Child's Story Garden, - [ebook reader wifi .txt] 📗
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and the boys and the schoolmaster had to walk very fast to keep warm.
But little Hans did not mind the cold so much, because the stars smiled
down upon him and seemed like so many diamonds set in a deep blue
canopy, each one glittering and flashing in the darkness. The snow, too,
was a sparkling mass, and Hans wondered if the stars could see
themselves reflected in the tiny snow crystals which covered the earth.
At last they reached the church, whose windows were shedding forth a
soft, golden light on the stillness and darkness of the cold winter
night. This little group of worshipers quietly passed into the church
and sank noiselessly into their pews. It was a beautiful place to Hans.
He loved it dearly, and was always happy to come here. The candles were
all lighted, and they burned steadily brighter and brighter, filling the
church with a beautiful mellow light. The grand old organ softly and
clearly sent forth its tones, each one growing richer, deeper and
sweeter, and gradually the voices of the choir boys and the tones of the
organ filled the old church with such beautiful music that little Hans’s
heart seemed to bound within him, and his whole soul was enraptured,
while there shone from his face a radiance that only a divine
inspiration could bring forth.
At length, after the people had sung, each one knelt and offered
thanksgiving to the Heavenly Father, little Hans, too, knelt and offered
thanks for the blessings which he had received during that year, and for
the tender care of the Father of all.
The people then quietly passed out of the warm church into the cold of
the night. Hans was the last one out, and as he carefully made his way
down the icy steps he noticed a little boy no larger than himself
sitting on the steps, with his head resting against the church. He was
fast asleep. His face was beautiful, and seemed clothed in a golden
light. Beside him, tied in a cloth, were a square, a hammer, a saw and
other tools of a carpenter. He had neither shoes nor stockings on his
feet, although his clothing was spotless and of the purest white. It
grieved Hans that the child should have no shoes, not even one to place
for the Christ-child to fill with gifts.
Hans stooped and took from his right foot the wooden shoe and placed it
in front of the sleeping child, so that the Christ-child would not pass
him by. Hans then limped along on the ice and snow, not feeling how cold
it was, but only thinking of the poor child asleep out in the cold.
The other boys were talking of the good things awaiting them at home, of
the feasts, the plum pudding, the Christmas trees, and the many drums,
wagons and blocks the Christ-child would put in their shoes that night.
When Hans arrived home he found his aunt awaiting him, and when she saw
that he had only one shoe, and he had told her all about the other one,
she was very angry with him, and sent him to bed. Hans placed the wooden
shoe from his left foot at the fireside, hoping that the Christ-child
would remember him as he passed by.
The first sunbeam that crept into Hans’s bedroom and kissed him the next
morning awoke him, and he bounded downstairs, and flew to the great open
fireplace to find his shoe.
Hans rubbed his eyes and caught his breath, for, to his great surprise,
there were both of his wooden shoes, filled with beautiful toys; by the
fireside he found warm clothing and many other things to make him
comfortable and happy.
Hearing loud voices, Hans went to the door. The people were standing in
a crowd about the priest, who was talking to them. He told Hans that
where he had seen the child asleep on the church steps there was now in
the window above a beautiful crown set with precious jewels. He said
that the child was the Christ-child, whom the Heavenly Father had again
sent among men on earth for that night, and that it was He with whom
Hans had shared his wooden shoes.
The people bowed themselves before that miracle that the good God had
seen fit to work, to reward the faith and charity of a child.
Francois Coppee, [Adapted]
THE MYTH OF ARACHNEA long time ago there lived a maiden whose name was Arachne. She could
weave the most beautiful fabrics that people had ever seen. She chose
the most exquisite colors. They were the colors that were found in the
flowers, the green of the trees and grass, and the varied, dainty tints
and shades from the blue sky and its gorgeous sunsets.
People had said that Arachne learned to weave from the birds, although
some of them thought that Arachne had been taught to weave by the
goddess Athena. When Arachne heard that the people thought that Athena
had taught her to weave she became very angry. She declared that Athena
had not taught her to weave; that no one had taught her. She said she
would compete with the goddess Athena in weaving. The goddess Athena was
a noble goddess. She was the Goddess of Wisdom, and of all the Arts and
Crafts. When she heard what Arachne had declared she said: “It is very
wrong that Arachne should be so proud and envious. I will go to see
her.”
The goddess Athena disguised herself in humble apparel and visited
Arachne. She talked with her about her weaving, and still Arachne
boasted of the wonderful weaving she could do; but the goddess told her
that she was foolish to be so boastful.
This made Arachne angry, and she said: “I am not afraid at all, not of
any one in the world.” At this moment the goddess threw aside her plain
garments and revealed herself the goddess Athena. This did not frighten
Arachne. She looked calmly at Athena and told her that she would give up
anything, even her life, to prove to the people that she could weave
even better than the goddess.
They then set about to arrange their looms, to select their threads, and
to begin work. At last they began. Whirr! Whirr! went the shuttles.
Spin! Spin! they sang, faster and faster, in and out, over and under,
flew the shuttles.
Arachne had chosen the most delicate, lovely threads that she could
find, but while she wove these beautiful threads she was thinking of her
revenge and other evil and wicked thoughts, while her skillful and swift
fingers moved faster and faster.
At the same time Athena was sitting in the sunlight, busily and
carefully weaving over and under, and in and out, her dainty, beautiful
silken threads, which seemed to have come from the very sunbeams
themselves. The colors were most harmonious and exquisite. Even the
rainbow was surpassed. Athena was thinking of the fleecy clouds, which
were to her as white ships that sailed through the blue sea of the sky.
She thought of the brown earth, with its emerald decking of trees and
meadows; of the buttercups and daisies of gold, and the roses and lilies
which dotted Mother Earth’s carpet. She thought of the butterflies that
flitted about, and of the birds, in coats of red, blue, glossy black,
and dazzling gold.
When Arachne looked at Athena’s work she shuddered with shame, for,
although her own work had been skillfully done, it was marred by the
envy, malice and evil thoughts she had woven into it. While Athena’s
work was no more skillfully woven, it was by far the more beautiful. The
azure sky, with fluffy white clouds; the meadows, dotted with flowers,
and fields, with their shady green trees, filled with birds of gorgeous
hues, all made a wonderful picture.
Poor Arachne knew her fate. She hastened away and took with her the
threads that she had been using in weaving, and wrapped them about her
neck. She thought she would end her life by hanging to a tree. This made
the beautiful and kind Athena sad, and she said to Arachne: “You must
live—live on forever,” and she touched Arachne and changed her form.
Arachne gradually grew smaller and smaller, until she was no larger than
a honeybee. She had many legs and wore a brown, fuzzy coat. Instead of
hanging by the threads she had used she now hung from a dainty silken
spider web, for Arachne was still a weaver, but not a weaver as of old.
Today, perchance, if you should see a busy little spider, it might be
one of Arachne’s children, or perhaps Arachne herself. No one
knows—neither you nor I.
THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTHIt was spring, and the little town of Killingworth told of the joy of
living again. Every little rivulet had broken from its frozen chain,
which had held it fast during the long winter, and was rushing on,
rejoicing at its freedom. The purple buds, holding wonderful secrets of
things to come, were bursting forth from every tree and bush, while from
the topmost boughs the birds called and sang to their mates: “Oh! be
happy, be happy, for spring has come!”
There were all the messengers of spring—the robin, the oriole, and the
bluebird—filling the orchard with their glad melody. The little sparrow
chirped in glee for the very joy of living, and the hungry crows, in
great crowds, called loudly the tidings of spring. But not long could
they stop to sing, for the homes must be made, and soon from every tree
and bush could be seen these dainty, downy nests, and in every nest the
eggs, and in every egg a wonderful secret about which all the happy
birds twittered and sang together.
The farmers, as they plowed their fields and made their gardens that
spring, heard these treetop concerts, and saw the multitude playing and
working about them, and they shook their heads and said: “Never before
have we had so many birds in Killingworth. We must surely do something,
or they will eat up half of our crops, and take the grain and fruits
that should go to feed our own children.” Then it was decided to have a
meeting. All in the town were free to come, and here they were to decide
what was to be done with the troublesome birds. The meeting was held in
the new town hall, and to it came all the great men of the town, and
from far and near the farmers gathered. The great hall was crowded. The
doors and windows were open, and through them came a beautiful flood of
bird music, but the sturdy farmers and great men shook their heads as
they heard it. And then they told how the birds were eating the grains
and spoiling the fruit, and every one said the birds must go. There
seemed to be not a single friend to the singers outside, until one man
arose—the teacher in the town, much loved by the children, and himself
loving everything that God had made. He looked sadly on the men around
him, and then he said:
“My friends, can you drive away these birds that God has made and sent
to us, for a few handfuls of grain and a little fruit? Will you lose all
this music that you hear outside? Think of the woods and orchard without
the birds, and of the empty nests you will see. You say the birds are
robbing you; but instead they are your greatest helpers. With their
bright little eyes they see the little bugs and worms which destroy the
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