<h3><SPAN name="MR_MAPLE_AND_MR_PINE">MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Warren Judson Brier</span></p>
<p>Once upon a time, many years ago, a little
maple seed, with its two gauzy wings, became
lodged among the feathers of a wood pigeon,
and was by that swift flying bird carried far
away into the pine forest. It fell to the
ground, and the rains soon beat it into the
earth. It was not sorry to get out of sight,
for the Pine Family, into whose domain it
had been carried, seemed displeased to see it
among them. Anyway, they all looked black
and threatening to the little seed.</p>
<p>Years afterward there stood upon the spot
where the seed had fallen, a hardy tree which
we can make no mistake in calling Mr. Rock
Maple. In all that part of the forest Mr.
Maple had no relatives. As he grew stronger
and stronger, the dislike of the Pines, particularly
of the Pine boys, grew likewise stronger.
As he pushed his limbs farther in every
direction, the Pine boys seemed to look more<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_276"></SPAN>[276]</span>
darkly upon him. They begrudged him the
very ground he stood on. The younger Pine
boys spread out their arms to try to prevent
Rock Maple from getting the light and moisture
which he so much needed in that sandy
soil. At times they showered great quantities
of needles upon him, and at certain seasons
of the year they pelted him unmercifully
with their cones, sharp rough weapons that
played havoc with Mr. Maple’s garments of
green, yellow and red.</p>
<p>Old Mr. Pine, who waved his green head
in the air nearly a hundred and fifty feet above
the earth, did not seem to have very good control
over his boys, for though he himself did
not often deign to pelt Mr. Maple with the
few cones he possessed, he never rebuked the
boys for their impoliteness.</p>
<p>One day the Pine boys were unusually
rough, made so by the strong wind. They
knew Mr. Maple was not to blame, but there
was no one else to lay the blame on, so they
pelted him with cones until he lost his temper.
He was just wondering what he would do to
prevent the annoyance, when, looking down,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_277"></SPAN>[277]</span>
he saw that some little creatures had appeared
upon the scene, and were striking right and
left at the Pines with a sharp tool, against
which needles and cones were of no use whatever.</p>
<p>“How good of those little things to take
my part,” said Mr. Maple to himself.</p>
<p>In a very short time hundreds of the Pines
were lying prone upon the earth. Some were
formed into a house, while others were drawn
away to a small stream, rolled into its sluggish
waters, and soon disappeared forever from the
gaze of Mr. Pine, who grieved for them, and
of Mr. Maple, who did not.</p>
<p>“Nobody here now of any consequence,”
exclaimed Mr. Pine with a contemptuous look
at Mr. Maple. Mr. Maple paid no attention.
“If you were not such a dwarf, I’d talk to
you sometimes, even if you <i>don’t</i> amount to
much,” he finally said with an air of great
condescension. “It makes me hoarse to talk
down so far.”</p>
<p>For a long time after that Mr. Maple kept
silent, wondering why Mr. Pine and himself
had been spared.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_278"></SPAN>[278]</span></p>
<p>But great surprises were in store for these
two enemies. A family came to live in the
log house, and among them was the smallest
human being that the trees had ever seen,—a
little girl named Camilla. She soon got into
the habit of coming out and playing under the
two large trees.</p>
<p>One day her father brought home a small
box, at sight of which she went into a transport
of joy, screaming, “My kit, my darling kit!
I never thought to see you again!” The box
was soon opened, and she lifted a queer-shaped
little instrument from it; then, taking it by its
long neck, she drew a small wand across it,
and it gave forth a sound that thrilled every
fibre of both Pine and Maple through and
through.</p>
<p>It is too long a story to tell how both trees
came to love Camilla very dearly; how delighted
Mr. Pine was when she took some
resin which he held out to her; how pleased
Camilla looked, how white were her teeth,
and how she loved him for the gift; how Mr.
Maple had his reward when the passing frost
touched him and gave him a beautiful garment,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_279"></SPAN>[279]</span>
much to the delight of Little Camilla,
or how when the long winter was nearly done
the little violinist fairly hugged him for the
sugar he had yielded her.</p>
<p>A fatal day came at last. Men appeared
with sharp axes and heavy wagons and attacked
Mr. Maple. They had not cut into
him very deeply before one of them exclaimed
to the others, “Curly Maple, as I live!”</p>
<p>Mr. Pine laughed, but before night he had
met the same fate. The man who felled him
remarked to the others, “Well on to ten thousand
feet in that old fellow!”</p>
<p>Camilla looked on while the trees were
loaded and drawn away, tears filling her blue
eyes. “Good-bye, old friends,” she exclaimed.</p>
<p>Away to a noisy place they went. Soon
they were cut up into small strips by a monster
with very sharp teeth. These strips were carried
in different directions, some of the best
pieces being loaded upon cars and hurried
away to a distant city. From this place they
took a long journey in the deep, dark hold of
a great ship; again upon the cars, until at
last they rested in a dry house.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_280"></SPAN>[280]</span></p>
<p>One day one of the Maple boards and one
of the Pine boards were taken out, carefully
inspected and then made smooth and even on
the outside. Then a skilful workman cut
them up into small pieces, and made them into
curious shapes. He took great pains not to
leave the scratch of knife or chisel upon any
of the pieces. He finally glued them all together,
and behold, they were of the same
shape as Camilla’s kit, but somewhat larger.</p>
<p>The workman explained to an observer, “I
use pine for the front, or sounding-board, as
it is light and vibrant. The more porous it
is the better. Maple is the best wood I can
get for the other parts, because it is so dense,
vibrates slowly, and holds the vibrations made
by the pine for a long time, thus prolonging
the sound.”</p>
<p>After the slow process of finishing and varnishing
was completed the violin was placed
in a dark box, and there it lay for a long time.</p>
<p>Pine and Maple said little to each other.
They were not very comfortable nor very
happy. The strings that had been stretched
over them were very cruel and pressed upon<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_281"></SPAN>[281]</span>
the Pine, which pressed upon the soundpost,
and that pressed upon the Maple. Sometimes
a string broke, and gave them temporary relief,
but soon some one would come and put
on another.</p>
<p>After passing through two or three small
stores the violin finally came to rest in a large
one, in a city distant from the one in which
it had been made, and all was quiet for a
long time. Still Pine and Maple said but
little to each other. Shut up in their dark
box they didn’t feel very cheerful.</p>
<p>“A living death, this!” grumbled Pine.</p>
<p>“We must make the best of it,” replied
Maple.</p>
<p>One evening a stranger came into the store
and asked, “Have you a first-class violin in
stock?”</p>
<p>“Yes, just one. I got it several months ago
by the merest chance. We don’t keep such
instruments usually,” said the dealer, taking
out the violin. “It is wonderful for an instrument
not ten years old.”</p>
<p>“I want one for the evening, only,” said the
stranger. “Madame Camilla is here in the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_282"></SPAN>[282]</span>
city, and to-night plays for the Orphans’
Home. One of her violins is under treatment,
and her Cremona has been broken.”</p>
<p>“Madame Camilla!” exclaimed Pine, with
a quiver of delight.</p>
<p>“Can it be our little Camilla?” asked Maple
in a trembling voice.</p>
<p>In a few minutes the violin was taken from
its case by Camilla’s own hand. She ran her
fingers gently over the strings, looked at the
varnish, tightened the bow and rosined it
carefully and finally placed the violin against
her shoulder, and drew the bow smoothly
across the strings.</p>
<p>She played an air in which the coming of
a storm was represented, and Pine and Maple
heard once more the sighing of the wind as
it once had swept through their branches.</p>
<p>“That’s the sound of the wind in the pine
and maple that stood near my log cabin home
when I was a little girl,” said the musician to
the people standing near.</p>
<p>Then for the first time both Pine and Maple
felt certain that this was really their Camilla.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_283"></SPAN>[283]</span></p>
<p>The curtain rose, the manager stepped to
the front and in a few words explained the
accident, and stated that a new and untried
violin must be used.</p>
<p>“Let us lay aside all discord, and act in
perfect harmony to-night,” said the forgiving
Maple.</p>
<p>“I’ll do it,” answered Pine, more cheerfully
than he had ever spoken before.</p>
<p>Pine and Maple beat and throbbed under
the wonderful strokes and long-drawn sweeps
of the bow. When the piece was finished a
storm of applause burst upon them like a
tempest. Again the curtain went up and the
violin found itself in the glare of the footlights
once more. This time the performer
touched the strings gently, and played a tune
that many people who had come to the store
had tried to play, the words to the first line
being, “Way down upon de Suwanee Ribber.”</p>
<p>When it was finished the people were silent,
and tears glistened in many eyes.</p>
<p>“Maple, forgive me,” said the now humble
Pine. “I’ve learned a great lesson, though a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_284"></SPAN>[284]</span>
very simple one. The best results in life
are accomplished through harmony and not
through discord.”</p>
<p>“We’ll live in harmony hereafter,” said
Maple.</p>
<p>The great soul of the artist had breathed
into the instrument and made it glorious.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_285"></SPAN>[285]</span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_286"></SPAN>[286]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="A_GARDEN_OF_EASTER_STORIES">A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES</SPAN></h3>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="poetry-container" id="OLD_ENGLISH_VERSE">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">My garden is a lovesome thing.</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Rose plot,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Fringed grot:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The veriest school of Peace.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And yet the fool contends</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That God is not in gardens.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Not in gardens—when the eve is cool?</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nay, but I have a sign:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">’Tis very sure God walks in mine.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse right"><i>Old English Verse.</i></div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_287"></SPAN>[287]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="THE_EASTER_RABBIT">THE EASTER RABBIT</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">German Legend</span></p>
<p>Shrill and sharp North Wind whistled
through the forest where the trees and flowers
were patiently awaiting the arrival of My
Lady Spring. Jack Frost was delighted.
Perched on the topmost branches of the great
trees he laughed gleefully. “Ha! ha! ha!
surely Old Father Winter has forgotten that
April is almost here,” said he. “I shall not
remind him, not I. They say My Lady
Spring who is waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow
is growing most impatient!”</p>
<p>“And so am I,” whispered Mother Maple
to her neighbour Dame Oak. “I’ve told my
babies many pleasant stories about My Lady
Spring and her companion Merry Sunshine.
I’m afraid I shall be unable to keep them in
their dark cradles much longer.”</p>
<p>“Oh! do hold them back a few days,” said
Dame Oak. “You remember what trouble
that rude rollicking fellow Jack-Frost made<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_288"></SPAN>[288]</span>
last year. So long as he is here he insists on
playing with all the babies of the forest. I
do wish Lady Spring would come and tell
him to be off.”</p>
<p>“He’ll never go so long as his bold brother
North Wind remains,” sighed Silver Beech.</p>
<p>“Never mind,” said Dame Oak. “I feel
sure we shall not have to wait much longer.
Indeed I saw Merry Sunshine dancing near
the edge of the forest yesterday. I feel quite
hopeful.”</p>
<p>“Oh, how happy I shall be to hear Thrush’s
song again,” said Silver Beech.</p>
<p>“And the happy children’s voices! They
haven’t been to the forest since nutting season,”
said Dame Oak. “I’m sure they are longing
to come again.”</p>
<p>For some time Lady Spring had been waiting
in Wild-Flower Hollow near the edge of
the forest. Only a few days ago the children
had come there to gather flowers.</p>
<p>“Not a bird or blossom anywhere. See
how brown and bare that bank is!” said one.</p>
<p>“And Easter is almost here. I wonder why
Lady Spring is so late!” said another.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_289"></SPAN>[289]</span></p>
<p>“Maybe she has forgotten us,” said a tiny
companion.</p>
<p>“I am very disappointed. Last year at this
time that bank was blue with violets. Come,
let us go home!” And away ran the children.</p>
<p>“I shall wait no longer,” said Lady Spring.
“Come, Merry Sunshine.”</p>
<p>Away danced Merry Sunshine and Lady
Spring followed in trailing robes of green and
white.</p>
<p>Waving her silver wand over the bank of
Wild-Flower Hollow she whispered, “Ready,
Violets; come, Starry Bluet; my sweet Anemone,
you need wait no longer. Ah, brave
Arbutus, I see you were expecting me. Did
you think I was never coming, my dainty
Spring Beauty?”</p>
<p>How graceful Lady Spring looked waving
her magic wand here and there through the
forest. Wherever she stooped and touched
the brown earth the fresh grass leaped forth;
when she tapped the great tree trunks the bare
branches above instantly veiled themselves in
tender green. She waved at the brooklet and
away it ran over the moss and pebbles.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_290"></SPAN>[290]</span></p>
<p>“Sing, Merry Sunshine, dance and sing!”
Lady Spring called to her companion.</p>
<p>Merry Sunshine trilled the gayest song. It
rang sweetly through forest and echoed far
away over the hills to the South where the
birds were waiting patiently for the call.
How gladly they came! Bluebird and Bobolink,
Cardinal and Chickadee, Blackbird and
Thrush and Wren,—all the forest warblers answered
Merry Sunshine’s Song of Spring.</p>
<p>“At last my work is done!” said Lady Spring
joyously.</p>
<p>“When are the children coming?” asked
Dame Oak.</p>
<p>“Oh, to be sure! I must not forget to send
them word that I am here. Robin Redbreast,
will you take a message of Spring to the children?
I’m sure they will want to see the
lovely blossoms and hear the sweet birds’
songs.”</p>
<p>“Lady Spring,” said Robin, “I’m afraid I
cannot go to-day. You see my mate and I are
building a soft warm nest in Oak-Tree. We
are very late this year.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_291"></SPAN>[291]</span></p>
<p>“To be sure, Robin. I wonder where I can
find a messenger.”</p>
<p>“I think Red Fox would go for you,” answered
Robin Redbreast. “See, here he
comes now.”</p>
<p>“Will you take word to the children that
I have come, Reynard?” asked Lady Spring.</p>
<p>“Oh, I should be glad to go, but the people
might think I came to steal their chickens. I
believe Black Bear would be a better messenger
than any of us. I’ll run and ask him
to go.”</p>
<p>But Reynard brought back the answer that
Black Bear was afraid he would frighten the
children too much.</p>
<p>“What shall I do for a messenger,” sighed
Lady Spring.</p>
<p>Robin cocked his head on one side and
looked very thoughtful. Then he said, “I
have it, I believe Bunny Rabbit would go; I
saw him hop past but a moment ago. I’ll call
him.”</p>
<p>At Robin’s whistle Bunny came leaping out
of the bushes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_292"></SPAN>[292]</span></p>
<p>“Bunny Rabbit, I want you to take a message
to the children in the city. Please go
and tell them Spring has come.”</p>
<p>“A message to the city, Lady Spring!”
exclaimed Bunny, raising his ears upright.
“Please ask me to do anything but that! Dear
me! The dogs might catch me! They bark
so fiercely! And naughty boys might chase
me! I’m sure I should never come back!”
Bunny dropped his voice and looked quickly
about in all directions. Lady Spring was
puzzled.</p>
<p>“Bunny,” said Robin, “couldn’t you go at
night? You know the dogs and boys go to
sleep then and you can hop so softly that I’m
sure they would not hear you. Besides, your
ears are very sharp.”</p>
<p>“Well, perhaps I could go at midnight,”
said Bunny, thoughtfully. “But how could I
take a message to the children without wakening
them?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I can manage that,” said Lady Spring.
“Meet me in Wild-Flower Hollow a little before
twelve o’clock. Then you shall know all
about my plan.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_293"></SPAN>[293]</span></p>
<p>“I will come,” said Bunny.</p>
<p>Lady Spring made a beautiful basket out of
twigs and leaves and grasses. She lined it
with the softest moss. Around the top she
placed a garland of choicest wild flowers.
And, when the birds knew that she was sending
a message to the children, each one wished
to help her. So they sent lovely little eggs
of all colours—greenish blue, brown, white
and spotted. How beautiful they looked lying
on the bed of moss wreathed with flowers.</p>
<p>A little before midnight Bunny came to
Wild-Flower Hollow.</p>
<p>“I am ready,” said Lady Spring. “See,
Bunny, here is plenty of moss. Do be careful
with these precious eggs. When you come
to a house where a little child lives take out
a bit of moss and form it into a wee nest like
this,” said Lady Spring, weaving quickly a
moss nest. “Then put into each one a wild
flower and an egg,—so. Leave an egg for
each child in the house.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, I understand, Lady Spring,” said
Bunny. “How pretty the nest is!”</p>
<p>Off he started as gaily as could be.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_294"></SPAN>[294]</span></p>
<p>On Easter morning Merry Sunshine wakened
the children early.</p>
<p>“See! see! I found this little moss nest on
the door-step,” cried one of them. “There is
a wild-flower and three coloured eggs in it.
How beautiful!”</p>
<p>“An egg for each of us!” said another. “I
wonder what it means.”</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” said little brother.
“There are Bunny tracks on the path. He
must have brought the nest to us. Perhaps
he came to tell us Spring is here.”</p>
<p>“Of course he did!” cried the children, clapping
their tiny hands in glee. “Bunny was
Spring’s messenger.”</p>
<p>Away to the woods ran the children, crying
out, “Spring is here, Spring is here.
Bunny Rabbit brought us the message.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_295"></SPAN>[295]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="THE_BOY_WHO_DISCOVERED_THE_SPRING">THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE SPRING</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Raymond MacDonald Alden</span></p>
<p>There came once a little Elf Boy to live on
this earth, and he was so much pleased with
it that he stayed, never caring to go back to
his own world. I do not know where his own
world was, or just how he came to leave it.
Some thought that he was dropped by accident
from some falling star, and some that
he had flown away, thinking that he could
fly back again whenever he chose, because he
did not know that children always lose their
wings when they come into this world. But
no one knew certainly, as he never told any
one; and, after all, it did not matter, since,
as I have already said, he liked the earth so
much that he did not care to leave it.</p>
<p>There was a Hermit who lived in the valley
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_296"></SPAN>[296]</span>where the little Boy had first come, and, as he
had a room in his house for a visitor, he took
him in, and they grew to like each other so
well that again the little Boy did not care to
go away, nor did the Hermit care to have him.
The Hermit had not always been a Hermit,
but he had become a sorrowful man, and did
not care to live where other people lived, or to
share any of their pleasures. The reason he
had become a sorrowful man was that his only
child had died, and it seemed to him that there
was nothing worth living for after that. So
he moved to the lonely valley, and I suppose
would have spent the rest of his life by himself,
if it had not been for the little Elf Boy.</p>
<p>It was a very lovely valley, with great, green
meadows that sloped down to a rippling brook,
and in summer-time were full of red and white
and yellow blossoms. Over the brook there
hung green trees, whose roots made pleasant
places to rest when one was tired; and along
the water’s edge there grew blue flowers,
while many little frogs and other live creatures
played there. It was summer-time when the
little Elf Boy came, and the flowers and the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_297"></SPAN>[297]</span>
trees and the brook and the frogs made him
very happy. I think that in the world from
which he came they did not have such things:
it was made chiefly of gold and silver and
precious stones, instead of things that grow and
blossom and keep one company. So the Elf
Boy was very happy. He did not ask to go to
play in the village over the hill, but was quite
content with the meadows and the brook-side.
The only thing that did not please him was
that the old Hermit still remained sorrowful,
thinking always of his child who had died
and this the Elf Boy did not understand, for
in the world from which he came nothing ever
died, and he thought it strange that if the
Hermit’s child had died he did not patiently
wait for him to come back again.</p>
<p>So the summer went merrily on, and the
Elf Boy learned to know the names of all the
flowers in the meadow, and to love them
dearly. He also became so well acquainted
with the birds that they would come to him
for crumbs, and sit on the branches close by
to sing to him; the frogs would do the same
thing, and although the Elf Boy did not think<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_298"></SPAN>[298]</span>
their voices as sweet as those of the birds, he
was too polite to let them know it.</p>
<p>But when September came, there began to
be a sad change. The first thing the Elf Boy
noticed was that the birds began to disappear
from the meadows. When he complained of
this, the Hermit told him they had gone to
make their visit to the Southland, and would
come back again; and this he easily believed.
But as time went on, and the air became more
and more still as the last of them took their
flight, he began to lose heart.</p>
<p>What was worse, at the same time the flowers
began to disappear from the meadows.
They were dead, the Hermit said, and in this
way the Elf Boy learned what that meant. At
first others came to take their places, and he
tried to learn to like the flowers of autumn as
well as those which he had known first. But
as these faded and dropped off, none came
after them. The mornings grew colder, and
the leaves on the trees were changing in a
strange way. When they grew red and yellow,
instead of green, the Elf Boy thought it
was a queer thing for them to put on different<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_299"></SPAN>[299]</span>
colours, and wondered how long it would last.
But when they began to fall, he was very sad
indeed. At last there came a day when every
limb was bare, except for a few dried leaves
at the top of one of the tallest trees. The Elf
Boy was almost broken-hearted.</p>
<p>One morning he went out early to see what
new and dreadful thing had happened in the
night, for it seemed now that every night took
something beautiful out of the world. He
made his way toward the brook, but when he
reached the place where he usually heard it
calling to him as it ran merrily over the stones,
he could not hear a sound. He stopped and
listened, but everything was wonderfully still.
Then he ran as fast as his feet would carry him
to the border of the brook. Sure enough, it
had stopped running. It was covered with a
hard sheet of ice.</p>
<p>The Elf Boy turned and went to the Hermit’s
house. By the time he had reached it,
the tears were running down his cheeks.</p>
<p>“Why, what is the matter?” asked the Hermit.</p>
<p>“The brook is dead,” said the Elf Boy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_300"></SPAN>[300]</span></p>
<p>“I think not,” said the Hermit. “It is
frozen over, but that will not hurt it. Be
patient, and it will sing to you again.”</p>
<p>“No,” said the Elf Boy. “You told me that
the birds would come back, and they have not
come. You told me that the trees were not
dead, but their leaves have every one gone,
and I am sure they are. You told me that the
flowers had seeds that did not die, but would
make other flowers but I can not find them,
and the meadow is bare and dark. Even the
grass is not green any more. It is a dead
world. In the summer-time I did not see how
you could be sorrowful; but now I do not see
how any one can be happy.”</p>
<p>The Hermit thought it would be of no use
to try to explain anything more to the Elf
Boy, so he said again, “Be patient,” and tried
to find some books in which he could teach the
Boy to read, and make him forget the outside
world.</p>
<p>The next time they went for a walk to the
village over the hill, the Elf Boy was very
curious to see whether the same thing had
happened there that had happened in their<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_301"></SPAN>[301]</span>
valley. Of course it had: the trees there
seemed dead, too, and the flowers were all
gone from the door-yards. The Boy expected
that every one in the village would now be as
sorrowful as the Hermit, and he was very
much surprised when he saw them looking
as cheerful as ever. There were some boys
playing on the street-corner, who seemed to
be as happy as boys could be. One of them
spoke to the Elf Boy, and he answered:</p>
<p>“How can you play so happily, when such
a dreadful thing has happened to the world?”</p>
<p>“Why, what has happened?”</p>
<p>“The flowers and trees are dead,” said the
Elf Boy, “the birds are gone, and the brook
is frozen, and the meadow is bare and grey.
And it is so on this side of the hill also.”</p>
<p>Then the boys in the street laughed merrily,
and did not answer the Elf Boy, for they remembered
that he was a stranger in the world,
and supposed he would not understand if they
should try to talk to him. And he went on
through the village, not daring to speak to any
others, but all the time wondering that the
people could still be so happy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_302"></SPAN>[302]</span></p>
<p>As the winter came on, the Hermit taught
him many things from the books in his house,
and the Elf Boy grew interested in them and
was not always sad. When the snow came he
found ways to play in it, and even saw that
the meadow was beautiful again, though in a
different way from what it had been in summer.
Yet still he could not think the world
by any means so pleasant a place as it had been
in the time of flowers and birds; and if it were
not that he had become very fond of the Hermit,
who was now the only friend he could
remember, he would have wished to go back
to the world from which he had come. It
seemed to him now that the Hermit must miss
him very much if he should go away, since
they two were the only people who seemed
really to understand how sorrowful a place the
earth is.</p>
<p>So the weeks went by. One day in March,
as he and the Hermit sat at their books, drops
of water began to fall from the eaves of the
roof, and they saw that the snow was melting
in the sunshine.</p>
<p>“Do you want to take a little walk down toward<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_303"></SPAN>[303]</span>
the brook?” asked the Hermit. “I
should not wonder if I could prove to you
to-day that it has not forgotten how to talk to
you.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the Elf Boy, though he did not
think the Hermit could be right. It was
months since he had cared to visit the brook,
it made him so sad to find it still and cold.</p>
<p>When they reached the foot of the hillside
the sheet of ice was still there, as he had expected.</p>
<p>“Never mind,” said the Hermit. “Come
out on the ice with me, and put down your ear
and listen.”</p>
<p>So the Elf Boy put down his ear and
listened; and he heard, as plainly as though
there were no ice between, the voice of the
brook gurgling in the bottom of its bed. He
clapped his hands for joy.</p>
<p>“It is waking up, you see,” said the Hermit.
“Other things will waken too, if you will be
patient.”</p>
<p>The Elf Boy did not know quite what to
think, but he waited day after day with his
eyes and ears wide open to see if anything else<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_304"></SPAN>[304]</span>
might happen; and wonderful things did happen
all the time. The brook sang more and
more distinctly, and at last broke through its
cold coverlet and went dancing along in full
sight. One morning, while the snow was still
around the house, the Elf Boy heard a chirping
sound, and looking from his window, saw
a red robin outside asking for his breakfast.</p>
<p>“Why,” cried the Boy, “have you really
come back agin?”</p>
<p>“Certainly,” said the robin, “don’t you know
it is almost spring?”</p>
<p>But the Elf Boy did not understand what
he said.</p>
<p>There was a pussy-willow growing by the
brook, and the Boy’s next discovery was that
hundreds of little grey buds were coming out.
He watched them grow bigger from day to
day, and while he was doing this the snow was
melting away in great patches where the sun
shone warmest on the meadow, and the blades
of grass that came up into the daylight were
greener than anything the Elf Boy had ever
seen.</p>
<p>Then the pink buds came on the maple<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_305"></SPAN>[305]</span>
trees, and unfolded day by day. And the fruit
trees in the Hermit’s orchard were as white
with blossoms as they had lately been with
snow.</p>
<p>“Not a single tree is dead,” said the Elf
Boy.</p>
<p>Last of all came the wild flowers—blue and
white violets near the brook, dandelions
around the house, and a little later, yellow
buttercups all over the meadow. Slowly but
steadily the world was made over, until it
glowed with white and green and gold.</p>
<p>The Elf Boy was wild with joy. One by
one his old friends came back, and he could
not bear to stay in the house for many minutes
from morning to night. Now he knew what
the wise Hermit had meant by saying, “Be
patient,” and he began to wonder again that
the Hermit could be sorrowful in so beautiful
a world.</p>
<p>One morning the church bells in the village—whose
ringing was the only sound that ever
came from the village over the hill—rang so
much longer and more joyfully than usual, that
the Elf Boy asked the Hermit why they did<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_306"></SPAN>[306]</span>
so. The Hermit looked in one of his books,
and answered:</p>
<p>“It is Easter Day. The village people celebrate
it on one Sunday every spring.”</p>
<p>“May we not go also?” asked the Elf Boy,
and as it was the first time he had ever asked
to go to the village, the Hermit could not
refuse to take him.</p>
<p>The village was glowing with flowers.
There were many fruit trees, and they, too,
were in bloom. Every one who passed along
the street seemed either to wear flowers or to
carry them in his hand. The people were all
entering the churchyard; and here the graves,
which had looked so grey and cold when the
Hermit and the Boy had last seen them, were
beautiful with flowers that the village people
had planted or had strewn over them for
Easter.</p>
<p>The people all passed into the church. But
the Hermit and the Elf Boy, who never went
where there was a crowd, stayed outside where
the humming-birds and bees were flying
happily among the flowers. Suddenly there
came from the church a burst of music. To<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_307"></SPAN>[307]</span>
the Elf Boy it seemed the most beautiful sound
he had ever heard. He put his finger on his
lip to show the Hermit that he wanted to
listen. These were the words they sang:</p>
<p>“<i>I am He that liveth, and was dead; and,
behold, I am alive for evermore!</i>”</p>
<p>The Boy took hold of the Hermit’s hand and
led him to the church door, that they might
hear still better. He was very happy.</p>
<p>“Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that anything
ever really dies.”</p>
<p>The Hermit looked down at him and
smiled.</p>
<p>“Perhaps not,” he said.</p>
<p>When the music began again, a strange thing
happened. The Hermit sang the Easter song
with the others. It was the first time he had
sung for many years.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">All silently, and soft as sleep,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The snow fell, flake on flake.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Slumber, spent Earth, and dream of flowers,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Till springtime bids you wake.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Again the deadened bough shall bend</div>
<div class="verse indent0">With blooms of sweetest breath.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Oh, miracle of miracles,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">This life that follows death!</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_308"></SPAN>[308]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="SHEEP_AND_LAMBS">SHEEP AND LAMBS</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Katharine Tynan</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">All in the April morning</div>
<div class="verse indent4">April airs were abroad,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The sheep with their little lambs,</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Passed me by on the road.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">The sheep with their little lambs</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Passed me by on the road;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">All in an April evening</div>
<div class="verse indent4">I thought on the Lamb of God.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">The lambs were weary, and crying</div>
<div class="verse indent4">With a weak human cry,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I thought on the Lamb of God</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Going meekly to die.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Up in the blue, blue mountains</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Dewy pastures are sweet;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Rest for the little bodies,</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Rest for the little feet.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">All in the April evening</div>
<div class="verse indent4">April airs were abroad;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I saw the sheep with their lambs,</div>
<div class="verse indent4">And thought on the Lamb of God.</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_309"></SPAN>[309]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="ROBIN_REDBREAST-A_CHRIST_LEGEND">ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST LEGEND</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Selma Lagerlöf</span></p>
<p>It happened one day when our Lord sat in
His Paradise creating and painting little birds
that He conceived the idea of making a little
grey bird.</p>
<p>“Remember your name is Robin Redbreast,”
said our Lord to the bird, as soon as
it was finished. Then He held it in the palm
of His open hand and let it fly.</p>
<p>After the bird had been testing his wings
a while, and had seen something of the beautiful
world in which he was destined to live,
he became curious to see what he himself was
like. He noticed that he was entirely grey,
and that his breast was just as grey as all the
rest of him. Robin Redbreast twisted and
turned in all directions as he viewed himself
in the mirror of a clear lake, but he couldn’t
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_310"></SPAN>[310]</span>find a single red feather. Then he flew back
to our Lord.</p>
<p>Our Lord sat there on His throne, big and
gentle. Out of His hands came butterflies
that fluttered about His head; doves cooed on
His shoulders; and out of the earth beneath
Him grew the rose, the lily, and the daisy.</p>
<p>The little bird’s heart beat heavily with
fright, but with easy curves he flew nearer and
nearer our Lord, till at last he rested on our
Lord’s hand. Then our Lord asked what the
little bird wanted. “I only wish to ask you
about one thing,” said the little bird. “What
is it you wish to know?” said our Lord.
“Why should I be called Redbreast, when
I am all grey from the bill to the very end of
my tail? Why am I called Redbreast when
I do not possess one single red feather?” The
bird looked beseechingly on our Lord with
his tiny black eyes—then turned his head.
About him he saw pheasants all red under a
sprinkle of gold dust, parrots with marvellous
red neckbands, cocks with red combs, to say
nothing about the butterflies, the goldfinches,
and the roses! And naturally he thought how<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_311"></SPAN>[311]</span>
little he needed—just one tiny drop of colour
on his breast and he, too, would be a beautiful
bird, and his name would fit him. “Why
should I be called Redbreast when I am so
entirely grey?” asked the bird once again, and
waited for our Lord to say: “Ah, my friend,
I see that I have forgotten to paint your breast
feathers red, but wait a moment and it shall
be done.”</p>
<p>But our Lord only smiled a little and said:
“I have called you Robin Redbreast, and
Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you
must look to it that you yourself earn your red
breast feathers.” Then our Lord lifted His
hand and let the bird fly once more—out into
the world.</p>
<p>The bird flew down into Paradise, meditating
deeply.</p>
<p>What could a little bird like him do to earn
for himself red feathers? The only thing he
could think of was to make his nest in a brier
bush. He built it in among the thorns in the
close thicket. It looked as if he waited for a
rose leaf to cling to his throat and give him
colour.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_312"></SPAN>[312]</span></p>
<p>After many years there dawned a new day,
one that will long be remembered in the
world’s history. On the morning of this day
Robin Redbreast sat upon a little naked hillock
outside of Jerusalem’s walls, and sang to
his young ones, who rested in a tiny nest in a
brier bush.</p>
<p>Robin Redbreast told the little ones all
about that wonderful day of creation, and how
the Lord had given names to everything, just
as each Redbreast had told it ever since the
first Redbreast had heard God’s word, and
gone out of God’s hand. “And mark you,”
he ended sorrowfully, “so many years have
gone, so many roses have bloomed, so many
little birds have come out of their eggs since
Creation Day, but Robin Redbreast is still
a little grey bird. He has not yet succeeded
in gaining his red feathers.”</p>
<p>The little young ones opened wide their tiny
bills, and asked if their forebears had never
tried to do any great thing to earn the priceless
red colour.</p>
<p>“We have all done what we could,” said the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_313"></SPAN>[313]</span>
little bird, “but we have all gone amiss. Even
the first Robin Redbreast met one day another
bird exactly like himself, and he began immediately
to love it with such a mighty love that
he could feel his breast turn. ‘Ah!’ he thought
then, ‘now I understand! It was our Lord’s
meaning that I should love with so much
ardour that my breast should grow red in
colour from the very warmth of the love that
lives in my heart.’ But he missed it, as all
those who came after him have missed it, and
as even you shall miss it.”</p>
<p>The little young ones twittered, utterly bewildered,
and already began to mourn because
the red colour would not come to beautify
their little, downy grey breasts.</p>
<p>“We had also hoped that song would help
us,” said the grown-up bird, speaking in long-drawn-out
tones—“the first Robin Redbreast
sang until his heart swelled within him, he
was so carried away, and he dared to hope
anew. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘it is the glow of the
song which lives in my soul that will colour
my breast feathers red.’ But he missed it, as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_314"></SPAN>[314]</span>
all the others have missed it and as even you
shall miss it.” Again was heard a sad “peep”
from the young ones’ half-naked throats.</p>
<p>“We had also counted on our courage and
our valour,” said the bird. “The first Robin
Redbreast fought bravely with other birds,
until his breast flamed with the pride of conquest.
‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘my breast feathers
shall become red from the love of battle which
burns in my heart.’ He, too, missed it, as all
those who came after him have missed it, and
as even you shall miss it.” The little young
ones peeped courageously that they still
wished to try and win the much-sought-for
prize, but the bird answered them sorrowfully
that it would be impossible. What
could they do when all other robins had missed
the mark? What could they do more than
love, sing, and fight? What could—the little
bird stopped short, for out of one of the gates
of Jerusalem came a crowd of people marching,
and the whole procession rushed toward
the hillock, where the bird had its nest.
There were riders on proud horses, soldiers
with long spears, executioners with nails and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_315"></SPAN>[315]</span>
hammers. There were judges and priests in
the procession, weeping women, and above all
a mob of mad, loose people running about—a
filthy, howling mob of loiterers.</p>
<p>The little grey bird sat trembling on the
edge of his nest. He feared each instant that
the little brier bush would be trampled down
and his young ones killed!</p>
<p>“Be careful!” he cried to the little defenceless
young ones. “Creep together and remain
quiet. Here comes a horse that will ride right
over us! Here comes a warrior with iron-shod
sandals! Here comes the whole wild,
storming mob!” Immediately the bird ceased
his cry of warning and grew calm and quiet.
He almost forgot the danger hovering over
him. Finally he hopped down into the nest
and spread his wings over the young ones.</p>
<p>“Oh! this is too terrible,” said he. “I don’t
wish you to witness this awful sight! There
are three miscreants who are going to be crucified!”
And he spread his wings so that the
little ones could see nothing.</p>
<p>Robin Redbreast followed the whole spectacle
with his eyes, which grew big with terror.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_316"></SPAN>[316]</span>
He could not take his glance from the three
unfortunates.</p>
<p>“How terrible!” said the bird after a little
while. “They have placed a crown of piercing
thorns upon the head of one of them. I
see that the thorns have wounded his brow so
that the blood flows,” he continued. “And
this man is so beautiful, and looks about him
with such mild glances that every one ought to
love him. I feel as if an arrow were shooting
through my heart, when I see him suffer!”</p>
<p>The little bird began to feel a stronger and
stronger pity for the thorn-crowned sufferer.
“Oh! if I were only my brother the eagle,”
thought he, “I would draw the nails from his
hands, and with my strong claws I would
drive away all those who harm him!” He
saw how the blood trickled down from the
brow of the Crucified One, and he could no
longer remain quiet in his nest. “Even if I
am little and weak, I can still do something for
this poor suffering one,” thought the bird.
Then he left his nest and flew out into the
air, striking wide circles around the Crucified
One. He flew around him several times without<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_317"></SPAN>[317]</span>
daring to approach, for he was a shy little
bird, who had never dared to go near a human
being. But little by little he gained courage,
flew close to him, and drew with his little bill
a thorn that had become imbedded in the brow
of the Crucified One. And as he did this there
fell on his breast a drop of blood from the face
of the Crucified One;—it spread quickly and
floated out and coloured all the little fine
breast feathers.</p>
<p>Then the Crucified One opened his lips and
whispered to the bird: “Because of thy compassion,
thou hast won all that thy kind have
been striving after, ever since the world was
created.”</p>
<p>As soon as the bird had returned to his
nest his young ones cried to him: “Thy
breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder
than the roses!”</p>
<p>And even unto this day the blood-red colour
shines on every Robin Redbreast’s throat and
breast.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_318"></SPAN>[318]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="THE_MAPLE_SEED">THE MAPLE SEED</SPAN></h3>
<p>On the topmost twig of a maple tree there
grew a seed. In the springtime the gentle
movement of the sap and the soft rustle of the
leaves whispering among themselves had
awakened him; then, day by day, half sleeping
and half conscious, he had fed upon what the
roots provided, stretching himself lazily in the
sunshine. Presently his wing began to unfold.</p>
<p>“That is very curious,” said he, stirring a
little. “It must be a mistake. I don’t flutter
about like the bees.” That bit of wing, which
seemed his and not his, puzzled him. “It
must belong to something else,” he thought.
And afterward he was always on the lookout
for a bee or a dragon fly with only one wing.
But none came.</p>
<p>The hot summer noons and the long moonlit
nights became sultrier and the leaves dropped.
“How withered I am!” said the seed to his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_319"></SPAN>[319]</span>
most intimate friend, a leaf that hung from a
near bough. “It makes me feel quite brittle.”
But the leaf did not answer, for just then it
fell from the twig with a queer, reluctant
shiver to the ground.</p>
<p>“Ah!” murmured the maple seed, “I understand.”
So he was not surprised when a
rude breeze twisted him off one day, and sent
him spinning into space.</p>
<p>“Here I go,” thought he, “and this is the
end of it.”</p>
<p>“Puff!” said the breeze, who had seen much
of the world, and looked with contempt upon
the untravelled. “Puff! how ignorant!” and
he blew the seed right into a crack in the earth.</p>
<p>“It must be the end, for all that,” insisted
the seed. No wonder he thought so, for it
was cold and dark where he lay. A troubled
cloud leaned down and wept over him. Then
he began to grow amazingly in the warmth
and moisture.</p>
<p>“If this goes on,” he thought, “I shall certainly
burst, and then I must die. How is one
to live, with a crack in his sides?”</p>
<p>But the maple seed was wrong. He did<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_320"></SPAN>[320]</span>
not die. An unsuspected, mysterious strength
sustained him. His roots found food in the
brown earth, and he lifted up a slender stem
into the pure sunlight and warm air.
Through spring, summer, autumn and winter,
year after year, this lived and grew, until the
tiny sapling had become a beautiful tree, with
spreading branches.</p>
<p>“Ah!” said the tree, “how stupid I was.”</p>
<p>It was very pleasant on the lawn. An old
couple from the house near by came out in
good weather to sit under the tree. They
reminded him of some fragile leaves he had
seen fluttering somewhere in the past. He
was glad to have them come, and he kept his
coolest shade for them. Partly for their sakes,
he liked to have the robins sing in his branches.</p>
<p>The years went by. The old man tottered
out alone to sit in the cool shadow. He was
bent and sorrowful.</p>
<p>“Ah!” sighed the tree, “I know! I know!
He has lost his leaf, and feels brittle. If I
could only tell him this is not the end!”</p>
<p>After this, many sunny days came, but not
the old man, and the tree concluded that he<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_321"></SPAN>[321]</span>
had been blown away. “If he only knew that
he would grow again!” he said to himself.
“Unless one knows that, it is so uncomfortable
to lie in the dark.”</p>
<p>A great storm came. The sky blackened,
the winds blew with might, and the heavy rain
fell. The maple was uprooted and broken.
The next day there came men with axes who
cut the tree in pieces, and drew it to the house.</p>
<p>“Is this the end?” he questioned. But no,—the
logs were piled one day in the fireplace
in a large, sunny room. The old man
leaned from his chair to warm his hands by the
cheerful heat the crimson flame gave out. “Is
it the maple?” he said. “Ah! this goes with
the rest.”</p>
<p>The fire grew brighter, burned duller,
turned to embers, smouldered to ashes. The
hearth was cold. The figure was sitting still
in the armchair, but the old man himself had
gone away.</p>
<p>The spirit of the maple whispered, “Does
he know? There is <i>no</i> end.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_322"></SPAN>[322]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="WHY_THE_IVY_IS_ALWAYS_GREEN">WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Madge Bingham</span></p>
<p>There were once two small plants that grew
on the edge of a rough, red ditch. One of
them was an ivy plant and the other a tiny
fig tree.</p>
<p>It was early in the morning when they first
awoke and looked around to see how they liked
the world.</p>
<p>“I think it is an ugly old world,” said the
young fig tree. “I see only a rough, red ditch
with dirty water flowing below.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it is a beautiful world,” replied the ivy
vine. “I see clouds floating on high, and
sunshine, and such lovely trees and flowers
growing over on the other side of the ditch!
Let us try to make this side beautiful, too.</p>
<p>“I will cover the rough, red places with
pretty, green leaves, and you can decorate
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_323"></SPAN>[323]</span>with your wonderful pink blossoms. Come,
let us try.”</p>
<p>“No,” said the small fig tree, “I would not
waste my time trying to make this ugly old
place beautiful.</p>
<p>“Now if, like my mother, I could have
grown in the soft, rich earth of the garden, I
would have tried to do something, but here
there is no use.”</p>
<p>So, from day to day, the little fig tree
grumbled. Nothing pleased her. If the sun
shone she said it was too hot; if the rain fell
she said it was too wet; and if the wind blew
she said it was too cold.</p>
<p>But with the little ivy vine it was very different,
and she was as happy as a lark from
early morning until night.</p>
<p>“Whether the sun shines or whether the
rains fall, it is God’s will,” said the little
vine, “and I am well pleased. I shall do all
I can to make my side of this ditch beautiful,
and I shall begin to-day.”</p>
<p>And so she did. Though she lived only on
the edge of the red ditch, she spread out her
leaves day by day, running here and there and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_324"></SPAN>[324]</span>
yonder, hiding this red spot and that red spot,
until by and by nothing could be seen but the
beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did
not stop until every ugly spot was hidden by
her graceful garlands.</p>
<p>“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried
the ivy; “only look!”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one
sees it. What are you going to do now?
Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross
the ditch.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy
vine. “I shall keep on trying until I do.
There is so much on the other side I can do
to help make the earth-world beautiful.
Surely there is a way to cross.”</p>
<p>So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here
and there, searching everywhere for a way to
cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing
down to the edge of the muddy water, she
reached a rock half way across, where she
stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what
next to do.</p>
<p>“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig
tree. “I told you so! You might as well<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_325"></SPAN>[325]</span>
make up your mind to dry up and stop trying.”</p>
<p>“I shall never stop trying,” called back the
ivy vine. “There is a way to cross all ditches,
and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.”</p>
<p>“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of
the old oak tree close by. “Cling to my roots
there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to
help one like you; reach out and I will pull
you up.”</p>
<p>So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung
tightly to the twisted roots of the old oak,
and was soon laughing merrily on the other
side.</p>
<p>“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,”
said the old oak. “I have been watching you
across the ditch all these months, and you have
changed its ugly, red banks into a real thing
of beauty.</p>
<p>“Now there was a time, once, when flowers
and grasses grew there, and ferns fringed the
edge of the brook, and it was beautiful, indeed.
Every fall I shook armfuls of crimson and
yellow leaves upon the bank, but that was long
ago, before the great forest fire which robbed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_326"></SPAN>[326]</span>
me of my limbs and leaves and left me old and
worn.</p>
<p>“What a joy it would be to me if only I
might have my branches decked in leaves one
more time,—especially do I long for this in
the glad springtime, when trees and flowers
are robing themselves for the joyous Easter
Day.</p>
<p>“Sad, indeed, it is to me, to know that I
shall be clothed no more in a fresh dress of
delicate green, like your own pretty leaves,
dear Ivy.”</p>
<p>“But you shall,” said the ivy vine, clapping
her hands; “you have helped me cross the
ditch to-day, and I mean to give you an Easter
dress. Watch me.”</p>
<p>Now vines had never climbed high before
this. They had only run along the ground
and down the hill, and over walls, but this
little ivy vine wrapped her delicate arms
around the rough bark of the old oak, and began
to climb her first tree.</p>
<p>She pulled and stretched, and stretched and
pulled, until little by little, up, up, higher and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_327"></SPAN>[327]</span>
higher she went, leaving a trail of rich, green
leaves behind her. It was a lovely sight.</p>
<p>“See!” she called to the old oak; “I am
bringing you a most beautiful Easter dress,—how
do you like it?”</p>
<p>“Beautiful, beautiful!” laughed the old oak.
“You make me feel young again. But what
will you do when you reach my branches?”</p>
<p>“Why, I shall keep on climbing,” replied
the ivy vine. “When I give a dress at all, it
must be a whole dress, don’t you know? I
shall not stop until I have covered every
branch, as I did the bare spots on the ditch.”</p>
<p>And so she did. Every day she climbed a
little higher, until by and by every limb on the
great, old oak was completely hidden by the
beautiful leaves of the ivy. The old oak
laughed in delight, as she looked on her beautiful
Easter dress of fresh, rich green.</p>
<p>Now the queen of the fairies who, I told
you, was always on the watch for beautiful
deeds, stood under the old oak on Easter Day
and wondered at the beautiful sight. It made
her glad to see the joy of the old oak in her<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_328"></SPAN>[328]</span>
new dress, and of course she knew who had
given it.</p>
<p>So, turning with a smile to the ivy vine, she
said, “Because you have tried to make others
happy and to make the earth beautiful your
leaves shall never fade. Forever and forever
they shall stay beautiful and green. Cold
shall not hurt them nor summer’s heat destroy
them, and wherever you go you shall gladden
the hearts of men with your freshness and
beauty.”</p>
<p>Very happy, indeed, did these words make
the pretty ivy vine, and ever since she has
been climbing over the earth-world, hunting
bare places to make more beautiful.</p>
<p>Stone walls and churches and houses,—no
place seems too high for her to climb, and
never does she weary in making fresh Easter
dresses for the trees that are old and worn and
cannot make them for themselves.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_329"></SPAN>[329]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="JONQUILS">JONQUILS</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Margaret Deland</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Blow golden trumpets, sweet and clear,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Blow soft upon the perfumed air:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Bid the sad earth to join your song,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">“To Christ does victory belong!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Oh, let the winds your message bear</div>
<div class="verse indent2">To every heart of grief and care:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Sound through the world the joyful lay,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">“Our Christ has conquered Death to-day.”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">On cloudy wings let glad words fly</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Through the soft blue of echoing sky:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ring out,—O trumpets, sweet and clear,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">“Through Death, immortal Life is here!”</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_330"></SPAN>[330]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="WHEN_THOU_COMEST_INTO_THY_KINGDOM">WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Mary Stewart</span></p>
<p>Many years ago, in a rocky cave half way up
a steep mountain, there lived a band of robbers.
From the mouth of their cave they
could look far out over the villages of white
houses which dotted the green valley below
to the blue waters of the sea beyond, and between
the villages and the sea there ran a
straight white road. It was there that the
robbers waylaid travellers, robbing them of
money, bales of rich stuff or jewels, until the
band became a terror to the neighbourhood
and the very name of Tibeous, their leader,
was whispered fearfully among travellers.</p>
<p>One clear bright morning Tibeous climbed
down the mountain path alone and mingled,
unrecognised, among the villagers. He was
young and strong and did not look very differently
from the fishermen who, returning<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_331"></SPAN>[331]</span>
from a night’s work, were carrying their nets
of shining fish across the beach and through
the narrow streets. Only the eyes of Tibeous
were as keen and suspicious as those of a wild
animal, and often his hand went to his belt
where beneath his cloak of skins he carried,
for protection this time, a sharp dagger.</p>
<p>Through the streets he walked down to the
seashore. There had been heavy rains during
the night, and in the morning sunshine
the tall beach grass sparkled as if hung with
diamonds, the sky was blue and cloudless, and
the dancing waves broke merrily upon the glittering
beach. Watching the peaceful scene
Tibeous forgot for a moment the errand which
had drawn him from his safe retreat. By
listening, unnoticed, to the talk of the village,
he had hoped to learn whether any rich merchants
were expected, so that he and his men
could be ready to waylay them upon the road.
But as he stood upon the beach watching the
barefooted boys play in the waves, a picture of
his own boyhood rose in his mind. He, too,
had lived beside the sea and had helped his
fisherman father draw in nets and carry<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_332"></SPAN>[332]</span>
strings of silvery fish. How happy he had
been, he thought, and now for the last five
years the sun seemed to have ceased shining in
his life. His parents had died, and not content
with the small, though honest, living he
made at the fishing, he had fallen in with the
band of robbers. They soon made him their
leader and although younger than any of
them, he was a very good one, for he did not
know what fear was, was ready for any wild
adventure and cared so little for the treasure
he risked his life to steal that he divided it up
among his followers.</p>
<p>But that golden morning Tibeous had forgotten
all this, and as he gazed at a woman
walking toward him with a boy clinging to one
hand and a baby nestled against her shoulder,
he thought only of his own boyhood, and of the
mother who had loved and guarded him. So
intently was he watching the woman that he
did not notice a crowd which was collecting
behind him until, warned by a sudden murmur
of many voices, he turned sharply, his dagger
half drawn. But the men and women had not
noticed him, they were all clustering around<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_333"></SPAN>[333]</span>
a white-robed man, and as Tibeous turned
their murmurs died away and they stood motionless,
eagerly listening to the voice of the
figure in their midst. Tibeous could not see
his face, could not at first catch his words, but
the tones of the speaker’s voice reached him,
and like the ripples of the waves and the glimmer
of the sunshine they reminded him afresh
of his own joyous boyhood.</p>
<p>He saw the little boy’s hand tighten in his
mother’s clasp as he urged her forward, and
Tibeous was not surprised; that thrilling voice
seemed to draw all toward it and he, too, followed
the lad. And then, as they reached the
outskirts of the crowd, the men drew back,
making a pathway up to the Master, who,
Tibeous now saw, was already surrounded
with children. The boys and girls were looking
up at him admiringly and even the baby in
its mother’s arms held out its arms, as though
to one to whom it belonged.</p>
<p>Again the Master was speaking, and as
Tibeous gazed, half startled at that beautiful
face, he heard the words:</p>
<p>“Verily, I say unto you, whosoever shall not<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_334"></SPAN>[334]</span>
receive the kingdom of God as a little child
shall in no wise enter therein.”</p>
<p>“The kingdom of God,” thought Tibeous
with a shudder, how far that was from the
kingdom of robbers over which he ruled on
the wild mountain side. And as far asunder
as those two kingdoms was he, an outlaw and a
thief, from the gracious white-robed man
whose words stirred every heart upon that
shining beach.</p>
<p>From that day Tibeous surprised even his
own rough followers by his recklessness. He
risked capture and death over and over again,
attacking travellers in the daytime as well as
under cover of the night, robbing not only
merchants, but priests and wealthy Pharisees,
men whose power was so great that if the
band was caught, one word would suffice to
hang them all to the nearest trees. But instead
of being captured they only made themselves
hated and feared more than ever. At
length a proclamation went forth promising a
large reward to any man who could bring
Tibeous a prisoner to Jerusalem. As a warning<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_335"></SPAN>[335]</span>
to all robbers the thief, if captured, would
be crucified outside the city walls.</p>
<p>None knew that since that one glorious
morning upon the beach, the pain in the heart
of Tibeous had been well-nigh unbearable.</p>
<p>“Such gentle scenes have no place in my
wild life,” he would cry bitterly to himself,
and with the hope of forgetting the picture of
the lad in the Master’s arms he dashed wildly
into every dangerous adventure.</p>
<p>One morning the robber band, looking out
from the cave, saw a multitude of people
journeying toward the mountain, which sloped
down to the far end of the blue sea. Some
came by boat, others rode, while many, who
seemed to be quite poor people, walked.</p>
<p>What could draw them to that out of the
way spot, the robbers wondered, and only
Tibeous suspected the truth. They had probably
travelled so far to meet again the Master
whom he had seen upon the beach. He did
not tell the others of his surmise, but when
they planned to ride around the landward side
of the mountain and rob these people as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_336"></SPAN>[336]</span>
they journeyed home, he refused to go with
them.</p>
<p>“In any dangerous attack,” he said, “I am
always ready to lead you, but as to robbing
poor men and women and children” ... he
turned away disgusted, while again there rose
before him the picture of the mother upon the
beach, bringing her children to that marvellous
man who talked about the kingdom of
God.</p>
<p>Slowly the day passed and the sun sank behind
the mountains while Tibeous sat alone, at
the entrance of the cave, pondering deeply.
He remembered that his mother had often
spoken of a King who would some day come
into the world, a great Deliverer she had
called him, before whom all the nations of the
world would bow and called Him blessed.</p>
<p>Tibeous had wondered at times during the
last weeks whether the glorious white robed
figure could be that King, but this day, as he
sat watching the sun sink, he decided that it
was impossible.</p>
<p>Beautiful the man was and tender and stirring,
but surely, Tibeous thought, no one could<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_337"></SPAN>[337]</span>
be a King and a Deliverer without courage
and strength a thousand times greater than
even he, a lion among his followers, possessed.
Could that gracious, gentle figure possess such
miraculous power? “And yet if I thought
for an instant,” he murmured, “that that wonderful
man was the King of whom my mother
dreamed, I would forsake this lawless life and
become his loyal follower.”</p>
<p>At that moment he saw a dark cloud rising
out of the west, the sign of one of the sudden
storms which come so often in that country.
Quickly it spread across the sky, the waves of
the sea grew black and in a few moments they
rose high crested with white foam, and the
wind tore over them, while above the thunder
pealed and the lightning flashed across the
darkness.</p>
<p>Tibeous stood in the cave watching intently.
“Verily,” he exclaimed, “to conquer and subdue
his foes, a great Deliverer must have
power stronger even than this mighty storm.”</p>
<p>A flash of vivid lightning lit up the whole
scene, and in the midst of the furious sea
Tibeous saw a tiny boat. He saw the desperate<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_338"></SPAN>[338]</span>
men within it and guessed at their terror.
“Surely,” he thought, “the next wave
will engulf them,” and then walking upon the
storm-tossed waters toward the boat he saw a
figure, his white robes fluttering in the wind.</p>
<p>Again all was darkness while Tibeous stood
before the cave unheeding the torrents of rain
which drenched him, his gaze fixed intently
upon the sea, longing, almost praying, for the
lightning to flash once more and show him
again that mysterious figure.</p>
<p>Another flash, and standing in the stern of
the boat Tibeous saw the white robed man
while the others knelt before him as if in reverence,
and then—there was perfect peace.
The storm died away, the waves were stilled,
and the moon breaking out from behind the
jagged clouds, threw its silvery light upon the
boat sailing quietly across the sea.</p>
<p>“Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
cried Tibeous. “Surely this is the King all
powerful, whom I vowed, if I ever found, to
follow forever.”</p>
<p>Two days later Tibeous was taken prisoner,
carried bound to Jerusalem, and thrown into<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_339"></SPAN>[339]</span>
a dark dungeon. With his usual fearlessness
he had searched undisguised, through the villages
for the Deliverer, but before he had
found the Master he was recognised and captured.
Many a weary month he lay in the
prison. At times his restless energy drove
him almost crazy, and he would rush up and
down his narrow cell like a caged beast. At
other times, when the first beams of early
dawn pierced the narrow slit in the stone wall,
which was his only window, or when a silvery
ray of moonlight struggled through, the scenes
of his wild life seemed blotted out, and he
thought only of the Christ, and of his kingdom
to which now, alas, he could never belong.</p>
<p>He supposed first it was an earthly kingdom,
full of brave soldiers who would fight
for the great King, to whom at last all the
nations of the world would bow. But one
morning, after nearly a year of imprisonment,
he was taken out of his dark cell and led, his
hands bound with leathern thongs, toward a
green hill outside the city walls. Beside him
walked another prisoner, a coarse, savage-looking
man, well known for his brutal deeds,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_340"></SPAN>[340]</span>
and upon the shoulders of each of them was
laid a heavy cross. Upon those crosses they
were to be crucified.</p>
<p>Tibeous was wan and pale from his long
imprisonment, but in his eyes, which gleamed
out of his white face, there was no look of
fear or hate. He was as willing to die as to
linger on hopeless in the dungeon. The vision
of the great Deliverer on which he had dwelt
for so long seemed to fill his soul, his one longing
was to serve him, and as that was impossible
he had nothing else to live for.</p>
<p>When they left the prison the sky was blue
and clear, but as they reached the foot of the
green hill dark, threatening clouds hung over
them. The two prisoners paused there, resting
upon the ground the heavy crosses under
which they had staggered, and then up the
road from the city-gate another procession
came toward them. There were priests in
long robes, soldiers in red cloaks and shining
armour, women—sobbing, many of them—and
fishermen and peasants walking side by side
with wealthy publicans and Pharisees.</p>
<p>In the midst of the crowd walked a white-robed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_341"></SPAN>[341]</span>
figure, and Tibeous caught his breath
in astonished wonder. Could it be, yes it was,
the King, the great Deliverer, who had drawn
crowds to him upon the sunlit beach, and who
by his great power had stilled the raging
storm. And yet he was here to-day as a prisoner,
his hands bound and his garments torn,
while before him walked a man bearing the
cross on which the Christ, like a common
thief or murderer, was to be crucified.</p>
<p>“But he looks more like a King than ever,”
thought the bewildered Tibeous, and then he
understood!</p>
<p>Around the Master pressed those who belonged
to the kingdom of this world, their
faces cruel, or evil, or merely weak, and among
them the Lord whom they had bound walked
as fearlessly and graciously as a young king
on his way to be crowned. But others, the
poor fishermen and many of the women, seem
to have caught his look of perfect goodness.
They were frightened and heartbroken as they
gazed at their King who was so soon to be
taken from them, but they belonged to him, to
his kingdom which was not of this world, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_342"></SPAN>[342]</span>
their faces, in spite of their sorrow, were full
of childlike faith and trust.</p>
<p>Up the hill streamed the procession, Tibeous
and his companion, with their guard of soldiers,
walking slowly behind.</p>
<p>And then followed the deed at which
through all the centuries that have passed
since then men and women have shuddered
with awestruck horror.</p>
<p>Jesus Christ, the Deliverer of the world,
was nailed upon a cross, while upon two other
crosses, one on his right and one on his left,
hung the dying robbers. “With righteous
wrath will he not denounce his murderers?”
thought Tibeous, and then Jesus spoke:
“Father, forgive them,” he said, “for they
know not what they do.” And during the
following hours of anguish he uttered no word
of anger or condemnation. “How like a king
he is even here,” thought Tibeous. “Above
the mocking, cruel crowd he hangs, unmoved
by pain, glorious, noble, kingly to the end.
Soon my life will be over and I shall never
see that wonderful face again. Ah! if for
one moment only I might feel that I have belonged<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_343"></SPAN>[343]</span>
to his kingdom. I, a miserable dying
thief, who richly deserves this bitter agony.”</p>
<p>Then as the crowd jeered at the Master,
crying, “He saved others, let him save himself
if he be Christ, the chosen one of God!”,
the other robber mocked him also.</p>
<p>“If thou be Christ save thyself and us!” he
said.</p>
<p>But Jesus answered not a word, and Tibeous
cried to the robber:</p>
<p>“Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art
in the same condemnation? And we, indeed,
justly, for we receive the due reward of our
deeds, but this man hath done nothing amiss.”</p>
<p>Then turning his pain-dimmed eyes toward
Jesus he gazed with adoration and longing
upon the face of the glorious dying Master.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling with
wistful entreaty, “Lord, remember me when
thou comest into thy kingdom.”</p>
<p>And Jesus, gazing back at him with tender
compassion, answered slowly:</p>
<p>“Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou
be with me in paradise.”</p>
<p>The terrible hours wore away and then—we<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_344"></SPAN>[344]</span>
know no more, but can we not picture to ourselves
a faint glimmer of the glory into which
that very day Tibeous entered?</p>
<p>Jesus had said, “Whosoever shall not receive
the kingdom of God as a little child shall in
no wise enter therein.” And it seems to me
that when, in the twilight, the spirit of Tibeous
entered the kingdom of heaven, all his wild
and selfish life was forgotten, and he was like
a little lad again at his mother’s side. Surely
his mother was waiting for him there, her
arms outstretched with tender longing, and
we know that he was with Jesus, the glorious
King, the Light of Life, the Joy of the World.</p>
<p>And so to Tibeous, the dying thief, there
came the glory of Easter.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_345"></SPAN>[345]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="THE_LEGEND_OF_THE_EASTER_LILY">THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY</SPAN></h3>
<p>When Jesus grew to be a man He went about
teaching the people how to live. Many loved
Jesus and believed what He told them. But
some doubted His words, while others were
unkind and even cruel. At last some wicked
people believed it was unwise to let Jesus live
and teach; and they hanged Him upon a
cross. All His friends were very sad after
they had seen Him die. They wrapped His
body in linen clothes and laid Him in a tomb
in a garden. A great rock was rolled in front
of the tomb and soldiers were placed to
guard the way day and night; for the wicked
people who had killed Jesus did not wish any
of His friends to take His body away.</p>
<p>All night and all the next day the soldiers
watched at the tomb. The second night a
strange and wonderful light came slowly in
the east and some little birds began to sing
beautiful songs. Suddenly, there was a great<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_346"></SPAN>[346]</span>
noise and a shaking of the ground and a beautiful
angel came down from heaven, rolled the
stone away from the tomb and Jesus came
forth! Two beautiful angels stood at the door
to meet Him and with them He walked away
through the garden.</p>
<p>When the friends of Jesus came to the tomb
early in the morning they saw a wonderful
sight. “Behold,” said one, pointing to the
garden near the tomb, “pure white lilies have
come forth.” “And behold!” said the other,
“where pure white lilies mark the footsteps of
Jesus and the angels.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<h3><SPAN name="SONG">SONG</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Henry Neville Maughan</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">There was a knight of Bethlehem;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Whose wealth was tears and sorrows:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His men-at-arms were little lambs,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His trumpeters were sparrows;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His castle was a wooden cross,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Whereon He hung so high;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His helmet was a crown of thorns</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Whose crest did touch the sky.</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_347"></SPAN>[347]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="IN_THE_GARDEN">IN THE GARDEN<br/> <span class="smaller">AN EASTER PRELUDE</span></SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">W. M. L. Jay</span></p>
<h4><span class="smcap">Part I</span></h4>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Deep down in the garden closes,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">In the wildering April weather,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The embryo lilies and roses</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Whispered and wondered together:—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">“What doth it mean, this thrill</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And stir in the mould about us?</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Will it prophecies sweet fulfil,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Or cometh it but to flout us?”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Lily</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">It may be a downward drift</div>
<div class="verse indent2">From that unknown world above us,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Some mystical stir or lift</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Of beings that know and love us,—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That world of wonderful things,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Ineffable tints and glories,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And blossoms that wander on wings—</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_348"></SPAN>[348]</span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Red Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">Now, <i>do</i> you believe those stories!</div>
<div class="verse indent2">That world and its wings and its glow,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I fear me are only fancies</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Why, barely a fortnight ago,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Went thither our friends, the pansies!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Lily</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">Did any return to tell</div>
<div class="verse indent2">How the blindfold journey ended,—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">If joy at the last befell,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Or a deadly frost descended?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A White Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nathless, it is pleasant to stray</div>
<div class="verse indent0">In limitless dream and vision.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Red Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nay, better be senseless as clay</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And feel not the walls that imprison!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Pink Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">What more than this warm brown nest</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Need any one dream or desire?</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_349"></SPAN>[349]</span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Lily</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ah, me! in my aching breast</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Is a thirst for something higher!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I may surely trust I go</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To some lovely goal unknowing,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To some better thing I grow—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">At least, I think I am growing.</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<h4><span class="smcap">Part II</span></h4>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Out in the garden closes,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">In the shining, summery weather,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Blossoming lilies and roses</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Wondered and laughed together:—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">“What a wide, wide world of bliss,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Of loveliest gleams and glowings!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">We had never a vision like this,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">In the fairest of hope’s foreshowings.”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A White Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">What a beautiful thing is light!</div>
<div class="verse indent2">What marvellous thing is motion!</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The sunbeams in followless flight,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The shimmer and swell of the ocean!</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_350"></SPAN>[350]</span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Pink Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">And the sky, what a wonder of blue!</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And the dawn, what a dazzle of splendour!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Red Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">How light is the fall of the dew,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And the kiss of the breezes, how tender!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Pink Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">So blithe is the brown birds’ song,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">So clear is the ether they swim in!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Lily</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">So kindly are men and so strong</div>
<div class="verse indent2">So gentle and gracious are women!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A White Rose</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">Such gladness to bud and to bloom</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Sweet odour and honey outgiving!—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">How could we, down here in that gloom,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Conceive of this rapture of living?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>A Lily</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">And yet, I was ever at strife</div>
<div class="verse indent0">With a hope—that was half a sorrow;</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_351"></SPAN>[351]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">So vain, in that underground life</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Seemed thought of a radiant morrow!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse center"><i>Lilies and Roses</i></div>
<div class="verse indent0">On lines that to us were unknown!</div>
<div class="verse indent2">For written was all our story;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To the Lord of the garden alone</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Be honour and praise and glory.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">For had He not planted with care,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And loosened the earth from around us,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">We never had grown to be fair,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Nor blossom nor blessing had crowned us!</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_352"></SPAN>[352]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="SPIRIT_AND_LIFE">“SPIRIT” AND “LIFE”</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Margaret Emma Ditto</span></p>
<p>Two little souls were speeding their outward
way from God. Angels folded their white
wings in wondering silence, and watched the
little ones go forth upon their unknown mission.
The sky parted to let them pass, and
“trailing clouds of glory” the two souls swept
on into that unmeasured space where there is
no light but the stars, and no sound but the
voice of their harmonies. Then the two little
souls spoke. “Who are you?”</p>
<p>“Who are you?” asked each of the other.</p>
<p>“I am Spirit,” “I am Life,” they made
answer.</p>
<p>“It is all one,” sang the little souls together.
“We are the same. We came from God; we
are going to dwell with men.”</p>
<p>So they sang very happily as they sped
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_353"></SPAN>[353]</span>along, and their voices were attuned to the
music of the great spheres.</p>
<p>When the little souls reached the earth they
said good-bye to each other, for each little soul
had a house of his own. Not an immovable
house made of wood and stone, but a tiny
tabernacle that could be moved about. It was
made of flesh and blood and skin and soft
bones. It was the form of a little child.</p>
<p>“Oh, how nice!” cried each little soul,
quickly speeding through the house from top
to toe, and pulling the strings which set the
breath to coming and going, and the little
fingers and toes to quirking and nestling.</p>
<p>“I must take a peep out of the windows,”
cried each little soul, as he pulled up the curtains
and looked out. “Oho! our baby has
blue eyes like the violets,” shouted the noisy
children.</p>
<p>“Ah, the Prince looks upon us; his Royal
Highness has eyes like his father the King,”
said the grand courtiers, speaking low, with
deep reverence, for one of the little souls had
found its home in a peasant’s hut, the other
in the palace of a great king.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_354"></SPAN>[354]</span></p>
<p>The little souls never saw one another again
until they had spent their time on earth and
were flying back to God. Again they were
speeding their way through the unmeasured
spaces of the stars.</p>
<p>The souls knew each other, remembering
the time when they had gone out from God
to dwell among men. They gazed with joy
at each other, for these returning souls were
full of gracious loveliness, such as earthly eyes
have not seen.</p>
<p>“Sweet Life, you are no longer a little soul,”
said Spirit; “you are strong and beautiful; you
must have dwelt in a great house.” “Ay,”
replied Life, serenely, “it was a perfect house,
for the greatest of builders made it for me.”</p>
<p>“Then it was spacious and lofty and beautiful,
and it stood in a high and sunny space?”</p>
<p>“Oh no; it was none of these,” replied Life.
“It was narrow and infirm, and it trembled
in the blast. No one who saw it desired it.
But I loved it because it was the Gift of God,
and I was so thankful. It stood in a deep
valley, the shadows of the mountains made
it dark, and I could not look far away. I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_355"></SPAN>[355]</span>
could not look down: there was only one way
to look, and that was up, and my light came
not from this side or that, but straight down
from the Father of Lights, and so I was a
shining one, though I lived in a dark place.”</p>
<p>“What did you do in your house?”</p>
<p>“Always I toiled and served and suffered
and loved, for some needed me who were
poorer and weaker than I. Sometimes I was
hungry and thirsty and in pain, but oftener I
shared my loaf and cup, and helped the pain
of others, and I kept the door ajar so that
the poor and troubled ones, those who were
cast down and ashamed, could come in without
knocking and rest in a warm place; and
they loved me—the poor, the weak, and the
little ones. They are weeping now because
my house is empty, and I shall look out of
the windows no more: it is cold, the hearth
fire can never glow again. But my house
was weak and crumbling down upon me. I
could stay no longer. So I came away and
left it fallen, prone upon the ground—earth
to earth.”</p>
<p>“My house,” said the Spirit, “was not like<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_356"></SPAN>[356]</span>
that; it was noble and strong. It stood on
high among the kings of the earth, and looked
over my broad dominions. My house had
towers of strength and halls of bounty and
fair gardens with pleasant fruits. Every one
who saw it desired it for its beauty and feared
it for its strength. It could not be shaken in
the rudest blasts, and the shock of war could
not make it tremble or force its gates.”</p>
<p>“What did you do in your house?”</p>
<p>“Always, like you, I toiled and served and
suffered and loved, but not like you in the
way of doing, for I was a king with sceptre
and crown, and what I did was done in the
royal manner. I could not share my cup and
loaf with the hungry, nor lay my hand on the
brow of pain as you did, but I could make laws
and find out wisdom that would strengthen
the land and bring bread and meat and health
to my poor people. I could not take the suffering
ones into my own house as you did,
for they were many and my house was but
one; but my house should stand a castle in
their behalf—a stronghold and defence—and
so standing it met its doom; in the prime of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_357"></SPAN>[357]</span>
its glory it reeled, turret and foundation, beneath
the onslaught of the oppressor, and with
a great fall it lay prone on the battle-ground,
crumbling back to earth.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>A herald went through the land crying,
“The King is dead! the King is dead!”</p>
<p>“So is good Barbara,” answered the peasants.
“She was born the same night as the
King, and she died the same day.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The two souls swept on through the wide
spaces of the stars, on and on through the
pearly gates of heaven. Angels folded their
wings, and looked with tender awe upon these
gracious beings who had come from the earth.</p>
<p>“We cannot tell who they are,” said the
angels.</p>
<p>“One was a King. One was a peasant.
But one cannot tell which was the King and
which was the peasant,” said the angels:
“these beings are alike wondrous fair and
noble.”</p>
<p>The two souls swept on, with equal stroke
of their shining wings, through the serried<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_358"></SPAN>[358]</span>
ranks of the heavenly host, and God did not
welcome these home-coming souls as king or
peasant, but He gave to each a new name—the
new name which He has promised to him that
overcometh.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_359"></SPAN>[359]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="A_CHILDS_EASTER">A CHILD’S EASTER</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Annie Trumbull Slosson</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Had I been there when Christ, our Lord, lay sleeping</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Within that tomb in Joseph’s garden fair,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I would have watched all night beside my Saviour—</div>
<div class="verse indent10">Had I been there.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Close to the hard, cold stone my soft cheek pressing,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I should have thought my head lay on His breast;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And dreaming that His dear arms were about me,</div>
<div class="verse indent10">Have sunk to rest.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">All through the long, dark night when others slumbered,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Close, close beside Him still I would have stayed,</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_360"></SPAN>[360]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">And, knowing how He loved the little children,</div>
<div class="verse indent10">Ne’er felt afraid.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“To-morrow,” to my heart I would have whispered,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">“I will rise early in the morning hours,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And wand’ring o’er the hillside I will gather</div>
<div class="verse indent10">The fairest flowers;</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Tall, slender lilies (for my Saviour loved them,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And tender words about their beauty spake),</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And golden buttercups, and glad-eyed daisies,</div>
<div class="verse indent10">But just awake:</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘Grass of the field’ in waving, feath’ry beauty,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">He clothed it with that grace, so fair but brief,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Mosses all soft and green, and crimson berry,</div>
<div class="verse indent10">With glossy leaf.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“While yet the dew is sparkling on the blossoms,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I’ll gather them and lay them at His feet,</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_361"></SPAN>[361]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">And make the blessed place where He is sleeping</div>
<div class="verse indent10">All fair and sweet.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“The birds will come, I know, and sing above Him,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The sparrows whom He cared for when awake,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And they will fill the air with joyous music</div>
<div class="verse indent10">For His dear sake!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">And, thinking thus, the night would soon be passing,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Fast drawing near that first glad Easter light.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ah, Lord, if I could but have seen Thee leaving</div>
<div class="verse indent10">The grave’s dark night!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">I would have kept so still, so still, and clasping</div>
<div class="verse indent0">My hands together as I do in prayer,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I would have knelt, reverent, but oh, so happy</div>
<div class="verse indent10">Had I been there.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Perhaps He would have bent one look upon me;</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_362"></SPAN>[362]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">Perhaps in pity for that weary night,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">He would have laid on my uplifted forehead</div>
<div class="verse indent10">A touch so light;</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">And all the rest of life I should have felt it,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A sacred sign upon my brow imprest,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And ne’er forgot that precious, lonely vigil,</div>
<div class="verse indent10">So richly blest.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Dear Lord, through death and night I was not near Thee;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But in Thy risen glory can rejoice,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">So, loud and glad in song this Easter morning,</div>
<div class="verse indent10">Thou’lt hear my voice.</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_363"></SPAN>[363]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="THE_SPIRIT_OF_EASTER">THE SPIRIT OF EASTER</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Helen Keller</span></p>
<p>Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good,
and His mercy endureth forever. Sing unto
Him a new song, for He causeth the desert
to put forth blossoms, and the valleys He
covereth with greenness. Out of the night
He bringeth day, and out of death life everlasting.
On this day a new light is upon the
mountains; for life and the resurrection are
proclaimed forever.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The bands of winter are broken in sunder,
and the land is made soft with showers.
Easter day bringeth the children of men near
to the source of all light; for on this day the
Lord declareth the permanence of His world,
and maketh known the immortality of the
soul. He hath revealed the life everlasting
and His goodness endureth forever. Easter
is the promise of the Lord that all the best and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_364"></SPAN>[364]</span>
noblest in man shall be renewed, even as
growth and bloom and ripening shall not
cease. The bars of winter are broken, and the
iron bands of death are riven. The bird is
on the wing and the flight of the soul shall
know no weariness. The lilies lift their holy
white grails brimmed with the sunshine of
God’s love. For, has not the Lord manifested
His love in flowers and in the upspringing of
green things? They are sweet interpreters of
large certainties. Each year the winter cuts
them down and each spring they put forth
again. Each spring is a new page in the book
of revelation, wherever we read that life is an
eternal genesis, and its end is not; for it endureth
forever.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_365"></SPAN>[365]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="THERE_ARE_NO_DEAD">THERE ARE NO DEAD</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Maurice Maeterlinck</span></p>
<p class="center">Adapted from “The Blue Bird”</p>
<p>“Tyltyl,” said Light one morning, “I have
received a note from the Fairy Berlyune telling
me that the Bluebird is probably in the
graveyard.”</p>
<p>“What shall we do?” asked Tyltyl.</p>
<p>“It is very simple,” answered Light. “The
fairy gave strict orders. You and Mytyl are
to go into the graveyard alone. At midnight
you will turn the diamond, and the dead will
come out of the ground.”</p>
<p>Tyltyl did not feel pleased. “Aren’t you
coming with us?” he asked.</p>
<p>“No,” said Light, “I shall stay at the gate
of the graveyard. There is nothing to fear.
I shall not be far away, and those who love
me and whom I love always find me again.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Light had scarcely done speaking when
everything changed. The shining Temple,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_366"></SPAN>[366]</span>
the glowing flowers, the splendid gardens vanished
to make way for a little country graveyard
lying in the soft moonlight. Tyltyl and
Mytyl clung to one another.</p>
<p>“I am frightened,” said Mytyl.</p>
<p>“I am never frightened,” said Tyltyl, shaking
with fear.</p>
<p>“Are the dead alive?” asked Mytyl.</p>
<p>“No,” said Tyltyl, “they’re not alive.”</p>
<p>“Are we going to see them?”</p>
<p>“Of course; Light said so.”</p>
<p>“Where are they?” asked Mytyl.</p>
<p>“Here, under the grass or under those big
stones, Mytyl.”</p>
<p>“Are those the stones of their houses?”
asked Mytyl.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“When will you turn the diamond, Tyltyl?”</p>
<p>“Light said I was to wait until midnight.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t it midnight yet?”</p>
<p>Tyltyl looked at the church clock. “Listen,
it is going to strike.”</p>
<p>Above the children the tones of the clock
boomed out as it started to strike twelve.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_367"></SPAN>[367]</span></p>
<p>“I want to go away, Tyltyl! I want to go
away!”</p>
<p>“Not now, Mytyl; I am going to turn the
diamond.”</p>
<p>“No, no,” cried Mytyl. “Don’t! I’m so
frightened, Brother! I want to go away.”</p>
<p>Tyltyl tried vainly to lift his hand; he could
not reach the diamond with Mytyl clinging to
him.</p>
<p>“I am so frightened.”</p>
<p>Poor Tyltyl was quite as frightened as she,
but at each trial his courage had grown
greater.</p>
<p>The eleventh stroke rang out. “The hour
is passing. It is time,” and, releasing himself
from Mytyl’s arms he turned the diamond.</p>
<p>A moment of suspense followed for the poor
children, Mytyl hid her face in Tyltyl’s
breast.</p>
<p>“They’re coming,” she cried. “They’re
coming.”</p>
<p>Tyltyl shut his eyes and leaned against a
heavy stone beside him. The children remained
in that position for a minute, hardly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_368"></SPAN>[368]</span>
daring to breathe. Then they heard birds
singing, a warm scented breeze fanned their
faces and on hands and neck they felt the soft
heat of the balmy summer sun. Reassured, but
finding it hard to believe in so great a miracle,
they opened their eyes and looked about them.
From all the open tombs were rising thousands
of delicate flowers gradually growing more
and more tall and plentiful and marvellous.
Little by little they spread everywhere, over
the paths, over the grass, transforming the rude
little graveyard into a fairylike garden. Its
sweet-scented breeze was murmuring in the
young and tender leaves, the birds were singing
and the bees humming gaily above glittering
dew and opening flowers.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe it! It’s not possible!” cried
Tyltyl.</p>
<p>The two children, holding each other by the
hand, walked through what had been the
graveyard, but where now no graveyard was
to be seen. Vainly they searched among the
flowers for a trace of the low mounds, stone
slabs, and wooden crosses so lately there. In
the presence of the truth they saw that all<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_369"></SPAN>[369]</span>
their fears of the dead were foolish. They
saw that there are no dead; but that life goes
on always only under fresh form. The fading
rose sheds its pollen only to give birth to
other roses, and its scattered petals scent the
air. The fruits come when the blossoms fall
from the trees; when the grub dies the brilliant
butterfly is born. Nothing perishes;
there are only changes.</p>
<p>Beautiful birds circled about Tyltyl and
Mytyl. There were no blue ones among
them, but the two children were so happy over
their discovery that they asked for nothing
more.</p>
<p>Relieved and delighted they kept repeating:</p>
<p>“There are no dead! There are no dead!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<!--chapter-->
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_370"></SPAN>[370]</span></p>
<h3><SPAN name="LITTLE_BOY_BLUE">LITTLE BOY BLUE</SPAN></h3>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Alfred Noyes</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Summon the day of deliverance in;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">As we yearn for the home that we never shall win;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ah! when shall the song of the ransomed begin?</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The world is grown weary with waiting so long.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave</div>
<div class="verse indent2">As the skylark sings to those infinite skies!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">This world is a dream, say the old and the wise,</div>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN id="Page_371"></SPAN>[371]</span>
<div class="verse indent2">And its rainbows arise o’er the false and the true</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Sound but a note as a little one may,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And the Healer shall wipe all tears away;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Little Boy Blue, we are all astray,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The sheep’s in the meadow, the cows in the corn,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ah, set the world right, as a little one may;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!</div>
</div>
</div></div>
<p class="titlepage">THE END</p>
<SPAN name="endofbook"></SPAN>
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