The Story of Doctor Dolittle  by Hugh Lofting

The Black Prince

Y the edge of the river they stopped and said farewell.

This took a long time, because all those thousands of monkeys wanted to shake John Dolittle by the hand.

Afterwards, when the Doctor and his pets were going on alone, Polynesia said,

"We must tread softly and talk low as we go through the land of the Jolliginki. If the King should hear us, he will send his soldiers to catch us again; for I am sure he is still very angry over the trick I played on him."

"What I am wondering," said the Doctor, "is where we are going to get another boat to go home in. . . . Oh well, perhaps we'll find one lying about on the beach that nobody is using. 'Never lift your foot till you come to the stile.' "

One day, while they were passing through a very thick part of the forest, Chee-Chee went ahead of them to look for cocoanuts. And while he was away, the Doctor and the rest of the animals, who did not know the jungle-paths so well, got lost in the deep woods. They wandered around and around but could not find their way down to the seashore.

Chee-Chee, when he could not see them anywhere, was terribly upset. He climbed high trees and looked out from the top branches to try and see the Doctor's high hat; he waved and shouted; he called to all the animals by name. But it was no use. They seemed to have disappeared altogether.

Indeed they had lost their way very badly. They had strayed a long way off the path, and the jungle was so thick with bushes and creepers and vines that sometimes they could hardly move at all, and the Doctor had to take out his pocket-knife and cut his way along. They stumbled into wet, boggy places; they got all tangled up in thick convolvulus-runners; they scratched themselves on thorns, and twice they nearly lost the medicine-bag in the under-brush. There seemed no end to their troubles; and nowhere could they come upon a path.

At last, after blundering about like this for many days, getting their clothes torn and their faces covered with mud, they walked right into the King's back-garden by mistake. The King's men came running up at once and caught them.

But Polynesia flew into a tree in the garden, without anybody seeing her, and hid herself. The Doctor and the rest were taken before the King.

"Ha, ha!" cried the King. "So you are caught again! This time you shall not escape. Take them all back to prison and put double locks on the door. This White Man shall scrub my kitchen-floor for the rest of his life!"

So the Doctor and his pets were led back to prison and locked up. And the Doctor was told that in the morning he must begin scrubbing the kitchen-floor.

They were all very unhappy.

"This is a great nuisance," said the Doctor. "I really must get back to Puddleby. That poor sailor will think I've stolen his ship if I don't get home soon. . . . I wonder if those hinges are loose."

But the door was very strong and firmly locked. There seemed no chance of getting out. Then Gub-Gub began to cry again.

All this time Polynesia was still sitting in the tree in the palace-garden. She was saying nothing and blinking her eyes.

This was always a very bad sign with Polynesia. Whenever she said nothing and blinked her eyes, it meant that somebody had been making trouble, and she was thinking out some way to put things right. People who made trouble for Polynesia or her friends were nearly always sorry for it afterwards.

Presently she spied Chee-Chee swinging through the trees still looking for the Doctor. When Chee-Chee saw her, he came into her tree and asked her what had become of him.

"The Doctor and all the animals have been caught by the King's men and locked up again," whispered Polynesia. "We lost our way in the jungle and blundered into the palace-garden by mistake."

"But couldn't you guide them?" asked Chee-Chee; and he began to scold the parrot for letting them get lost while he was away looking for the cocoanuts.

"It was all that stupid pig's fault," said Polynesia. "He would keep running off the path hunting for ginger-roots. And I was kept so busy catching him and bringing him back, that I turned to the left, instead of the right, when we reached the swamp.—Sh!—Look! There's Prince Bumpo coming into the garden! He must not see us.—Don't move, whatever you do!"

And there, sure enough, was Prince Bumpo, the King's son, opening the garden-gate. He carried a book of fairy-tales under his arm. He came strolling down the gravel-walk, humming a sad song, till he reached a stone seat right under the tree where the parrot and the monkey were hiding. Then he lay down on the seat and began reading the fairy-stories to himself.

He began reading the fairy-stories to himself.

Chee-Chee and Polynesia watched him, keeping very quiet and still.

After a while the King's son laid the book down and sighed a weary sigh.

"If I were only a white  prince!" said he, with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes.

Then the parrot, talking in a small, high voice like a little girl, said aloud,

"Bumpo, some one might turn thee into a white prince perchance."

The King's son started up off the seat and looked all around.

"What is this I hear?" he cried. "Methought the sweet music of a fairy's silver voice rang from yonder bower! Strange!"

"Worthy Prince," said Polynesia, keeping very still so Bumpo couldn't see her, "thou sayest winged words of truth. For 'tis I, Tripsitinka, the Queen of the Fairies, that speak to thee. I am hiding in a rose-bud."

"Oh tell me, Fairy-Queen," cried Bumpo, clasping his hands in joy, "who is it can turn me white?"

"In thy father's prison," said the parrot, "there lies a famous wizard, John Dolittle by name. Many things he knows of medicine and magic, and mighty deeds has he performed. Yet thy kingly father leaves him languishing long and lingering hours. Go to him, brave Bumpo, secretly, when the sun has set; and behold, thou shalt be made the whitest prince that ever won fair lady! I have said enough. I must now go back to Fairyland. Farewell!"

"Farewell!" cried the Prince. "A thousand thanks, good Tripsitinka!"

And he sat down on the seat again with a smile upon his face, waiting for the sun to set.

 

Anonymous

The Light-Hearted Fairy

Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho! As the light-hearted fairy, heigh ho, Heigh ho! He dances and sings To the sound of his wings, With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho! Oh, who is so merry, so airy, heigh ho! As the light-headed fairy, heigh ho, Heigh ho! His nectar he sips From the primroses' lips, With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho! Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho! As the light-footed fairy, heigh ho, Heigh ho! His night is the noon, And his sun is the moon, With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!

 

Stories of Great Americans for Little Americans  by Edward Eggleston

Marion's Tower

G ENERAL MARION was one of the best fighters in the Revolution. He was a homely little man. He was also a very good man. Another general said, "Marion is good all over."

The American army had been beaten in South Carolina. Marion was sent there to keep the British from taking the whole country.

Marion got together a little army. His men had nothing but rough clothes to wear. They had no guns but the old ones they had used to shoot wild ducks and deer with.

Marion's men wanted swords. There were no swords to be had. But Marion sent men to take the long saws out of the saw mills. These were taken to blacksmiths. The blacksmiths cut the saws into pieces. These pieces they hammered out into long, sharp swords.

Marion had not so many men as the British. He had no cannon. He could not build forts. He could not stay long in one place, for fear the British should come with a strong army and take him. He and his men hid in the dark woods. Sometimes he changed his hiding place suddenly. Even his own friends had hard work to find him.

From the dark woods he would come out suddenly. He would attack some party of British soldiers. When the battle was over, he would go back to the woods again.

When the British sent a strong army to catch him, he could not be found. But soon he would be fighting the British in some new place. He was always playing hide and seek.

The British called him the Swamp Fox. That was because he was so hard to catch. They could not conquer the country until they could catch Marion. And they never could catch the Swamp Fox. At one time Marion came out of the woods to take a little British fort. This fort was on the top of a high mound. It was one of the mounds built a long time ago by the Indians.

Marion put his men all round the fort, so that the men in the fort could not get out to get water. He thought that they would have to give up. But the men in the fort dug a well inside the fort. Then Marion had to think of another plan.

Marion's men went to the woods and cut down stout poles. They got a great many poles. When night came, they laid a row of poles alongside one another on the ground. Then they laid another row across these. Then they laid another row on top of the last ones, and across the other way again.

Marion's Tower

They laid a great many rows of poles one on top of another. They crossed them this way and that. As the night went on, the pile grew higher. Still they handed poles to the men on top of the pile.

Before morning came, they had built a kind of tower. It was higher than the Indian mound.

As soon as it was light, the men on Marion's tower began to shoot. The British looked out. They saw a great tower with men on it. The men could shoot down into the fort. The British could not stand it. They had to give up. They were taken prisoners.

 

A. A. Milne

Jonathan Jo

Jonathan Jo Has a mouth like an "O" And a wheelbarrow full of surprises; If you ask for a bat, Or for something like that, He has got it, whatever the size is. If you're wanting a ball, It's no trouble at all; Why, the more that you ask for, the merrier— Like a hoop and a top, And a watch that won't stop, And some sweets, and an Aberdeen terrier. Jonathan Jo Has a mouth like an "O" But this is what makes him so funny: If you give him a smile, Only once in a while, Then he never expects any money!

 

Among the Pond People  by Clara Dillingham Pierson

The Crayfish Mother

T HREE Stickleback Mothers and several Clams were visiting under the lily-pads in the early morning. Mother Eel was also there. "Yes," she said, "I am glad to come back and be among my old friends, and the children are happier here. As I often tell Mr. Eel, there is no place like one's home. We had a hard journey, but I do not mind that. We are rested now, and travel does teach people so much. I should think you would get dreadfully tired of being in the water all the time. I want my children to see the world. Now they know grass, and trees, and air, and dry ground. There are not many children of their age who know more than they. We stayed in a brook the one day we were gone, so they have felt running water too. It was clean—I will say that for it—but it was no place for Eels, and so we came back."

There is no telling how long she would have kept on talking if she had not been called away. As soon as she left, the Sticklebacks began to talk about her.

"So she thinks we must be tired of staying in the water all the time," said one. "It doesn't tire me nearly so much as it would to go dragging myself over the country, wearing out my fins on the ground."

"Indeed?" said a Clam, to whom she turned as she spoke.

"Well, I'll tell you what I think," said another Stickleback Mother. "I think that if she didn't care so much for travel herself, she would not be dragging her family around to learn grass and trees. Some night they will be learning Owls or men, and that will be the end of them!"

"I do not believe in it at all," said the first speaker. "I certainly would not want my sons to learn these things, for they must grow up to be good nest-builders and baby-tenders. I have told their fathers particularly to bring them up to be careful housekeepers. With my daughters, it is different."

For a long time nobody spoke; then a Clam said, "What a difference there is in mothers!" It quite startled the Sticklebacks to hear a Clam say so much. It showed how interested he was, and well he might be. The Clam who brings up children has to do it alone, and be both father and mother to them, and of course that is hard work. It is hard, too, because when a little Clam is naughty, his parent can never say that he takes his naughtiness from any one else.

"And there is a difference in fathers too," exclaimed one fine-looking Stickleback Mother. "I  say that a father's place is by the nest, and that if he does his work there well, he will not have much time to want to travel, or to loaf around by the shore." The Clams looked at each other and said nothing. Some people thought that the Stickleback Mothers were lazy.

Just then a Crayfish Mother came swimming slowly along, stopping often to rest. Her legs were almost useless, there were so many little Crayfishes clinging to them.

"Now look at her," said one Stickleback. "Just look at her. She laid her eggs at the beginning of last winter and fastened them to her legs. Said she was so afraid something would happen if she left them, and that this was a custom in her family anyway. Now they have hatched, and her children hang on to her in the same way."

The Crayfish Mother stopped with a sigh. "Isn't it dreadfully warm?" said she.

"We haven't found it so," answered the Sticklebacks, while the Clams murmured "No."

"Let me take some of your children," said one Stickleback. "Perhaps carrying them has made you warm and tired."

The Crayfish stuck her tail-paddles into the mud, and spread her pinching-claws in front of her family. "Oh no, thank you," said she. "They won't be contented with any one but me."

"That must make it hard for you," said another Stickleback politely. She was thinking how quickly she would shake off the little Crayfishes if they were her children.

"It does," answered their mother. "It is hard, for I carried the eggs on my legs all through the cold weather and until it was very warm again; and now that they are hatched, the children hang on with their pinching-claws. Still, I can't bear to shake them off, poor little things!" She held up first one leg and then another to show off her dangling babies.

"I don't know what will happen to them when I cast my shell," said she. "I shall have to soon, for I can hardly breathe in it. My sister changed hers some time ago, and her new one is getting hard already."

"Oh, they'll be all right," said a Stickleback cheerfully. "Their fathers tell me that my children learn remarkably fast how to look out for themselves."

"But my children can't walk yet," said the Crayfish Mother, "and they don't know how to swim."

"What of that?" asked a Stickleback, who was beginning to lose her patience. "They can learn, can't they? They have eight legs apiece, haven't they, besides the ones that have pincers? Isn't that enough to begin on? And haven't they tail-paddles also?"

"I suppose so," said their mother, with a sigh, "but they don't seem to want to go. I must put them to sleep now and try to get a little rest myself, for the sun is well up."

The next night she awakened and remembered what the Sticklebacks had said, so she thought she would try shaking her children off. "It is for your own good," she said, and she waved first one leg and then another. When she had got four of her legs free, and stood on them to shake the other four, her children scrambled back to her and took hold again with their strong little pinching-claws. Then she gave it up. "You dear tiny things!" she said. "But I do wish you would walk instead of making me carry you."

"We don't want to!" they cried; "we don't know how."

"There, there!" said their mother. "No, to be sure you don't."

The next night, though, they had to let go, for their mother was casting her shell. When it was off she lay weak and helpless on the pond-bottom, and her children lay around her. They behaved very badly indeed. "Come here and let me catch hold of you," cried one. "I can't walk," said another, "because I don't know how."

Some of them were so cross that they just lay on their backs and kicked with all their eight feet, and screamed, "I won't  try!" It was dreadful!

The Crayfish Mother was too weak to move, and when the Wise Old Crayfish came along she spoke to him. "My children will not walk," said she, "even when I tell them to." He knew that it was because when she had told them to do things before, she had not made them mind.

"I will see what I can do," said he, "but you must not say a word." He walked backward to where they were, and kept his face turned toward their mother, which was polite of him. "Do you want the Eels to find you here?" he said, in his gruffest voice. "If you don't, you'd better run."

What a scrambling there was! In one way or another, every little Crayfish scampered away. Some went forward, some went sidewise, and some went backward. Some didn't keep step with themselves very well at first, but they soon found out how. Even the crossest ones, who were lying on their backs flopped over and were off.

The Wise Old Crayfish turned to their mother. "It is no trouble to teach ten-legged children to walk," said he, "if you go at it in the right way."

The little Crayfishes soon got together again, and while they were talking, one of their many aunts came along with all her children hanging to her legs. Then the little Crayfishes who had just learned to walk, pointed their pinching-claws at their cousins, and said, "Sh-h-h! 'Fore I'd let my mother carry me! Babies!"

 

Anonymous

Grasshopper Green

Grasshopper Green is a comical chap; He lives on the best of fare. Bright little trousers, jacket and cap, These are his summer wear. Out in the meadow he loves to go, Playing away in the sun; Its hopperty, skipperty, high and low— Summer's the time for fun. Grasshopper Green has a dozen wee boys, And soon as their legs grow strong Each of them joins in his frolicsome joys, Singing his merry song. Under the hedge in a happy row Soon as the day has begun It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low— Summer's the time for fun. Grasshopper Green has a quaint little house. It's under the hedge so gay. Grandmother Spider, as still as a mouse, Watches him over the way. Gladly he's calling the children, I know, Out in the beautiful sun; It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low— Summer's the time for fun.

 

Fairy Tales Too Good To Miss—Around the Fire  by Lisa M. Ripperton

The Ragged Pedlar

A T the foot of a big, bleak mountain stood a small town in which all the people were grumblers. They were never satisfied with anything and they were always unhappy.

"Ours is only a very small town," said the tradesmen. "Visitors never come to us, merchants never tarry with their caravans."

"We have no beautiful buildings, no fine squares and streets," said others, "and the mountain which frowns on us is bare of vegetation and always looks gloomy and even threatening."

"We have no rich inhabitants," said those who were lazy. "We have all to work, work continually for a bare subsistence."

Even the children were discontented, and lay idly on the ground at the street corners when the day was hot. Nobody seemed to notice that the fields at the foot of the mountain were bright and fresh and beautifully green for several months in the year, and that when the snow covered the mountain it glistened and shone dazzlingly white in the sunshine and glowed rosy pink in the sunset.

It was true that nothing seemed to happen in the town, but if there were no wealthy dwellers, there were also very few poor people. Nobody had much to give away, and so everybody was compelled to work to earn his living. But people who grumble do not notice these things.

One day when the weather had been very hot and the people lazier than ever, a strange visitor came into town just before the sun began to set. The heat was passing, a little breeze was beginning to spring up, and even the barren mountain began to look a little beautiful under the rosy glow of the sky. Some of the huge, frowning boulders and great stones began to reflect the setting sun until they shone like gold.

Perhaps the strange visitor noticed this, if the inhabitants did not, and he called out, in a loud, musical voice—

"Come hither, ye dwellers of this beautiful city of the setting sun. Yon mountain shines like burnished gold, your hundreds of roofs and minarets and domes and spires reflect the rosy hue of the sky. Yet ye are not happy. Come to me and I will sell you happiness."

The people all laughed loudly.

"What manner of fool are you?" they said to the visitor, "and where did you get those strange clothes?"

"Yes, and what did you pay for them?" asked the children.

"I paid naught for this magnificent traveling outfit," replied the stranger.

Everybody roared with laughter when he said this, because the man was dressed in rags! Except for a huge basket slung from his shoulders and a long rope wound round his body, he wore almost nothing. The rest was made up of a few patches of different colours. In his quaint cap were many holes through which his unkempt hair wound itself in fantastic fashion.

"It must take you an hour to remove your hat," said one.

"Oh, no," answered the pedlar, and he took it off with a flourish and put it back again, and every hair found its way through its old hole as if by magic!

"Thou art no ordinary pedlar, sir stranger," said Ahmed, the fishmonger, to him.

"Have I not said so?" replied the pedlar. "I sell happiness."

"If thou but sellest cheaply," returned Ahmed, "thou shouldst do well here. Set down thy basket."

The big basket jumped from the man's shoulders by itself and stood itself upside down in the midst of the crowd that had gathered. The people stared in great wonderment.

"There can be nothing in it," they said.

Immediately the basket of its own accord turned a somersault and stood the other way up. It was empty.

"The man must be mad," cried Ahmed.

"And the basket bewitched," added Mustapha Ben, the tailor.

The pedlar said nothing, but handed the end of the rope which was round his waist to one of the children. The child took it and began to pull. The pedlar spun round and round like a top until the people could hardly see him, and the rope that unwound itself seemed endless. It lay coil upon coil upon the ground until it made a pile as high as the basket. Then the man stopped spinning. He took one end of the rope and threw it up in the air. Away it spun, uncoiling itself right to the other end of the street where it caught itself neatly on a post. There was a post a few yards away from where the pedlar was standing, and he threw the loose end of the rope towards that. Again it caught, and the people then noticed that the rope was just the length of the distance between the two posts.

"A funny performance," they all said. "What does it mean, sir pedlar?"

"My store is open; I am ready to begin business," he replied.

"But where are your wares?"

"You will supply those," was the answer, as the man took up his basket.

"Now then," he cried, "all you who are unhappy bring here your miseries, your discontentments. I will exchange them for happiness."

Everybody found that they could each bring their unhappiness and they rushed forward eagerly to put it into the basket. Soon it seemed quite full. There was not a man or woman in the town that did not bring something. Even many of the children had some thing to put into the basket.

"Observe now," said the pedlar, and he took the basket and lifted it on to the rope. It stood there, balancing itself like a tight-rope walker.

"Do your duty," commanded the pedlar, and the basket began to roll over and over along the rope. All along it tumbled merrily, dropping the troubles as it went until everyone of them hung nicely across the rope. There was Ahmed's lame leg, Mustapha Ben's red hair, Granny Yochki's crutch, Suliman's empty pockets, and lots of other queer things. Every cause of unhappiness and discontent in the town was hung upon the line.

"Hearken now unto me, ye good people of the city of the setting sun," cried the pedlar, in his loud, musical voice. "The day is waning fast, and I cannot stay with you. I promised to barter all your miseries for happiness. It is a simple task. Take each of you from the line the smallest trouble that you can see."

At once there was a big rush forward and a general scramble to snatch the smallest thing from the line. Everybody to his surprise, as he looked over other peoples' troubles, found that his own was the smallest. In a few seconds the line was quite empty.

"Have each of you taken the smallest trouble?" asked the pedlar.

"Yes," answered Mustapha Ben, fixing on his red hair again.

"Yes," cried the others in chorus.

"Then rest ye content, good people of the city of the setting sun," answered the pedlar, in his strong, musical voice. "Come, my faithful basket and rope," and the basket jumped on to his shoulder and the rope wound itself rapidly round his body.

"Farewell, be contented," he sang out in a cheerful voice, and the people saw him ascend the barren mountain still glowing like gold in the setting sun. When he got to the top, he waved his hand and disappeared.

And ever after the people ceased to grumble.

The Pedlar's Song

Will you buy any tape, Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-O? Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, Of the newest and finest wear-O?

 

Robert Louis Stevenson

Marching Song

Bring the comb and play upon it! Marching, here we come! Willie cocks his highland bonnet, Johnnie beats the drum. Mary Jane commands the party, Peter leads the rear; Feet in time, alert and hearty, Each a Grenadier! All in the most martial manner Marching double-quick; While the napkin, like a banner, Waves upon the stick! Here's enough of fame and pillage, Great commander Jane! Now that we've been round the village, Let's go home again.

 

On the Shores of the Great Sea  by M. B. Synge

The Fall of Tyre

"Is this your joyous city, whose antiquity is of ancient days?" —Isaiah xxiii. 7.

S O the Greek nation slowly arose on the shores of the Great Sea, and by-and-by the colonies founded by Phœnicia, in Greece, had to be given up one by one. No longer were the Phœnicians free to come and go, to buy and sell, along the opposite shores. Greek cities rose, Greek ships put to sea, Phœnician colonies became Greek colonies.

But if a dangerous rival had appeared by sea, a yet more dangerous one had appeared by land. Nebuchadnezzar was King of Babylon, and Babylon was growing very powerful and strong. And this great king came down from the north, with chariots and horses and much people; he captured Sidon, laid low Jerusalem, and then came to reduce the renowned old city of Tyre.

For the last time, through the piercing eyes of Ezekiel, we seem to see Tyre, the old queen of commerce, in all her ancient glory:—

"The ships of Tarshish were thy caravans for thy merchandise: And thou wast replenished, and made very glorious in the heart of the sea. Thy rowers have brought thee into great waters: The east wind hath broken thee in the heart of the sea. And all that handle the oar, the mariners, and all the pilots of the sea, They shall come down from their ships, they shall stand upon the land; And shall cause their voice to be heard over thee, and shall cry bitterly. .     .     .     .     .     .     .     . And they shall weep for thee in bitterness of soul with bitter mourning. And in their wailing they shall take up a lamentation for thee, And lament over thee, saying, Who is there like Tyre, Like her that is brought to silence in the midst of the seas?"

And Nebuchadnezzar made forts against Tyre; he set his battering engines against her walls—those walls that Hiram had built so strong. He broke down her towers; her walls shook at the noise of his horsemen, when he entered into her gates. With the hoofs of his horses he trod down all her streets; he slew her people with the sword; he took her gold and silver, broke down her walls, destroyed her pleasant houses, while her timber from Lebanon, he cast into the waters.

Well, indeed, might the prophet Isaiah cry, "Howl, ye ships of Tarshish; for your strong place is laid waste."

Phœnicia fell in the year 574 B.C.

So busy had they been with the vast expansion of their trade on the seas that they had neglected home defence; when invasion came, they were powerless. Again, they had collected great wealth, but they had no worthy use for it. They did not understand, that wealth, if used aright, is but a means to nobler ends. To the Phœnicians it was an end in itself. The old Egyptian civilisation had not affected them, the wondrous new beginnings of Greek art did not appeal to them. They were the conquerors of the sea, the first colonisers in the Old World, and as such will always be remembered.

They have been compared to a flower that has bloomed too much and withered at its root; but the work was done, the seed had fallen in many places.

They vanished from the pages of history, leaving but memories behind, and now the tideless waters of the Mediterranean Sea lap peacefully over the old cities of Tyre and Sidon, while the world-famed Phœnicia of ancient days plays no part in the busy world of commerce which has shifted westwards.

 

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The City Child

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury bells." Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty house, this city house of ours? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and king-cups and honeysuckle flowers."

 

The Filipino Twins  by Lucy Fitch Perkins

The Prize

T HREE o'clock in the afternoon was the time set for the prizes to be given out at the exhibition, and all the rest of the morning was spent by the teacher and the town president and other important persons of the village in examining the things sent in by the children and deciding which ones were the best. No one else was allowed in the schoolhouse while this important matter was being settled, so the crowds drifted away for their siestas, and quiet settled upon the village.

Petra and the children took their rest in a coconut grove near the schoolhouse and there ate the lunch they had brought with them. Two o'clock came, and still Felix did not appear. At three o'clock, when the schoolhouse was again opened, Ramon left his rooster hidden in the coconut grove with Dingo to guard it, and with his mother and sister joined the crowd before the door. Just as they were going in, they saw Felix drive up with old Bobtail and the empty cart. Petra looked anxiously at Felix as he joined them.

"Did you sell it all?" she whispered.

Felix nodded. "Can't tell you about it now," he answered, and, following the crowd, they entered the exhibition room.

The room was so changed the children scarcely knew it. The walls were covered with palm leaves, and great bunches of flowers filled the corners with color. On each child's desk his own work was displayed. There were great piles of fresh vegetables raised in the home gardens; there were folds of sinamay cloth woven on hand looms. There was embroidery wrought by the girls, and carved coconut bowls made by the boys. There were baskets of bamboo and mats woven from the leaves of the nipa palms.

It was a wonderful exhibition. The teacher beamed with pride, and all the fathers and mothers went about from desk to desk admiring the work of the children. Rita's basket stood in solitary splendor on her desk, but on Ramon's desk there was nothing. His desk and José's were the only empty ones in the whole room.

It was too much for Ramon. He slipped quietly under the elbows of the crowd and went out into the coconut grove, and, if he shed a few tears there, no one knew it but Dingo, and Dingo never told.

It was not long, however, before his curiosity got the better of his grief and he went back and squeezed himself into the crowded room again. He peeped through a crack between two men who were standing in front of him and saw the president mount the platform to give out the prizes. He was holding Rita's basket in his hand, and these are the very words Ramon heard him say:—

"The first prize is awarded to Rita Santos for this beautiful basket. There are other fine baskets here, made by other children, but Rita is the only one who cut and prepared the material by herself. She also designed the shape and the pattern." Then there was a great clapping of hands. The crowd parted and he saw Rita go forward and receive from the hands of the president himself her own basket with a crisp bank note in it. He saw his father and mother beaming with pride in their daughter. Then he saw his mother search the whole room with her eyes to find him and see if he, too, was sharing in Rita's triumph. It was a hard moment for Ramon. He felt like making a break for the coconut grove again to mope by himself, but just then his mother caught his eye and smiled at him so trustingly he couldn't possibly do anything but smile back at her. After the first smile, a second one came easier, and by the time the prizes were all given out and the crowd had left the hot room for the school yard, he was able to act almost as if his sister's triumph were his very own. He stood with his father and mother while all their neighbors and friends crowded about to admire Rita's basket, and no one but his own family even guessed how disappointed he felt over his part in the exhibition.

While they were standing there, two American ladies from the Manila party came out of the schoolhouse, and one of them, seeing Rita, said to the other, "That's the little girl that took the first prize." Then she held out her hand. "May I see your basket?" she said.

Rita handed it to her, and every one gazed at the strangers as they admired the workmanship and the beauty of the design.

"Think of her having done it all herself!" said the elder of the two ladies, as she turned the basket round and round in her hand. "I should like to take it home with me to show American children what fine work Filipino children can do all by themselves." She turned to Rita. "Would you be willing to sell me your basket?" she asked.

Rita gasped. The basket was her dearest possession. She loved it more than she loved anything in the world except her father and mother and Ramon. How could she bear to part with it? She put out a hand to seize it, then she thought of the rice-harvest and the fish-nets and how very much they needed money, and drew it back again. Still she did not speak.

"I will give you ten pesos for it," said the lady.

Ten pesos! To the little daughter of Felix Santos it was a fortune. She hugged her basket to her breast for an instant, then put it in the lady's hand.

The exhibition at the schoolhouse was only one of many festivities, and the crowd soon scattered to see what else was going on in the village, leaving the Santos family in the coconut grove.

When they were by themselves Rita thrust her prize money and her ten pesos into Felix's hand.

"Now you can buy the nets," she said, and hid her shining face in her mother's neck.

Felix looked at the money and his eyes filled with tears. Petra hugged her daughter and neither spoke for a moment. Ramon, feeling that he had been cheated out of his share in the rescue of the family fortunes, glared reproachfully at his rooster, and Dingo, seeing his master's dejection, crept to his side and licked his hand.

"If that fool rooster hadn't gone and spoiled it all, I should have had some money for you, too," said Ramon, winking very hard.

His mother smiled at him and, opening her arms, hugged both children at once. "Of course you would," she said. "I know that you wanted to help." Then she looked up at her husband, who was still standing turning the money over and over in his hands as if he could not believe that it was real and feared it might fly away again as suddenly as it had come.

"Don't you think we might buy back some of the rice now?" she said. "The boat can't have left the dock yet, for the ladies from Manila were here only a minute ago."

Felix came to life at once. "Jump up," he cried to Ramon, pointing to old Bobtail, and in another moment Ramon was on the carabao's back and the cart was rumbling down the street with Felix trotting beside it. Rita, her mother, and Dingo followed after it as fast as they could run.

Just as they reached the dock, the whistle of the steamer blew a fearful blast and people began hurrying to the gang-plank. Ramon saw visions of the bags of rice being carried away beyond all hope of recovery and, digging his heels into old Bobtail's side, made him fairly gallop along the dock.

Felix ran ahead and, dashing up the gangway, appeared a moment later on the dock, and the anxious group on the pier saw him arguing excitedly with the Captain. The sailors were already beginning to cast off the ropes, when he reappeared and came staggering down the swaying planks with a bag of rice on his back. He dropped it at Petra's feet and ran back again, returning a moment later carrying a second bag. Four times he made the trip while the deck-hands held the ropes, impatient to be gone. Then there was another hurried conference with the Captain, and, just as the gangway was about to be pulled in, he leaped across it for the last time and came beaming and breathless to where his family stood waiting for him.

"The Captain didn't want to give up any of his cargo," he said, "but, with Rita's money and the price I got for the rice I sold, I have not only got back four bags,—enough for us,—but I have ordered all the things for the raft besides. The Captain will bring them on his next trip."

Then the wheels began to churn the water and the boat moved slowly out into the bay. The family stood still and watched it until it was far out on the blue waters. Then the bags were loaded on the cart and they turned back into the village street.

"Thanks be to God and the Holy Saints!" said Petra, crossing herself devoutly, as she mounted the cart. "Our troubles are now over."

"Thanks also to a good and clever daughter!" said Felix. "We now have rice enough to last until the next harvest and shall soon have a fishing-raft much better than the old one."

"And Rita can make more baskets if she wants to, besides," said Ramon.

Then Petra cried out: "Upon my soul we are always forgetting something! We have forgotten Ramon's rooster!"

They hurried back to the coconut grove and there left the cart beside the bamboo cage, and Dingo to guard both, and spent the rest of the afternoon blissfully in the shops.

When, a little later, Petra sold her embroidery, adding still more to the family purse, they felt so rich they bought new shoes all round, and a dress for Rita besides.

It was late when they left the shops, hugging their purchases in their arms, but the celebration was not yet over. They heard music in the square and, following the crowd, found a throng of people crowded about an open platform in the middle of the street. On the platform were three people acting out a play. The play was about a lovely princess who was held captive by a wicked villain while a noble knight did his best to rescue her and slay her captor.

Round and round the princess the two knights circled and danced, thrusting at each other with their shiny swords and making up verses which they shouted at each other as they fought. When they ran out of verses, the princess came forward and told her story, and in between times the band played as if it meant to burst itself with music. They listened spellbound, until Felix nudged Petra and pointed to the sun. It was hanging like a great red balloon in the sky just above the hills of Bataan far across the bay. Slowly it sank until it seemed to rest on the sky-line, then it slipped down and down until there was nothing but a red glow in the sky to show where it had been.

The play ended with the going down of the sun, the crowd melted away in the gathering darkness, and Felix, Petra, and the children hurried back to the coconut grove, where old Bobtail, still hitched to the cart, patiently awaited them. Dingo came bounding to meet them, barking a welcome, and soon the cart was creeping along on its homeward way. The harvest moon was high in the sky as they turned into the yard and the cart came to a stop beside the little nipa-thatched farm-house.

Petra sprang down and hastened indoors at once to set the pot boiling for their late supper and to light the taper before the household shrine. While Rita carried in the new shoes and her new dress and tenderly laid them away in the chest, Ramon set his rooster free, and Felix stored away the precious bags of rice. Then the cart was put back in its old place under the house, and Ramon, mounting Bobtail's back, took him away to the pasture. When he returned, a few moments later, with Dingo at his heels, the shell windows of the little house were bright with welcome, and from the open kitchen came the fragrance of boiling rice.

 

In God's Garden  by Amy Steedman

Saint Augustine of Canterbury

It was market-day in the great city of Rome, and the people were busy buying and selling and shouting, just as they do to-day with us, when market-day comes round. But there was a great difference between this Roman market and ours, a difference which would have seemed to us strange and cruel. For instead of sheep and oxen, or green vegetables from the country, they were selling men and boys, and even little maidens. There in the great market-place, with the sun beating down on their bare heads, they stood, looking with dull, despairing eyes, or with frightened glances at the crowds of buyers and sellers who were bargaining around.

Suddenly a hush fell on the crowd, and a stately figure was seen crossing the square. People stood aside and bent their heads in reverence as Gregory passed by, for he was Abbot of a great monastery in Rome, and was much beloved even by the rough Roman soldiers. He walked swiftly as if he did not care to linger in the market-place, for it grieved his gentle heart to see the suffering of the slaves when he could do nothing to help them.

But suddenly the crowd seemed to divide in front of him, and he stopped in wonder at the sight which met his eyes. It was only a group of little fair-haired English boys who had been captured in the wars, and carried off to be sold as slaves in the Roman market. But Gregory had never seen anything like them before. All around were dark-eyed, swarthy-faced Italians, or darker-skinned slaves from Africa, and these boys with their sunny, golden hair, fair faces, and eyes blue as the sky overhead, seemed to him creatures from a different world.

"Whence come these children, and what name do they bear?" asked the bishop of a man who stood beside him.

"From a savage island far over the sea," he answered, "and men call them Angles."

Then the kind bishop looked with pitying eyes upon the beautiful children, and said to himself, as he turned to go: "They should be called not Angles, but angels."

The sight of those boys, so strong and fearless and beautiful, made Gregory think a great deal about the little island of Britain, far away across the sea, from whence they had come. He knew the people who lived there were a fierce, warlike race, having a strange religion of their own, and that very few of them were Christians. But he knew, too, that though they were hard to conquer, and difficult to teach, still they were a people worth teaching, and he longed to win them to the side of Christ and to show them how to serve the true God.

In those days people in Italy knew very little about that far-away island, and it seemed to them as difficult and dangerous to go to England as it would seem to us if we were asked to go to the wildest part of Africa. True there were no lions nor tigers in England, but the tall, fair-haired giants who lived there were as savage as they were brave, and might be even worse to deal with than the wild beasts of other lands.

So it may well be believed that when Saint Gregory, who was now Pope of Rome, chose forty monks and sent them on a mission to this distant island, they were not very anxious to go, and set out in fear and trembling.

But at their head was one who knew no fear and who was willing to face any dangers in the service of his Master. This man was Augustine, a monk of Rome, whom Gregory had chosen to lead the mission, knowing that his courage would strengthen the others, and his wisdom would guide them aright.

It took many long days and nights of travel to reach the coast where they were to find a ship to carry them across to Britain, and before they had gone very far, the forty monks were inclined to turn back in despair. From every side they heard such terrible tales of the savage islanders they were going to meet, that their hearts, never very courageous, were filled with terror, and they refused to go further. Nothing that Augustine could say would persuade them to go on, and they would only agree that he should go back to Rome and bear their prayers to Saint Gregory, imploring him not to force them to face such horrible danger. If Augustine would do this they promised to wait his return and to do then whatever the Pope ordered.

They had not to wait many days, for Augustine speedily brought back the Pope's answer to their request. His dark face glowed and his eyes shone with the light of victory, as he read to them the letter which Saint Gregory had sent. There was to be no thought of going back. Saint Gregory's words were few, but decisive. "It is better not to begin a work than to turn back as soon as danger threatens; therefore, my beloved sons, go forward by the help of our Lord."

So they obeyed, and with Augustine at their head once more set out, hardly hoping to escape the perils of the journey, and expecting, if they did arrive, to be speedily put to death by the savage islanders.

Perhaps the worst trial of all was when they set sail from France and saw the land fading away in the distance. In front there was nothing to be seen but angry waves and a cold, grey sky, and they seemed to be drifting away from the country of sunshine and safety into the dark region of uncertainty and danger. Nay, the island, whose very name was terrible to them, was nowhere to be seen, and seemed all the more horrible because it was wrapped in that mysterious grey mist.

But though they did not know it, they had really nothing to fear from the island people, for the queen of that part of England where they landed was a Christian, and had taught the King Ethelbert to show mercy and kindness. So when the company of cold, shivering monks came ashore they were met with a kind and courteous welcome, and instead of enemies they found friends.

The king himself came to meet them, and he ordered the little band of foreigners to be brought before him, that he might learn their errand. He did not receive them in any hall or palace, but out in the open air, for it seemed safer there, in case these strangers should be workers of magic or witchcraft.

It must have been a strange scene when the forty monks, with Augustine at their head, walked in procession up from the beach to the broad green meadow where the king and his soldiers waited for them. The tall, fair-haired warriors who stood around, sword in hand, ready to defend their king, must have looked with surprise at these black-robed men with shaven heads and empty hands. They carried no weapons of any sort, and they seemed to bear no banner to tell men whence they came. Only the foremost monks carried on high a silver cross and the picture of a crucified Man, and instead of shouts and war-cries there was the sound of a melodious chant sung by many voices, yet seeming as if sung by one.

Then Augustine stood out from among the company of monks and waited for the king to speak.

"Who art thou, and from whence have come these men who are with thee?" asked the king. "Me-thinks thou comest in peace, else wouldst thou have carried more deadly weapons than a silver charm and a painted sign. I fain would know the reason of thy visit to this our island."

Slowly Augustine began to tell the story of their pilgrimage and the message they had brought. So long he spoke that the sun began to sink and the twilight fell over the silent sea that lay stretched out beyond the meadow where they sat before his story was done.

The king bent forward, thoughtfully weighing the words he had heard, and looking into the faces of these strange messengers of peace. At length he spoke, and the weary monks and stalwart warriors listened eagerly to his words.

"Thou hast spoken well," he said to Augustine, "and it may be there is truth in what thou sayest. But a man does not change his religion in an hour. I will hear more of this. But meanwhile ye shall be well cared for, and all who choose may listen to your message."

Those were indeed welcome words to the company of poor tired monks, and when the kindly islanders, following their king's example, made them welcome and gave them food and shelter, they could well echo the words of Saint Gregory in the Roman market: "These are not Angles but angels."

And soon King Ethelbert gave the little company a house of their own, and allowed them to build up the ancient church at Canterbury, which had fallen into ruins. There they lived as simply and quietly as they had done in their convent in Italy, praying day and night for the souls of these heathen people, and teaching them, as much by their lives as their words, that it was good to serve the Lord Christ.

And before very long the people began to listen eagerly to their teaching, and the king himself was baptized with many others. The chant which the monks had sung that first day of their landing no longer sounded strange and mysterious in the ears of the islanders, for they too learnt to sing the "Alleluia" and to praise God beneath the sign of the silver cross.

Now Augustine was very anxious that the Ancient British Church should join his party and that they should work together under the direction of Pope Gregory. But the British Christians were not sure if they might trust these strangers, and it was arranged that they should meet first, before making any plans.

The Ancient British Church had almost been driven out of the land, and there were but few of her priests left. They did not know whether they ought to join Augustine and his foreign monks, or strive to work on alone. In their perplexity they went to a holy hermit, and asked him what they should do.

"If this man comes from God, then follow him," said the hermit.

"But how can we know if he is of God?" asked the people.

The hermit thought a while and then said: "The true servant of God is ever humble and lowly of heart. Go to meet this man. If he rises and bids you welcome, then will you know that he bears Christ's yoke, and will lead you aright. But if he be proud and haughty, and treat you with scorn, never rising to welcome you, then see to it that ye have nought to do with him."

So the priests and bishops of the British Church arranged to meet Augustine under a great oak-tree, which was called ever afterwards "Augustine's oak." They carefully planned that the foreign monks should arrive there first, in time to be seated, so that the hermit's test might be tried when they themselves should arrive.

Unhappily, Augustine did not think of rising to greet the British bishops, and they were very angry and would agree to nothing that he proposed, though he warned them solemnly that if they would not join their forces with his, they would sooner or later fall by the hand of their enemies.

Greatly disappointed Augustine returned to Canterbury and worked there for many years without help, until all who lived in that part of England learned to be Christians.

And Pope Gregory hearing of his labours was pleased with the work his missionary had done, and thought it fit that the humble monk should be rewarded with a post of honour. So he made Augustine Archbishop of Canterbury, the first archbishop that England had known. It was a simple ceremony then, with only the few faithful monks kneeling around the chair on which the archbishop was enthroned, but Augustine's keen, dark face shone with the light of victory and humble thankfulness, for it seemed a seal upon his work, a pledge that the island should never again turn back from the faith of Christ.

And could those dark eyes have looked forward and pierced the screen of many years, Augustine would have seen a goodly succession of archbishops following in his footsteps, each in his turn sitting in that same simple old chair, placed now in Westminster Abbey and guarded as one of England's treasures.

And he would have seen, too, what would have cheered his heart more than all—a Christian England venerating the spot where his monastery once stood, and building upon it a college to his memory. And there he would have seen England's sons trained to become missionaries and to go out into all the world to preach the gospel, just as that little band of monks, with Augustine at their head, came to our island in those dark, far-off days.

But though Augustine could not know all this, his heart was filled with a great hope and a great love for the islanders who now seemed like his own children, and he was more than content to spend his life amongst them.

And when his work was ended, and the faithful soul gave up his charge, they buried him in the island which had once seemed to him a land of exile but which at last had come to mean even more to him than his own sunny land of Italy.

 

Christina Georgina Rossetti

A Frisky Lamb

A frisky lamb And a frisky child Playing their pranks In a cowslip meadow: The sky all blue And the air all mild And the fields all sun And the lanes half shadow.