires in the fall!
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

AMONG THE TREES

TO AN AUTUMN LEAF

Wee shallop of shimmering gold!
Slip down from your ways in the branches
Some fairy will loosen your hold----
Wee shallop of shimmering gold.
Spill dew on your bows and unfold
Silk sails for the fairest of launches!
Wee shallop of shimmering gold;
Slip down from your ways in the branches.

WHY THE AUTUMN LEAVES ARE RED

EMELYN NEWCOMB PARTRIDGE

Long, long ago no one but animals lived upon the earth and sometimes they would hold great Councils. The Bear would be there,--the Bear, with his sharp claws, and his shiny coat, and his big, big growl; and the Deer, who was so proud of his antlers, for they came out of his head like trees; and all the animals, and all the birds would be present at the great Council. Little Turtle would go there, too. She was so small that she did not like to speak to anyone. But, she often wished:

“Oh, if _only_ I could do some good deed! What _could_ such a little creature as I do? Anyway,” she thought, “I’ll be on the watch,--and it may be that some time there will be a chance for me to do _something_ for my people.”

Little Turtle never forgot about that good deed she had planned to perform. One day the opportunity came to her. She was at the Council, and the animals were saying:

“It is so dark here, we have only the Snowlight to see by. It is gloomy, too. Couldn’t we make a light and place it up in Skyland?” they asked.

Little Turtle said: “Please let me go up to Skyland? I am sure that I can make a light shine up there.”

They said that she might go, and they called Dark Cloud to carry Little Turtle there. Dark Cloud came.

Little Turtle saw that Thunder and Lightning were in Dark Cloud; and when she reached Skyland, she made the Sun from Lightning, and placed him in the Sky.

The Sun could not move, because he had no life, and all the world underneath was too hot to live upon.

“What shall we do?” the animals asked one another. Someone said:

“We must give the Sun life and spirit, and then he will move about in the sky.”

So they gave him life and spirit, and he moved about in the sky. Mud Turtle dug a hole through the earth for the Sun to travel through. Little Turtle made a wife for him out of some of the Lightning from Dark Cloud. She was the Moon. Their little children were the stars that played all over Skyland.

All this time, Little Turtle was taking care of Skyland. The animals below called her, She Who Takes Care of Skyland. And she was very happy, because she was doing her _good deed_.

Some of the animals became jealous of Little Turtle,--especially the Deer, who was so proud of his antlers. One day, Deer said to Rainbow:

“Rainbow, please take me up to Skyland where Little Turtle lives.”

Rainbow did not know whether it would be quite right to take Deer up to Little Turtle’s house, but he said:

“In the winter, when I rest upon the big mountain by the lake, then I will take you.”

This made the Deer glad. He did not tell anyone about the promise of Rainbow. All winter long, he waited and watched near the big mountain for Rainbow to come; but Rainbow did not come to him. In the spring, one day, Deer saw Rainbow beside the lake.

“Rainbow,” he asked, “why did you not keep your promise to me?” Rainbow made him another promise.

“Come to me by the lake, when you see me in the thick fog,” he said.

The Deer kept this promise a secret, too; because he hoped to go to Skyland alone. Day after day, he waited beside the lake. One day, when the thick fog was rising from the lake,--Deer saw the beautiful Rainbow.

Rainbow made an arch from the lake to the big mountain. Then a shining light fell about the Deer, and he saw a straight path shining with all the colours of the Rainbow. It led through a great forest.

“Follow the beautiful path through the great forest,” Rainbow said.

The Deer entered the shining pathway, and it led him straight to the house of Little Turtle in Skyland. And the Deer went about Skyland everywhere.

When the great Council met, Deer was not there. “The Deer is not come to the Council, where is the Deer?” they asked.

Hawk flew about the air everywhere, and could not find Deer in the air. Wolf searched the deep woods, and could not find Deer in the forests.

When Dark Cloud brought Little Turtle to the Council, Little Turtle told them how Rainbow had made a path for Deer to climb to Skyland. “There it is now,” said Little Turtle.

The animals looked over the lake, and they saw, there, the beautiful pathway. They had never seen it before.

“Why did not Deer wait for us? All of us should have gone to Skyland together,” they said.

Now, Brown Bear determined to follow that pathway the very next time he should see it.

_One day_ when he was all alone, near the lake, he saw the shining path that led through the great forest. Soon he found himself in Skyland. The first person he met was the Deer.

“Why did you leave us? Why did you go to the land of Little Turtle without us? Why did you not wait for us?” he asked the Deer.

The Deer shook his antlers angrily. “What right have _you_ to question me? No one but the Wolf may question why I came. I will kill you for your impertinence.”

The Deer arched his neck; he poised his antlered head; his eyes blazed with fury.

The Bear was not afraid. He stood up; his claws were sharp and strong; his hoarse growls sounded all over Skyland.

The battle of the Deer and the Bear shook Skyland. The animals looked up from the earth.

“Who will go? Who will go to Skyland and forbid the Deer to fight?”

“I will go,” said the Wolf. “I can run faster than anyone.” So Wolf ran along the shining pathway, and in a little while he had reached the place of the battle. Wolf made Deer stop fighting. Deer’s antlers were covered with blood, and when he shook them, great drops fell down, down through the air, and splashed against all the leaves of the forest. And the leaves became a beautiful red.

So, in the autumn, when you see the leaves turning red, you may know that it is because in the long ago, the Deer and the Bear fought a great battle in Skyland, in the land of Little Turtle who was doing her good deed.

THE ANXIOUS LEAF

HENRY WARD BEECHER

Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said, “What is the matter, little leaf?” And the leaf said, “The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to lie on the ground!” The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf, “Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to.” And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long until October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with both colours. Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said, “All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colours because of joy.” Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in colour, it saw that the branches of the tree had no colour in them, and so the leaf said, “O branches, why are you lead colour and we golden?” “We must keep on our workclothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over.” Just then a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air, and then it fell gently down under the fence among hundreds of other leaves, and began to dream--a dream so beautiful that perhaps it will last forever.

HOW THE CHESTNUT BURRS BECAME

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

In the woods of Poconic there once roamed a very discontented Porcupine. He was forever fretting. He complained that everything was wrong, till it was perfectly scandalous and the Great Spirit, getting tired of his grumbling, said:

“You and the world I have made don’t seem to fit. One or the other must be wrong. It is easier to change you. You don’t like the trees, you are unhappy on the ground, and think everything is upside down, so I’ll turn you inside out and put you in the water.”

This was the origin of the Shad.

After Manitou had turned the old Porcupine into a Shad the young ones missed their mother and crawled up into a high tree to look for her coming. Manitou happened to pass that way and they all chattered their teeth at him, thinking themselves safe. They were not wicked, only ill-trained, some of them, indeed, were at heart quite good, but, oh, so ill-trained, and they chattered and groaned as Manitou came nearer. Remembering then that he had taken their mother from them, he said, “You look very well up there, you little Porkys, so you had better stay there for always, and be part of the tree.”

This was the origin of the chestnut burrs. They hang like a lot of little porcupines on the tree-crotches. They are spiny, and dangerous, utterly without manners and yet most of them have a good little heart inside.

THE MERRY WIND

The merry wind came racing
Adown the hills one day,
In gleeful frolic chasing
The rustling leaves away.
In clouds of red and yellow,
He whirled the leaves along,
And then the jolly fellow
He sang a cheery song.

The merry wind was weary
At last of fun and play;
His voice grew faint and eerie,
And softly died away.
Far off a crow was calling
And in the mellow sun
The painted leaves kept falling
And fading, one by one.
MARY MAPES DODGE.

AUTUMN AMONG THE BIRDS

[Enter a little Snipe, crying]:

Peet-weet! Peet-weet!
I’ve such cold feet,
And nothing to eat!
The creek is so high
That I can’t keep dry
Except when I fly!
Peet-weet!

[A Kildeer]:

Kildee! Kildee! Kildee!
This is no place for me!
The southland I must seek----
Kildee!

[A Bobolink]:

Link-a-link! Link-a-link!
My diet has made me weak;
The fields of rice must be so nice.

[To the Kildeer]:

I’ll go with you, I think----
Link-a-link!

[A Red-Shouldered Blackbird]:

Bobaree! Bobaree!
A frost you’ll see----
You’ll see to your sorrow,
If you wait until to-morrow----
Bobaree!

[A Chipping-Bird]:

Chip-chip! Chip-chip! Chip-chip!
I’ll give November the slip!

[A House-Wren]:

Sh! Sh! Sh!
Every one loves the Wren!
Wait, and just once again
I’ll go, and, as still as a mouse,
Peep into the little house
They built for my use alone,
With a door and a porch like their own!
--Sh!

[A Maryland Yellow-Throat Interrupting]:

Witches here! Witches here!
And no wonder--so late in the year!

[A Flock of Wild Geese Flying Over]:

On! On! On!
Why should we longer stay?
On! Ere the peep of day
We should be leagues away,
Quite out of sight of land!
Our old gray Commodore
Will guide our gallant band
With the daintiest food in store!
To a pleasant southern shore,
On! On! On!

[A Flock of Swallows Rising]:

Zip! Zip! You may count on the Swallow!
We hear, and anear we will be;
The rest, if they like, may follow
O’er land and o’er sea.

[A Bluebird to Her Mate]:

Weary! Oh, weary! Oh, weary!
It’s a long, long, long way, dearie!

[A Robin]:

Quip! Quip! Cheer up! Cheer up!
But I think we ought first to sup;
With such a long journey ahead,
Pilgrims should be well fed----
Quip! Quip!

[A Highlander Shouts from the Top of a Dead Tree]:

A-wick-wick! wick-wick! wick-wick! wick! Yare-op!
If all this senseless chatter you would stop,
And listen, an announcement I would make:
Old Father Crane will soon be here to take
All you small folks upon his back--Wick-wick!

Chorus of Small Birds
[Chippy, Wren, Yellow-bird, Pewee, Kinglet, etc.]:

Peet-weet! Zit! Zit! Cheeree! Ittee! Be Quick!
EDITH M. THOMAS.

THE KIND OLD OAK

It was almost time for winter to come. The little birds had all gone far away, for they were afraid of the cold. There was no green grass in the fields, and there were no pretty flowers in the gardens. Many of the trees had dropped all their leaves. Cold winter, with its snow and ice, was coming.

At the foot of an old oak tree, some sweet little violets were still in blossom. “Dear old oak,” said they, “winter is coming: we are afraid that we shall die of the cold.”

“Do not be afraid, little ones,” said the oak, “close your yellow eyes in sleep, and trust to me. You have made me glad many a time with your sweetness. Now I will take care that the winter shall do you no harm.”