{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_8415/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_8415","id":"gutenberg_8415","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8415","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Category: Short Stories","Children's stories","Fairy tales"],"text":"Produced by Dave Maddock and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGICIAN'S SHOW BOX\n\nAND\n\nOTHER STORIES\n\nBy Lydia Maria Child\n\nThe Author of \u201cRainbows for Children.\u201d\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  THE MAGICIAN'S SHOW BOX\n\n  THE VIOLET FLAME\n\n  FLORIBEL\n\n  THE LADY INTELLETTA\n\n  VENUS'S DOVE\n\n  THE GALA-DAY\n\n  EARNING ONE'S OWN LIVING\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGICIAN'S SHOW BOX.\n\n\nThere was once a boy, named Gaspar, whose uncle made voyages to China,\nand brought him home chessmen, queer toys, porcelain vases,\nembroidered skullcaps, and all kinds of fine things. He gave him such\ngrand descriptions of foreign countries and costumes, that Gaspar was\nnot at all satisfied to live in a small village, where the people\ndressed in the most commonplace way. At school he was always covering\nhis slate with pictures of Turks wearing turbans as large as small\nmosques, or Chinese with queues several yards long, and shoes that\nturned up to their knees. Then he read every story he could find of\nall possible and impossible adventures, and longed for nothing so much\nas to go forth, like Napoleon or Alexander, and make mincemeat of the\nwhole world.\n\nOne day he could bear it no longer; so, taking with him an oaken\ndagger which he had carved with great care, off he started on his\nconquering expedition.  He walked along the sunny road, kicking up a\ngreat dust, and coming to a milestone, threw a stone at a huge\nbullfrog croaking at him from a spring, and made it dive under with a\nloud splash.  Pleased with his prowess, he took a good drink at the\nspring, and filled his flask with the sparkling water. At the second\nmilestone he threw a pebble at a bird, singing in a tree. Off flew the\nbird, and down fell a great red apple. \u201cAh, how fine!\u201d he exclaimed,\npicking it up; \u201cand how the bird flies! I wish I had such wings.\u201d On\nthe third milestone sat a quiet-looking little man, cracking nuts; so\nGaspar stopped to crack nuts, and have a chat with him.\n\nThe man was very entertaining, and Gaspar listened and listened to his\nwonderful stories until he saw the milestone shadow stretching far\nalong the bank. Then he jumped up and was going to walk on, but hop\nwent the little man quite across the road. Gaspar went the other side;\nhop came the little man back again; and so they dodged about, hither\nand thither, until Gaspar's patience was quite exhausted.\n\n\u201cHe is only a small fellow, after all,\u201d he thought; \u201cI can take a good\nrun and jump over him.\u201d He took the run and gave the jump, but the\nlittle man shot up high into the air, and he might as well have tried\nto jump over the moon.\n\n\u201cIt is a most singular thing!\u201d said Gaspar to himself; \u201ca little gray\nman, not much larger than I am, and yet he seems to be every where at\nonce, like sheet lightning. There is no getting by him, and all the\ntime he looks at me with those bright eyes and that quiet smile, as if\nhe were really very much amused. Well, he must go to sleep by and by,\nand then I can step over him and walk off.\u201d\n\nSo he lay down, pretending to sleep, and the little man lay down also,\nwith his face turned to the sky. When Gaspar thought him fast asleep,\nhe arose very softly, believing he could now surely escape; but at his\nvery first step up came a sly hand, catching him by the foot, so that\ndown he fell at the old man's side, and there saw the bright eyes\ngazing up at the stars, without a wink of sleep in them. But Gaspar\nsoon forgot his travels, with all his bold intentions, and fell asleep\nhimself, to dream of skewers and cimeters.\n\nIn the morning the little man said, \u201cCome now, it is foolish for you\nto go trudging about over the world. You will never see any thing more\nthan polywogs and sandflies, and those you can find in your native\nvillage. Give me a drink from your flask, and a bite of your apple,\nand I can show you more wonders in a day in my show box here, than you\nwould find wandering about for a lifetime.\u201d\n\nThen he drew from the pocket of his gray coat a neat box, carved of\nivory, and having taken a bit of the apple and a sip of the water,\nwhich Gaspar never thought of refusing, he touched a spring, up flew\nthe lid, and Gaspar peeped in. Ah, but it was a wondrous sight; for on\nand on moved a procession of all imaginable things. Lions and\nelephants seemed mere puppies, for here were mastodons and\nichthyosauri, and animals that lived before the flood was ever dreamed\nof; and as for Turks and turbans, why, there were people with\nheaddresses that towered up into the skies, and ladies who made\nrainbows pale.  There were queens whose thrones were all one driven\npearl, and warriors whose swords were a flash of sunbeams.\n\n\u201cAh, yes!\u201d exclaimed Gaspar; \u201cthis is better than travelling. But how\nshall I remember all these enchanting sights?  I must make a note of\nthem.\u201d And seizing his wooden sword, he began to draw in the sandy\nroad each figure as it appeared.\n\nHour after hour the procession passed on in the little ivory box. Hour\nafter hour he drew it in the sand, and that little man stood by, with\nhis quiet smile and great politeness. At length a loud hallooing was\nheard, and they saw all the boys from the village running towards\nthem.\n\n\u201cWhat is going on here?\u201d they called out. \u201cNever were such clouds seen\nas have been sailing over the village to-day. Whales and astronomers,\nkings and crocodiles, and nobody knows what.  They all sail from this\ndirection, and we have come to see what is going off here.  Can it be\nyou, Gaspar, who are raising such a wind? Did you draw all these\nlively things in the sand, and blow them up into clouds?\u201d\n\nGaspar said he knew nothing about the clouds, but he thought it was\ngetting rather dark, and was as much surprised as any of the boys, to\nsee what grand figures he had thrown up into the sky.  He begged his\nnew friend to show the boys his box; but he said, \u201cNo, it was not for\nthem,\u201d and put it into his pocket.\n\nThey all laughed at it, and said such great creatures never came out\nof that little paint box.\n\nGaspar went back to the village with the boys, and for a while was\nquite contented with the remembrance of what he had seen; but at last\nhis old love of travelling awoke in him. He did not feel satisfied to\nhave seen wonderful nations and animals merely passing through a show\nbox, but wanted to see them in living reality; but how was he to get\nby the little magician? On foot he knew it was impossible, but thought\nhe might succeed on a fleet horse. So he went to his friend Conrad,\nand offered him the apple which could never be eaten, for his good\ncantering horse. Most boys are fond of red apples, but Conrad cared\nfor nothing else but apples and apple dumplings, not even for his\ncantering horse, and readily exchanged him for Gaspar's apple, which\nhe could be constantly eating.  Off rode Gaspar with whip and spur,\nsure now that the little gray man could not stop him.\n\nAs he cantered along the road very grandly, there were those bright\neyes fixed upon him.\n\n\u201cWhither so fast to-day?\u201d said the gray man, with his queer smile.\n\n\u201cThat's nothing to you,\u201d answered Gaspar; and on he tried to go; but\nhop went the little man, to and fro, just as he did before, and Gaspar\ndid not like to run his horse directly over him; indeed he might as\nwell have tried to ride over the winds of heaven; so he jumped off,\nexclaiming, \u201cIt's no use dodging about in this way; come, now, let's\nfight it out;\u201d and he drew his oaken dagger with a great flourish.\n\n\u201cAh, ha! that is it, is it?\u201d said the magician; and out flashed a\nsteel dagger.  At it they went, striking their weapons against each\nother with might and main.  At every stroke Gaspar's wooden dagger\nbecame sharper and sharper, and when he left off fighting he found it\nwas changed into good steel; but it was useless to hope for victory\nfrom such a combatant, who might have pierced him through and through\nat any moment, as Gaspar very soon saw; so he put up his dagger, and\nthey sat down on the stone, cracking their nuts and jokes together in\nthe old way.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Gaspar, \u201cif I had a few bags of nuts like these, I could\nmake my fortune. They do not grow in our village, and I have told the\nboys about them until they are all wild to have some.  But I suppose\nyou cannot give me any, for although you never get out of them, you\nseem only to have a handful at a time.\u201d\n\n\u201cGaspar,\u201d answered the gray man, \u201cthere is no end to my nuts; we might\ncrack here until doomsday, and I should still have thousands and\nthousands of uncracked ones left. I do not think much of them myself,\nbut you are young and easily amused, and if you would like a bag or\ntwo, why, here they are;\u201d and he held up his hands with a great sack\nfull of nuts in each. Gaspar jumped on his horse, dragged the bags up\nafter him, while the little man looked smiling on, and rode home to\nthe village.\n\nWhat a shouting there was when the boys saw him riding through the\nstreets with his great bags of nuts! They offered him bat and ball,\nhoop and kite; but Gaspar said he did not care for such childish\nthings; he wanted something to be of use on his travels round the\nworld. \u201cYou had better go to Lawyer Clang's,\u201d called out a newsboy;\n\u201che has a horse such as never was seen afore.\u201d\n\nGaspar rode straight to Lawyer Clang's office, and walked in, horse,\nsacks, and all.\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said he, \u201cwhat will you give me for this cantering horse and\nthese very hard nuts?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy horse Wayfare; and a more serviceable animal was never known. I am\ngetting a little tired of him myself, but he is just the thing for\nyou, if you wish to see the world.\u201d\n\nThe horse was brought round, a great gaunt creature, but handsomely\nbridled and saddled, and Gaspar thought he looked tough and sound, and\nwould be far more useful than his cantering horse, which was only\nsuitable for pleasure riding, so he changed horses, threw in the nuts,\nand rode off, bidding the boys good by, for many long years, he told\nthem.\n\nWhen he came to the first milestone he found the mossy spring was\nfrozen over.  At the second he saw the leafless apple tree, with a\ndeserted bird's nest upon it; and at the third he discerned something\nthat looked like the little magician; but he believed it was only a\nsnow wreath: at any rate, it did not stop the way, and on he rode,\nexulting, though a little cold.\n\nIt was all very pleasant until night came; and then he was glad to see\nan inn, with a bright fire shining through the windows. He pulled in\nthe reins, but the horse would not stop. He pulled harder and harder,\nand called \u201cWhoa!\u201d until he was breathless. It was all of no use. On\nwent the horse, and the inn, with its bright windows, was soon left\nfar behind. And over the wide plain he rode all night, through the\nwind and the snow, which was not at all agreeable. In the morning he\nwas quite faint, and wanted to stop at a cottage for some breakfast,\nand a good warming for himself, and some oats for his horse. But no;\nWayfare had nothing to do with such trifles. He went calmly on, always\nat the same jog-trot pace, and that not a very easy one. Gaspar had to\ncatch at some berries as he rode through the woods, but found them\npoor fare, and was glad to find himself, the next day, getting into a\nwarmer climate, where even oranges grew; but not many could he gather\nas he rode by the trees, and it was very provoking to see the horse,\ninstead of stopping at a running brook, trot straight through it, and\nacross a green pasture, as if it were all a parched desert.\n\n\u201cWhat an old fogy of a horse he is!  I am sure he must be made of\nwood,\u201d exclaimed Gaspar; and he gave a great pound on the horse's\nneck. \u201cHollow, I declare! Nothing but a wooden horse, after all, and\ngoes by machinery. I wonder how long he is wound up to go, and whether\nI shall ever get off the dreadful nightmare's back. What a fool I was\nto change my good cantering horse for such a machine as this! But I\nmust endure it now I am in for it.\u201d\n\nDay after day they trotted on, through strange countries, among\nunknown people and animals; but the horse never noticed them, nor they\nthe horse. Gaspar wished to jump off and let the great creature go;\nbut it was so high, and went on so steadily, that he could not get a\nchance.  At last they passed through a gate in a high wall, which he\nthought must be the Chinese Wall, and a pagoda in the distance soon\nconvinced him that he was right.\n\n\u201cI shall at least see peaked shoes and mandarins, and that is some\nsatisfaction,\u201d he thought, and rode on, looking about him with great\ncuriosity, until he came to a palace all gilding and porcelain.  Here\nthe horse came to a stand, as if he had been wound up to go so far and\nno farther.\n\n\u201cThis I know must be the emperor's palace, and that must be the very\ngentleman himself, looking out of the window,\u201d said Gaspar. \u201cHow\nfortunate that uncle Gammon taught me Chinese!\u201d  He bowed and\naddressed the emperor, who was quite surprised to see such a very\nsmall foreign boy on such a very large horse, speaking his language so\ncorrectly. He came down to examine the horse, and when he found it\nwent by machinery instead of being alive, expressed the greatest\ndelight, saying it was just the kind of horse he had always desired,\nand if Gaspar would give it to him, he should be made one of his chief\nmandarins. Gaspar replied that his greatest desire was to be a\nmandarin; so he alighted in the most dignified manner, and entering\nthe palace, was presented with layers of richly embroidered robes,\nwhich reached to his feet, and just allowed the peaks of his shoes to\npeep out. Then he was introduced to a large circle of mandarins who\nstood round, incessantly bowing to one another.  He began to bow too,\nas if he had done nothing else all his life, and when dinner was\nserved, managed his chop-sticks most dexterously, and smoked as if\nsmoking had been his only vocation.  In short, he ate and bobbed, and\nslept and woke, in the most approved manner.\n\nNow he had attained the summit of his wishes. Every thing was entirely\nChinese,--jars, mats, sweetmeats, dresses, bobbing, and stupidity.\nRank, luxury, grandeur he called it, and for a while flattered himself\nthat he was immersed in perfect happiness; but, somehow,--he could not\ntell what it was; perhaps he was not quite old enough,--but somehow he\ndid become a little weary of being a mandarin. The palace was\ndeliciously perfumed, but he longed for a puff of fresh wind. Nothing\ncould be richer than their dresses, but the embroidery was rather\nheavy. Nothing could be profounder than their politeness, but it would\nhave been a relief to have given some boy a good snowballing. Nothing\ncould be serener than their silence, but he would gladly have given\nany body three cheers for nothing.\n\nHe began to make plans for escape from this palace of his desires,\nwhen one morning, just as one venerable mandarin was saying to\nanother, in their usual edifying style of conversation, \u201cPelican of\nthe Morning, before the magic charm of thy lofty countenance I am\nspell-bound, like an albatross bewildered amid the flapping sails of a\nmighty--\u201d down burst the door with a crash, and a lion rushed roaring\nin among them. What a scrambling there was of the long-flowered\ndresses! What a tumbling, a flying, a groaning, a screaming! Never\nbefore were such confusion and fear in an assembly of bobbing\nmandarins. But Gaspar felt his breast swell with courage.  Throwing\noff his long robes, he sprang upon the lion, and struggled fiercely\nwith him; but the powerful creature would soon have laid him low if he\nhad not suddenly remembered the dagger, sharpened in his conflict with\nthe little gray man. Drawing it from the belt in which he always wore\nit, beneath his embroidered robe, he plunged it into the lion's\nthroat, and victory was won. He did not wait for the dispersed\nmandarins to return; but throwing one of the richest dresses over his\nshoulder, as Hercules wore the lion's skin, he walked off, taking his\nway straight to the gate in the wall, for he had had quite enough of\nChina and the Chinese empire.\n\nNow began glad days for him--roaming, like a wild hunter, from land to\nland, coping single handed with crocodiles and cameleopards, riding\nupon elephants, mastering tigers and young hyenas, visiting mosques\nand mausoleums.  In every land he made collections of its greatest\ncuriosities in art, literature, science, natural history, and\npolitics. A sphinx, an obelisk, a winged bull from Nineveh, stuffed\nporcupines, live monkeys, fossil remains, a pinchbeck president of the\nUnited States, and many rare specimens even more curious, did he\ncollect, and after years of wandering, by land and by sea, carry with\nhim to his native village. There he converted an old barn into a\nmuseum, and gave out to the villagers that he was prepared to instruct\nthem in all that the world contains.  They flocked to the museum, and\nhe was occupied every hour of the day going from one object to\nanother, making a little set speech about each to entertain his\nbewildered visitors. Great admiration was expressed, and perhaps great\nknowledge was acquired. Gaspar felt that he was the benefactor of his\nrace, and bought a pair of very tight boots to walk around in, and a\nneat little silver-tipped stick with which to point out the\ncuriosities.\n\nBut, alas! even now, when the cup of happiness seemed full, was he not\nto be satisfied. Had he not attained all that the most eager hopes of\nhis boyhood had promised? Had not the highest honors and the most\nyellow of garments been lavished upon him in that long-desired Chinese\nempire? Had he not conquered innumerable wild animals--African,\nAsiatic, and above all, American?  Was he not the focus of life and\nintelligence in his native village? And yet, how weary had he become\nof describing to his gaping audience, for the three hundred and\nsixtieth time, the daily habits of the laughing hyena, and the exact\nmanner in which kangaroos jump! What sad indifference to the nature of\nwhigs and walruses, to the tendencies of sea otters and free\ninstitutions, was creeping over him!\n\n\u201cAh, if a lion would but walk in again, and if I could but have\nanother good fight!\u201d he exclaimed one day. At that moment the door\nsuddenly opened.  Hope whispered, \u201cThe lion!\u201d and a fair young girl\nentered. She glanced around the room, cast her eyes on the president,\nthe bones of a mastodon, a parrot in the corner, and a mummy or two.\n\n\u201cOld bones and stuffed animals!\u201d she whispered to her companions, and\nthey all began to laugh.\n\n\u201cI suppose she will call me a stuffed animal too,\u201d thought Gaspar;\n\u201cbut I must show them the specimens.\u201d So he stepped forward, and began\nto point out the various objects, and go over his usual descriptions.\nHe did it in his neatest manner; but the girl kept smiling, as if it\nwere all a great joke, and yet she looked at him with some\ninterest. Gaspar went into another room to put on his mandarin's dress\nand peaked shoes, which he thought would produce a great effect; but\nif she had only smiled before, now she fairly laughed. Then he caught\ndown his dagger which hung on the wall as one of the curiosities, and\nfelt for a moment as if she were the lion, and he would plunge it into\nher; but the next moment he saw her beautiful face bending over\nit. \u201cAh, this dagger I like! How sharp the point is! It looks as if\nyou might have done something with it. Tell me all about it, will you\nnot?\u201d said the girl.\n\n\u201cIf you will come here a week from to-day, I will tell you its\nhistory,\u201d answered Gaspar; and she promised that she would surely\ncome.\n\nAt the appointed time she appeared--alone, now, Gaspar was glad to\nsee, for he did not like to have her whispering and laughing with the\nother girls. However, he hoped she would not laugh now. He led her\nthrough the museum into another room, where he had been painting a\npicture of his fight with the lion.\n\n\u201cThat is excellent!\u201d said the girl; \u201cthat is just the thing. There\ngoes the dagger into the throat of the lion. How much better than a\npetrified peacock, or a labelled dromedary! And you killed the lion\nand painted the picture too?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d answered Gaspar, quite gently.\n\n\u201cAnd the dagger--where did you find that?\u201d\n\nGaspar told her how he had carved it of heart of oak when he was a\nboy, and had changed it to steel in fighting with the magician.\n\n\u201cI must see that magician; let us go and find him,\u201d said the girl. So\naway they went. As they walked along Gaspar told her about the ivory\nshow box, and regretted that he had lost his flask of water, and\nexchanged his apple for the cantering horse, because they had now\nnothing to give the little gray man for a peep into it.\n\n\u201cWait a moment,\u201d said the girl; and running into her house, which they\nwere passing, she brought out a golden cup full of red wine. \u201cI think\nhe will like this better than the water--do not you?\u201d\n\nWhen they came to the milestone, there sat the gray man, cracking away\nas inveterately as ever. \u201cI should think he would be tired to death,\u201d\n said Gaspar. \u201cThink how much I have seen of the world while he has\nbeen cracking those old nuts.\u201d\n\nThe little man overheard him, and smiled to himself, as much as to\nsay, \u201cI know;\u201d but when he saw the young girl, he rose up and made\nquite a profound bow. \u201cHe never bowed to me,\u201d thought Gaspar.\n\n\u201cWill you let me look into your ivory show box, and I will give you a\ndrink of red wine,\u201d said the girl.\n\n\u201cIt is a poor thing,\u201d answered the magician, \u201cnot worthy of your\nattention; but if you will vouchsafe me a sip of the wine, I have been\ncracking these dry nuts so long. Ah, I do begin to be weary!\u201d  The\ngirl peeped into the show box. \u201cAll very pretty, but rather stiff and\nmonotonous,\u201d she said. \u201cNot so good as you can paint, Gaspar. Come,\nlet us go home.\u201d\n\nShe made the gray man a pleasant little courtesy, took her vase of\nwine, and she and Gaspar went back to the village to paint their own\npictures, leaving the little magician to crack his nuts and look into\nhis show box as long as he pleased.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VIOLET FLAME\n\n\nRosamond was the child of a village blacksmith, and of a lady said by\nthe villagers to be a princess from a far land. She herself claimed to\nbe descended from an Ocean Queen; but no one believed that, except her\nlittle girl, who thought her mother must know best. Rosamond would sit\nby her for hours, gazing into the river that flowed through their\ngarden, and listening to her mothers stories of golden palaces beneath\nthe water. But she also liked to pry about her father's forge, and\nwonder at the quick sparks and great roaring fires. Her cousin Alfred\nwould stay there with her, but while she was watching the red glow of\nthe fire and the heavy fall of her father's hammer, he was gazing upon\nthe violet flame that flickered above her forehead.\n\nOne day, when she was playing with him in the picture gallery of the\nold castle, in which his mother was housekeeper, she called him to\nlook at the portrait of a child daintily holding a bird on the tip of\nher finger, and arrayed in the quaint richness of the old-fashioned\ncostume. \u201cShe looks like you,\u201d her cousin said, \u201conly she has not a\nlittle trembling flame upon her forehead.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave I a flame upon my forehead?\u201d  asked Rosamond, wondering.\n\n\u201cCome and look,\u201d answered Alfred, and he led her to a great mirror,\nwhere she for the first time saw the violet flame. \u201cHow beautiful it\nis!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\n\u201cO, but it is growing dim; you must not look at it,\u201d said\nAlfred. \u201cCome and let us run up and down the garden, between the great\nhedges.\u201d\n\nBut Rosamond, having once seen the violet flame, could not be\nsatisfied until she had been to the castle to take another look, and\nfound so much pleasure in gazing at herself in the great mirror, that\nshe went every day to pay herself a stolen visit, while Alfred was at\nschool. But one day he found her there, and said, \u201cI see how it is\nthat the pretty flame has gone; you have been admiring it too much by\nyourself. I shall not love you now.\u201d\n\nThen Rosamond felt very sorry, and wondered how she could win back\nAlfred's love.  At length she took all her money, with which she had\nintended to buy her old nurse a warm cloak for the winter, and bought\na golden _feroni\u00e8re_ with a purple stone in it, to wear around\nher head in the place of the vanished flame. Then she walked into the\npicture gallery with a proud step. \u201cO Rosamond!\u201d exclaimed her cousin,\n\u201ccan you believe that bit of purple glass can replace the dancing\nflame that shone with, such a lovely violet light over your golden\nhair? Pray take it off, for it seems mere tinsel to me.\u201d\n\nBut neither he nor Rosamond could unclasp the _feron\u00e8re;_ and she\nhad to go back to the jeweller, of whom she bought it, to ask him to\nfile it off, which he tried in vain to do; and at last he said, \u201cThe\npedler who sold it to me must be right. He said that, once clasped, it\ncould only be loosened by dipping it into a hidden fountain. What\nfountain it is I do not know; but some old priest, who lives in a town\non the mouth of a river, knows.\u201d\n\nThis was discouraging for Rosamond, there are so many towns and\nrivers, and so many old priests, in the world. She looked on the map,\nand thought it must be Paris, for that is not so very far from the\nsea, and there they know every thing. So, with her mother's leave, and\nsome jewels she gave her, she went off to Paris, taking a bit of the\nmirror set in a gilt frame. When she arrived there, what was her\nsurprise to find the city entirely inhabited by birds and animals!\nParrots and peacocks prevailed, but ospreys and jackdaws, vultures and\ncormorants, crows and cockerels, and many, many other kinds of birds\nwere also fluttering about, making a perpetual whizzing.  Then there\nwere hundreds of monkeys, all jauntily dressed, with little canes in\ntheir hands, and a great many camels and spaniels, and other animals,\nwild and tame, in neat linen blouses. What bewildered her still more,\nwas to see that they were all skating about on the thinnest possible\nice.  Why it did not crack, to let them all through, she could not\nimagine. At first she was afraid even to set her foot upon it, but\nsoon found herself skating merrily about, enjoying it as much as any\nof them. Another queer thing was, that, reflected in the ice, all\nthese birds and animals appeared to be men and women; and she saw that\nin her own reflection she was a nice little girl. She wondered how she\nlooked in her mirror, and took it out to see. \u201cWhat kind of an animal\nam I?\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cO, I see--an ibex. What neat little horns, and\nhow bright my eyes are! What would Alfred say if he knew I was an\nibex?\u201d\n\nShe called out to the skaters to ask them if they would look into her\nglass. \u201cHand it here,\u201d answered one, who in the ice appeared very\npale, thin, and respectable.  \u201cI am a philosopher; I am not afraid of\nthe truth.\u201d He looked in, and lo, there was a stork, standing on one\nleg, with his eyes half closed, and his head neatly tucked under his\nwing. \u201cWhat a caricature!\u201d he exclaimed, giving the glass a toss. It\nfell upon the ermine muff of a furbelowed old dowager, who was skating\nbravely about, notwithstanding her seventy years. \u201cI will see how I\nlook,\u201d she said, with a simpering smile; and behold, there was a puffy\nwhite owl in the mirror. Down fell the glass, but Rosamond caught and\nsaved it.\n\n\u201cWhat a little unfledged thing you are, to be carrying that bit of\nbroken glass about with you!\u201d called out the philosopher.\n\n\u201cBetter be unfledged than a one-eyed stork,\u201d answered Rosamond, and\nskated swiftly out of sight.\n\nNow, the grandest skater of all was a griffin, who led all the others,\nskating more skilfully than any of them, and flitting like mad across\nthe very thinnest places. It made one's head giddy to see him. His\nswiftness and dexterity, and a knack he had of knocking the other\nskaters into great black holes under the ice, whenever they crossed\nhis path, greatly imposed upon them, and they all took care to follow\nstraight behind, or to keep well out of his way. Now and then a bear\nwould growl as he glided by; but the next day, Rosamond would see that\nbear hard at work building ice palaces, too busy to growl. One day,\nskating off into a corner, she found the griffin sitting apart, behind\na great block of ice with his claws crossed, and looking very cold and\ndreary, like a snow image.  \u201cWould you not like to take a peep into my\nglass?\u201d she said to him, quite amiably.\n\n\u201cNo, child,\u201d solemnly answered the griffin.  \u201cI know by your ironical\nsmile that you have discovered the truth--that I am nothing but a\ngriffin. But if the skaters believe in me, why undeceive them? Why\nshould magpies and zebras have any thing better to reign over them?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do you not see how thin the ice is?  You will surely break\nthrough some day.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it,\u201d he replied. \u201cA good strong trampling, and we are all\nscattered far and wide. But I keep the tigers and hyenas at work, and\nthe more sagacious elephants bear their burdens in quiet, and let me\nalone. If there be a lion among them, he roars so gently it does no\nharm. And you must be a good girl, and keep silence. I see that you\nalso wear a crown, and you know how heavy it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, and it is of brass too, like yours.  I am trying to free myself\nfrom it,\u201d answered Rosamond. \u201cBut I do not care for your peacocks and\nparrots, and will not tell them yours is not of gold; so do not be\nafraid;\u201d and off she went, leaving his majesty in a very uneasy state\nof mind. But he had nothing to fear from her, for although she did not\ncry, \u201cVive l'Empereur!\u201d when he skated gorgeously by, she never\nrevealed the fact that he was only a long-clawed griffin.\n\nRosamond might have staid a long time in Paris, so amused was she by\nall the gay plumage and dazzling confusion around her; but she soon\nfound that she was dying of starvation. She had always heard French\ndishes and bon-bons most highly extolled, and now she found they were\nnothing but dry leaves and husks, served up very prettily, to be sure,\nbut with no nourishment in them. So she looked on the map again, and\ndecided to go to the shore of the Baltic, and follow it along until\nshe came to the town in which the priest lived; for it certainly was\nuseless to look for one among the gayly-plumed skaters in Paris.\n\nHard walking she found it, among sands and stones, and poor living in\nthe fishermen's huts scattered along the coast. She was quite glad,\none day, to meet a little girl of her own age, picking berries.\nRosamond helped Greta fill her basket, and then accepted her\ninvitation to go home with her. After walking through a long green\nlane, among fields of waving grain, they entered a town built of white\nmarble; and Rosamond knew this was the place she sought. They stopped\nat Greta's house; but when Rosamond saw how many children there were\nin it, she thought she should not be very comfortable there, and asked\nfor a hotel. Greta told her there was none in the town, but that she\nwould find herself welcome in any house.\n\nSo she walked about until she found a large one with handsome columns\nbefore it, and there she passed the night. In the morning the lady of\nthe house said, \u201cTo-day I am bread maker, for you must know we all\nwork in this town, and all share our food together. If you stay here,\nyou must make bread with me.\u201d\n\nRosamond did not like this proposition at all, for her mother had\nnever taught her to work, and besides, she felt as if, with a crown\nupon her head, she were a kind of queen. It seemed to her as if the\nvillagers also thought so when they looked at her as she walked\nthrough the streets, and she bore herself very proudly for a while,\nbut at length became so tired and hungry, that she sank down on a\ndoorstep, her head leaning on her hand; and as she watched the\npassers-by through her drooping lids, she noticed how very nice their\nshoes and stockings were. Then she saw that her own were much torn and\nsoiled, and looking down the street, was mortified to trace her way\nalong by the muddy footprints she had left on the fair white\nmarble. She went to Greta's mother, and asked permission to wash her\nstockings and clean her shoes.  But she did not know how to do it\nnicely, and they still looked very badly. \u201cClean bare feet would look\nbetter than such shoes and stockings,\u201d said the mother.\n\n\u201cBut I could not have bare feet and a crown,\u201d answered Rosamond.\n\n\u201cO, is it a crown? Excuse me, I thought it was a snake skin.\u201d\n\nRosamond half smiled, but said sadly, \u201cIt seems like a snake, it\nstings me so sharply.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must go to Father Alter. A lady once came here with a jewelled\ngirdle which was clasping her to death. He sent her to a fountain high\namong the mountains, and she returned in a white dress with a girdle\nof wild flowers. She lived with me, and kept a school for\nchildren. She was a lovely lady.\u201d\n\nThis reminded Rosamond of the priest, and she asked Greta to show her\nwhere Father Alter lived.\n\nShe found him sitting in his garden of herbs among poor people who\nwere waiting for comfort and advice, and Rosamond also had to wait. At\nlength he turned to her, and laying his hand gently upon her golden\nhead, said, \u201cI see what you want, my child.  You must bathe your\nforehead in the fountain, that the weight of this stone may be taken\nfrom it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow shall I find the fountain, father?\u201d  she asked.\n\n\u201cAh, my child,\u201d he answered, looking tenderly upon her, \u201cthe way is\nlong and difficult, and many who wish to seek it do not find\nit. Neither can I point out the path to you. Each must find it for\nhimself.  The fountain wells forth in a green valley high among the\nmountains, and this river on which our village is built flows from it.\nYet you cannot follow the stream up to its source, for it is often\nlost under ground, or is hidden among dark caverns. Through these\nhidden caves I found my way; but your young feet may try the mountain\nsummits.  From these you will discern the valley, and can descend into\nit. Yet linger not too long among shining glaciers, for the cold may\ncome upon you suddenly in that bright sunshine, and steal your life\naway. And tread lightly along the mountain paths, for often the\nslightest motion will bring down an avalanche. And, my child, take\nwith you this osier basket, in which lies a little loaf of bread. Fear\nnot to eat of it every day; but remember always to leave a crumb, lest\nyou should meet a hungry bird, and have nothing to give it. And thus\nwill the loaf be always renewed. Do not forget, and a blessing be upon\nyou.\u201d\n\nRosamond went gravely forth with the osier basket in her hand. As she\npassed through the village she could not but long to stay among those\npleasant gardens, and water flowers with the children who were so busy\nthere; but if she lingered to speak to them, she felt the tightened\nclasp of the fillet upon her head, and on she hastened.  At first she\nthought the mountains quite near; but when she had walked until she\nwas very tired, they seemed as far off as ever, and so on for several\ndays. At many a weary milestone she stopped, wondering who had rested\nthere before her, and whether they had ever found the hidden valley\namong those yet distant mountains. At night she staid in some little\ncottage by the wayside, always kindly welcomed, and carrying kind\nwishes with her when she went away. At noon she would break her little\nloaf, and dip it in the stream, remembering to leave a crumb in the\nbasket; and when she opened the basket for her supper, there would\nstill be the loaf, whole as ever; and many and many a bird did she\nfeed on her way.\n\nOne day when she had been walking a long distance, and was very\nhungry, she had forgotten about keeping the crumb, and was just\nbreaking the last crust, when she heard the quick, sharp cry of a bird\nin distress.  Looking round she found a wounded sparrow lying on a\nrock. She washed the blood from his feathers, and gave him a crumb of\nthe bread, very thankful that he had prevented her from eating it all,\nfor then there would have been none left either for the bird or for\nherself. She wrapped the sparrow gently in her dress, and carried it\nwith her, and wherever she went, along the edge of steep precipices,\nor over the rough glaciers, through deep snow or amid cold winds,\nstill she warmed that bird in her bosom and kept it alive. At length\nshe reached the summit of the mountain, and saw the red sunset slowly\nbecome gray, and the stars come out one by one in the wide, lonely\nsky. So far did it stretch around her, on every side, before it\ntouched the horizon; so near did it seem, above her, that she felt as\nif she were high in the heavens, and turning her face towards her\nvillage, she thought Alfred might perhaps see her there, shining among\nthe stars. Ah, foolish little girl! Her weary feet soon sank beneath\nher, and she fell asleep upon the snow. But the bird fluttered and\nchirped in her bosom, as if it knew danger were near, and she suddenly\nawoke. \u201cO, good little sparrow,\u201d she cried, \u201cif it had not been for\nyou, I should have been frozen to death in my sleep; but now I will\nnot stay here longer; we will go down into the valleys.\u201d\n\nShe began to slide down the mountain, and when the sun rose, saw\nbeneath her a green, hidden nook, in which stood a solitary tree. She\nthought she should reach it immediately; but sometimes her way was\nblocked up on all sides, and she had to creep over high rocks, or\nthrough dark chasms, often losing sight of the valley, and fearing she\nnever should find it. At length, however, she stood safe beneath the\nblossoming tree, and there was the sparrow's nest with the young birds\nin it. Rosamond fed them with her crumbs, and looking about for water\nto give them, found a clear spring bubbling out from under the root of\nthe tree. As she bent down to dip up some of the water in her hand, a\nfew drops were sprinkled upon her brass fillet, and it fell from her\nhead. \u201cWhy, this is the very fountain,\u201d she exclaimed; \u201cI did not know\nit.\u201d When she raised her head, the free mountain wind blew through her\nhair, and she felt as light-hearted and happy as the bird which had\nfound its nest.\n\nShe slept that night beneath the sheltering tree; the new moon shone\nupon her, and the bubbling of the water lulled her into a sweeter\nsleep than she had known for many nights. In the morning she gave all\nher bread except one crumb to the birds, then descended the mountain,\nfollowing the stream glancing over the rocks. But at last she lost\nsight of it, and instead of finding herself by the river on which the\nmarble town was built, she came to the little old mill near her own\nhome. There was Alfred hard at work, for he had hired himself out as a\nmiller's boy. Her mother was weeping beneath the willow by the river,\nand her father was hammering at his anvil. How pleasant his great,\nglowing fire looked to Rosamond, after her wanderings among the icy\nmountains!\n\nAlfred came to tea, and then she had to tell them while she had\nbeen. She described the beautiful white marble town, at the mouth of\nthe river, and said she wished they could all go and live there. Her\nmother's face lighted up as it did when the golden sunset shone upon\nit, and she said, \u201cAh, Rosamond, my home was once there, and there I\nlong to be again.\u201d\n\nThe father listened very thoughtfully.  \u201cYes, it would be good to work\nthere, where all work together; we will go,\u201d he said at last. Alfred\ndecided to leave the mill and go with them.\n\nThey were all ready before the new moon was full, and leaving the\nvillage, with its slow stream and low pastures behind, reached the\nclear river, after a few days' travel. They walked along its high\nbanks, among stately groves, until they came to the marble town. The\npeople were glad to receive them, and they at once felt that they were\namong friends.\n\nRosamond went down to the sea shore with her mother, to whom the ocean\nbreeze gave a new life; but it was really the old life revived; for\nwhen she was a child, she had lived beside the sea, and in her inland\nhome had pined for the sight of the great waves.\n\nAs they were returning to the town, they met the old priest, who said\nhe had come to offer them part of his house to live in, but that they\nmust not live idly there; they must look about them, and decide what\nthey would like to do.\n\nThe next morning Rosamond asked her mother and Alfred to go near the\nshore with her. There she showed them a bed of fine clay, of which she\nproposed to make vases. She and her mother sat down on the grass\ntogether, and moulded them, just within sight of the waves gently\nbreaking upon the beach. The vases were so beautiful it seemed as if\nthey were modelled from the curves of the waves, and contained within\nthem the rippling sound of the sea upon the shore.\n\nAlfred built up an oven in the father's forge, and baked the\nvases. When all were finished, they presented them to their new\nfriends, who were greatly delighted, saying they had never seen such\nbeautiful ones.\n\nRosamond and her mother continued to mould, not only vases, but little\nimages, which were very much sought after by all the villagers.\nRosamond never knew that the violet flame once more burned upon her\nforehead; but she knew that Alfred loved her, and long and happy was\ntheir life, there, by the wide, sunny sea.\n\n\n\n\nFLORIBEL.\n\n\nOne long, summer afternoon, old Zachary and his wife Betsy, having\nfinished their tea at four o'clock, and having nothing very\ninteresting to do, thought they would visit Hoppletyhop; the dwarf,\nwho had promised to grant three wishes to any one who would bring him\nthe three things he most desired in the world. Old Zachary took the\npresident's message, a pair of spectacles, and a pipe full of tobacco,\nwhich he smoked by the way. The old woman carried a bowl of hot tea, a\nlooking glass, and her very best plaited cap. As they went out of the\ndoor, they found their little grandchild, Floribel, reading on the\nstep, and called to her to follow them. So she ran along with Jack the\nGiant-killer in one hand, and dragging with the other her tin wagon,\nin which sat her favorite doll, Rosa, drawn by four high-stepping tin\nhorses.\n\nAs they passed through the village, their neighbors, who were sitting\nin their porches, enjoying the cool breeze, and feeling much too\nindolent to do any thing, called out to know whither they were going;\nand when told they were on their way to visit the dwarf Hoppletyhop,\nadvised them to stay quietly at home, for he would be sure to do them\nsome mischief. Zachary was a little inclined to turn back, when he\nheard this; but Betsy said, \u201cLet us go on--I should like to see what\nmischief he will do;\u201d and Floribel begged them to go, because she\nwished to see if a fairy dwarf was as large as her doll.\n\nAs they walked along, she asked them what they should wish. \u201cI shall\nwish to be young, and deacon of the church,\u201d said her grandfather.\n\u201cAnd I, to have a whole chest of souchong tea, and to be young also,\u201d\n said the grandmother. \u201cBut I shall wish for a castle as high as the\nsky, and a golden dress that will never wear out, and a stick of\nbarley candy six thousand miles long,\u201d said the little girl.\n\nAfter a long walk they found Hoppletyhop playing jackstraws with a\ngrasshopper, on a bank of violets. He received them very politely, and\nasked each of them to take a stone among the violets. The grandfather\nthen offered his presents. The dwarf read two sentences in the\npresident's message, and said he could not stand that; it was too\nstupid. He peeped through the spectacles, and said they gave every\nthing a twist; and as for tobacco, he could not endure it.\n\nThe grandmother set the bowl of tea before him; but it was so hot it\nburned his mouth, and he kicked it down hill, smashing the old lady's\nbest china bowl into a hundred pieces. He was angry when she presented\nthe looking glass, thinking she wished to make fun of him, because he\nwas so small. The plaited cap, he said, was not made for a man like\nhim to wear, and he tore it all to shreds.\n\nThen, turning to Floribel, he said, \u201cWell, my little girl, what pretty\nbook is that you have in your hand? Ah, the History of Jack the\nGiant-killer. A splendid fellow was Jack! my great-grandfather.  Just\nthe book I have always wished to read.  Family archives, you know. And\nwhat is this I behold? What, a splendid red chariot! and what a sweet\nlittle doll within!  How dumb and amiable she appears! She shall\ncertainly be my wife, and these four horses shall draw us all over the\nworld.\u201d  He sprang into the wagon, seating himself beside the erect\nlittle doll, who immediately began to move her quiet eyes; the horses\nshook their manes, and pranced about; and away drove Hoppletyhop,\ncalling out to Floribel as he disappeared, \u201cWish your three wishes,\nand they shall be granted, whatever they may be.\u201d\n\nThen her old grandmother and grandfather implored her, with tears in\ntheir eyes, to wish they might be young again. Floribel thought that\nwould be delightful, for then they could all go blackberrying\ntogether; so she said in a commanding voice, \u201cI wish my grandmother\nand grandfather to be young again;\u201d but she did not think to say how\nyoung, and the next moment was surprised to see two little babies,\nlying among the violets, kicking and crying with all their might. \u201cO,\ndear me!\u201d she exclaimed.  \u201cThe poor little things! How they do cry!\nWhat shall I do with them?  I do wish grandmother were here, to help\nme take care of them!\u201d and one little baby was immediately changed\nback into her grandmother.\n\n\u201cHow could you wish me to be old again, Floribel?\u201d she\nexclaimed. \u201cPray wish me to be just seventeen.\u201d Then the grandfather\nbegan to cry most clamorously, and Floribel knew he also wished to be\nseventeen, instead of a little, helpless baby. She did not know what\nto do, for with only one wish left, she could not both wish her\ngrandfather to be older, and her grandmother to be younger. While she\nwas standing in this perplexity, half stunned by the cries of her\ngrandfather, and the entreaties of her grandmother, she chanced to spy\na little dog running along, wagging its tail, and without thinking,\ncried, \u201cO dear, I wish I were a little dog, and then I should not have\nto choose!\u201d and in the twinkling of an eye, to her great dismay, she\nbecame a little brown dog, jumping about.\n\nYou may imagine how the poor grandmother felt, when she returned home,\ncarrying her old Zachary, a little baby, in her arms, with a brown dog\nrunning beside her, instead of her dear little grandchild, who had\nalways been the best child in the world. The villagers ran out of\ntheir gates to meet her, and could not keep from laughing, to see\ntheir grave neighbor Zachary a little crying baby; but they felt very\nsorry about Floribel, for one and all loved the merry little girl. \u201cO,\nwe told you how it would be,\u201d they said. \u201cWe told you the dwarf would\ndo you some mischief.\u201d  But this did not comfort poor Betsy, who went\nsorrowfully into her house, shut the door, and would have had a good\ncry herself, if the baby had not been crying so hard that she had more\nthan she could do to take care of him. \u201cI never saw such a cross\nchild,\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cWhen he was my old Zachary, he was very good\nnatured; but now he is little Zach, I can hardly stay in the house\nwith him.\u201d She laid him on the bed, hoping he would fall asleep; but\nhe screamed as if he had never dreamt of such a thing as sleeping. The\nlittle dog barked as if it fain would do something, and at last hopped\non to the bed, and softly patted the baby to sleep with one of its\nfore paws, and then, wearied with the adventures of the day, fell\nasleep itself, leaving the old lady to her lonely meditations.\n\nThe next morning the baby and dog awoke very early, as little dogs and\nbabies always do; so that the poor grandmother had to rise, when she\nwould gladly have slept four hours longer, to give them some\nbreakfast. Then she looked about for something to dress the baby\nin. She opened the closet, and there hung old Zachary's best Sunday\ncoat. Sad as she felt, she could not help smiling to think how funny\nhe would look in it now. She took down a white dress of Floribel's,\nand began to cut the sleeves and waist smaller, that it might fit the\nbaby. O, how troubled the little dog was, to see her cutting up the\npretty new dress, which was to have been worn by Floribel, on her\nbirthday, at a party her cousins were to give for her, at Elderbrook,\ntheir pleasant farm, two miles from the village! And when the little\ndog thought how, on the morrow, all the gay cousins would come for\nFloribel, and would find only a brown dog, it laid its head on the\ngrandmother's feet, and whined so piteously that she began to weep,\nand said, \u201cWe are having hard times, Floribel! yes, very hard times!\u201d\n and then the baby began to cry too, as if it understood all about it.\n\nThe dog wondered whether it would still be called Floribel; a pretty\nname for a little girl, it thought, but not at all the name for a\ndog. Then it remembered the time when it was Floribel, and had a\nlittle dog named Frolic, and wondered if any one would love it as much\nas Floribel did Frolic.  Looking round the room it spied out the doll\nhouse, with the dolls and pretty furniture in it, and thought it could\nplay with them just as before. But little paws are not so handy as\nlittle hands, and the dog broke off the arm of a chair, smashed in a\ndoll's head, and made such a disturbance in the doll house, that the\ngrandmother said, \u201cCome away, puppy; let Floribel's things remain just\nas she left them.\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I not Floribel?\u201d thought the dog, and barked as much as to say so,\nand looked up so dolefully in the grandmother's face, that she said,\n\u201cPoor little creature; you had better go out and have a run,\u201d and\nopened the door. The dog could not resist its active little legs, and\noff it sped, until it came to the school house. The children saw a\nlittle brown face with sparkling eyes peeping in, and one whispered to\nanother, \u201cHow much that looks like Floribel's Frolic; do you think he\nhas come back again?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, no,\u201d said another; \u201cdo you not know it is Floribel herself,\nchanged by the dwarf into a dog?\u201d\n\n\u201cO, dear! what a pity!\u201d exclaimed the children, and some of them began\nto cry; but others said it must be fine fun to be a little dog, and\nrun about all day, with no lessons to learn.\n\nWhen the teacher saw the children could think of nothing but the dog,\nshe said it might come in a little while; so it jumped into the room,\nand ran all round, from one child to another, receiving many a gentle\npat and kind word, and at length laid itself down under Floribel's\nempty seat, looking about with such mournful eyes, that the children\nsaid, \u201cPoor fellow! I am sure it would rather be Floribel, and have\nthe hardest arithmetic lesson to learn, than be only a little\nscampering dog. Would it not, doggy?\u201d and the dog bobbed its head up\nand down, as much as to say, \u201cYes, I am sure I should.\u201d\n\nAfter school the dog and children ran races together; but no child\ncould run so fast as the dog, with its four legs. It went frisking\nhome, and the grandmother called out, \u201cWhy, Frolic!\u201d thinking, for a\nmoment, it was the dog they had before, and that Floribel would come\nbounding in after it. From that time she always called it Frolic.\n\nThe next day the cousins arrived in their wagon, and stopping at the\ngate, they saw a little dog in the yard, and called out, \u201cThere is\nFrolic, returned. I wonder why Floribel does not come out. Has she\nforgotten it is her birthday, and that we were to come and carry her\nhome to the party?  And where is grandfather? Why is he not sitting in\nhis arm chair, in the doorway?\u201d\n\nRunning up the path, they saw their grandmother at the window, dancing\na baby up and down. \u201cWhere did grandmother pick up that baby?\u201d they\nexclaimed, and rushed into the house. There they heard the strange\nstory, and truly astonished they were. \u201cCan this be grandfather?\u201d\n cried Sarah. \u201cThis little cooing baby, my own grandfather, who always\nsaid such wise things?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd can this little foolish dog be my cousin Floribel, who had such\nlong curls, and such a sweet smile!\u201d exclaimed Robert.  \u201cWhat will\nmother say?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us dress it up in Floribel's clothes, and mother will think it is\nshe, when we drive up, in the wagon,\u201d said Sarah.\n\nSo they put a pink dress and white sun bonnet on the dog; the\ngrandmother tied a straw hat, that had belonged to the doll Rosa, on\nthe baby, who gave rather a wistful glance at old Zachary's black\nbeaver, on the nail, and away they drove.\n\nThe mother came to the door to welcome them, and thought she should\nsee Floribel's smiling face under the white bonnet; but O, there was\nonly a dog's sharp nose.  \u201cWhat prank are you playing, children?\u201d  she\nsaid. \u201cWhere have you hidden Floribel?\u201d\n\n\u201cAllow me to introduce grandfather and Floribel,\u201d said Sarah, as she\nand Robert took the baby and the dog from the wagon.\n\n\u201cWhat foolish children you are! Whose baby is this?\u201d\n\nThe children assured their mother that the baby was their grandfather;\nbut it was not until the old lady, with many sighs and tears, had told\nthe tale, that she could believe it. The two women had rather a\nmelancholy day together, although they did enjoy taking care of the\nbaby, and were not quite sure that it was not as entertaining, with\nits sprightly little ways, as the old gentleman had been with his\ngrand, moral remarks; and certainly its little shrill pipe was not\nhalf so bad as the old tobacco pipe.  Sarah said that although she\nloved her grandfather, she could not help being pleased to have him a\nbaby again; he was so cunning and droll, and she did so like to toss\nhim about, and feed him, and make him laugh.\n\nShe carried him out in the hay, where the party of children were at\nplay, and great fun they had burying him up in the haycocks, while\nFrolic frisked about as merry as any of them. At dinner time, when\nthey went to the table, under a wide-spreading oak tree, they found\ntwo high chairs, one for Frolic and one for the baby; and there they\nboth sat, with wreaths on their heads, and behaved with the utmost\npropriety, although Frolic was seen, after dinner, to slip down under\nthe table, and gnaw a bone, as Floribel would not have done, and the\nbaby cried for a cherry, as grandfathers never do.\n\nFrolic had as pleasant a life as a dog could have. Every one in the\nvillage was kind to the playful creature, who had once been a favorite\nlittle girl, and the children always came flocking about the house,\nout of school hours, to play with the dog and the baby. Sometimes some\ncurious child would ask them if they did not wish to be changed back\nagain; but the baby would always shake his little bald head, as much\nas to say no; for he found himself growing larger and stronger, and\nthought it pleasanter to be a healthy baby than an old gentleman with\nthe rheumatism. But Frolic's head would always bob up and down, as\nmuch as to say yes; for it is surely better to be a little girl than a\ndog. The children suggested various ways in which the change might be\neffected. \u201cWhy not go to the dwarf and ask him to change her back\nagain?\u201d said one. \u201cBecause the dwarf has gone to Chinese Tartary with\nFloribel's tin horses,\u201d answered another.\n\n\u201cThey might ask the fairies to change them with their wands,\u201d said\nlittle Amy.\n\n\u201cNonsense, with your fairies,\u201d replied Tom, the blacksmith's son. \u201cI\nshould like to know where fairies are to be found nowadays!\u201d\n\nBut Frolic thought a fairy might possibly be found, and got into wild\nhabits of running about in the moonlight, and barking a great deal at\nbats and night moths, fancying they were fairies; so that all the\nneighborhood complained, and begged the grandmother to shut the dog up\nevenings in the wood house; for though a pleasant animal by day, it\nwas altogether too noisy by night.\n\nOne day when Frolic was lying at the school house door, where it\nlearned a great deal listening to the recitations, the teacher read\naloud the story of Orpheus, who could tame wild animals with his lyre,\nand then went on to say that she had heard of music by which animals\nmight be changed into persons. Frolic's white ears were pricked up,\nand every word was treasured, and thought over, day after day. The\nchildren wondered why the little dog did not play with them as usual;\nthey did not know how eagerly it was wandering about, listening to\nevery strain of music it could catch.  The young ladies who played on\nthe piano could not imagine why that little dog was always under the\nwindows, and why it gave such a hopeful bark every time they began a\nnew Polka or Sehnsucht, and why it whined so sadly every time it was\nover.  When some soldiers marched through the village, they said the\ndog had better enlist, he seemed so fond of the trumpet and drum.\nWhen the hand organ players came and excruciated the villagers with a\nwiry \u201cLast Rose of Summer,\u201d they laughed to see the excited creature\njumping about, and one of them would have carried it off for a dancing\ndog, if the grandmother had not run screaming after him. The old black\nman who played on the fiddle, for the villagers to dance in the town\nhall, said he could not guess why Frolic had taken such a fancy to\nMinerva's Quickstep. The congregation could scarcely refrain from\nlaughing to hear the dismal howl the dog would set up in the church\nporch when the whole choir started off in \u201cOld Hundred,\u201d as if it were\n\u201cCatch who can;\u201d and young Edgar, who played on the flute in summer\ntwilights, was quite gratified to find Frolic always lying at his\nfeet, with wistful eyes, and imagined himself a second Orpheus.\n\nBut one day, when he had played a most unheard-of melody, Frolic\nthought that might possibly be the magical one, and annoyed the young\nman so much, by jumping upon him, that he gave the poor creature a\nkick, forgetting who it had formerly been.  That was a cruel kick;\nfor, though to appearance but a brown dog, Frolic had the tender\nfeelings of a little girl, and, shrinking home, passed a most unhappy\nnight in a dark corner of the garret, thinking every one might be\nunkind, now that its good friend, the flute player, had been so. And\nin the morning, when the grandmother called, \u201cFrolic, Frolic,\u201d it came\nvery slowly down stairs, and did not once go out all day, but lay on\nthe rug, looking very much grieved.\n\nFrolic never quite forgot that kick, and sometimes was even afraid to\ngo among the children, lest one of them might be angry, as the flute\nplayer had been, and felt sadder than ever about being a dog. The\nvillagers said, \u201cWhy, what has come over our Frolic? It used to seem\nas merry as a dog could be, scratching at our doors, and stealing our\nbones; but now it goes moping about in solitary places, just like\nyoung Edgar, with his long hair. Poor thing!  It is certainly a sad\nfate, for one who has once been a bright child, the best scholar in\nschool, winning a medal every week, to be only a barking dog.\u201d\n\nA year passed on, and the little dog was still seen about the village;\nsometimes merry and frolicking with the children, but more often\nwalking alone in the fields, or watching over little Zach, who was now\nold enough to play in the front yard; when one day, as it was taking a\nwalk on the shore of the river, it saw a little girl who had paddled\nout in an old boat, which was fast filling with water. In her fright\nthe girl had dropped her paddle overboard, and had no means of getting\nashore. Frolic scampered off to a man who was walking at some\ndistance, but seeing it was Edgar, who had given him that sad kick,\nfor a moment scarcely ventured to approach him; then, thinking the\nlittle girl would be drowned if it did not make haste, it ran to\nEdgar, and jumped on him, pulling and barking. \u201cPoor Frolic,\u201d said\nEdgar, \u201cI treated you unkindly once, and now you forgive me.\u201d But\nFrolic pulled harder and harder, and ran towards the river, and then\nback again to Edgar, so that at last he thought something was the\nmatter, and hastened to the shore. In a few minutes he had rowed out\nin another boat, and reached the sinking one just in time to save his\nown sister Lucy from drowning.  O, how they both thanked Frolic when\nthey reached the shore! and Edgar said he would never, in all his\nlife, hurt a living thing again; it was bad enough to be a dog,\nwithout being kicked for it.\n\nFrom that time Lucy and Frolic became the greatest friends. Wherever\none was seen, the other was sure to be near. Those who passed her\nhouse would see Lucy singing at her work, under the great elm tree,\nand little Frolic lying close at her feet, looking up in her face. She\nalways took the dog with her when she went with Edgar to a neighboring\ntown, where he taught a singing school. One evening the scholars were\nto give a concert, and Edgar said they had better not take Frolic,\nlest he should bark; but Lucy answered, \u201cO, let us take the poor\nlittle thing; it loves music better than any thing. I sometimes think\nit will sing itself, some day, instead of barking, and be one of your\nbest scholars;\u201d and the dog looked so entreatingly at Edgar, that he\nconsented to take it.\n\nAs they drove along, Frolic peeped from the bottom of the chaise,\nwhere it was curled up at Lucy's feet, and saw the crimson sunset. A\nsudden thought came, that it would be the last sunset it would see\nwith a dog's eyes. When it scrambled up the stairs to the concert\nroom, it thought, \u201cI shall never go pattering up stairs again on dog's\npaws;\u201d and when it entered the room, and saw the hundred little girls\nin white dresses and blue sashes, it looked about very gravely, saying\nto itself, \u201cSoon I shall be a little girl in a white dress and blue\nsash;\u201d and yet it knew not how all this was to happen.\n\nThe concert began; chorus and solo, the sweet, clear strains arose in\nthe air, and at every one the dog pricked up its ears; but every\nstrain found and left it a little brown dog, lying on the step of the\nplatform, and it began to think that a dog it should always\nremain. Just as it was in despair came a new piece, a solo, tender and\nentreating, as if a spirit were seeking its way through the lonely\nnight air; and then a full chorus joined in, joyous and triumphant,\nwith the tender tone running through it. Frolic lay with its head\npressed close on its fore paws, thrilled through and through by the\nmusic. When it was over, Lucy turned to look for her dog, and saw a\nchild, with rich brown curls, sitting on the step. \u201cHave you any where\nseen a little brown dog, with a coral necklace on?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cI am the little dog,\u201d answered the child.  \u201cAnd here is the coral\nnecklace you gave me, round my neck.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou look too good to steal my dog's necklace,\u201d said Lucy.\n\n\u201cDo I look too good to be your little dog?\u201d\n\n\u201cNobody could be better than Frolic, who forgave my brother, and saved\nmy life, and is so gentle to every one.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you forgotten me, Lucy, in the two years I have been Frolic? Do\nyou not know your friend Floribel?\u201d\n\nLucy threw her arms around her. \u201cO Floribel, is it you? You have come\nback again! How glad I am! And yet I feel sorry to lose little Frolic,\ntoo. I wish you could be both Frolic and Floribel.\u201d\n\nEdgar was gladly surprised when a little girl came out with Lucy, to\nride home with them, instead of Frolic. \u201cI owe it all to you,\u201d she\nsaid, \u201cthat I have become a little girl. It was your beautiful music.\u201d\n They had a lovely drive home in the moonlight, and Floribel staid with\nLucy all night.  Her grandmother did not much mind whether a little\ndog was at home or not.  In the morning, instead of an eager paw\nscratching at the door, she heard a little girl's happy morning voice,\nsaying, \u201cLet me in, grandmother, please.\u201d When she opened it, in\nbounded Floribel, kissed her grandmother, and caught up little Zach,\ndancing all about the room, in great delight.\n\n\u201cPray, be still,\u201d cried her grandmother, \u201cand let me see you. Are you\nreally my own little Floribel, come back?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, grandmother, yes, Zach. Frolic has gone, and Floribel has come.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Ittle dog done, 'ittle dirl tome; me 'ove 'ittle dog, me 'ove 'ittle\ndirl,\u201d was Zach's grave remark.\n\nThe old lady said, \u201cYes, my child, it is you; what would your\ngrandfather say?\u201d\n\nFloribel laughed, and looked at Zach, but thought she would not remind\nher grandmother that he was her grandfather.  In the two years the old\nlady had taken care of the baby and dog, she had almost forgotten they\nwere ever any thing else; and although she could never have her wish,\nto be young again herself, she almost seemed to become so, living with\nthese two children, who were as happy as kittens together.\n\nA grand festival was held in the village to welcome Floribel's return,\nand the neighbors said, \u201cWe shall all miss little Frolic, but we are\nright glad to have our happy, singing Floribel among us again; and we\nhope she will never have any more wishes granted.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, dear,\u201d exclaimed Floribel, \u201cI do not know about that. But one\nthing I am sure of; I shall never wish to be a little brown dog\nagain.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY INTELLETTA.\n\n\nLittle children in the wide world, I have no one here to whom I can\nspeak; so I must write to you, for it will be some consolation to\nthink that you may read my letters, and feel sorry to think that a\nlittle child, like yourselves, can be living as I am.\n\nI am writing with an opal pen, at a mother-of-pearl table; and you may\nsee what pretty violet paper I have, with a silver edge. The room is\nof ivory, delicately carved, and chased with silver, and all around\nare arches, in which stand fair statues.  But there is no window,\nexcept one in the ceiling, formed of a single pearl, through which the\nsoftened sunlight falls.  This room opens, by a silver door, into\nanother, in which sits a fair and stately lady, with hair like heavy\nfolds of gold, and eyes like the blue sky. Her features are carved\nlike those of a statue, and she is almost as pale and still. Her blue\nsilken robe falls richly around her, and a white flower lies, like\nmarble, upon her hair. She sits and gazes into the fire.\n\nNow, this fire is one of the things I wish to tell you about. It is\nthe very brightest fire I ever saw; but there is no motion in it--no\nflame, no smoke, no glowing coals, that take every moment new\nforms. It is always still, still, and seems to be made of shining\nmetal. I wonder how the lady can sit and gaze into it as she does. And\nthen there is no warmth in it. No, it is not in the least like our\ndear wood fire at home.  O, how I long for that! For you must know\nthis house is not my home, and that I am now a poor little prisoner\nhere. And yet, how I once wished to come hither! I will tell you about\nit.\n\nMy own home is a brown cottage by the shore of a great lake, over\nwhich the sun brightly shines. Our garden stretches down to the very\nwaves of the lake, so that my violets are often sprinkled by their\nlight foam. In this garden I played and worked with my sister Mary. We\nplanted our seeds in the spring, and in summer watered and weeded\namong the sunny flowers, while mother sat at the door and held the\nbaby, who laughed, and stretched out her little hands for the blossoms\nwe threw her. How I wish I could see that darling baby rolling down\nthe steps into the grass! But I am afraid she will be grown up before\nI shall see her again. Why could I not have been contented with all\nthat happy life? But I had heard there was a great castle beyond the\nlake, in which dwelt a beautiful lady, and I dreamed of that lady day\nand night.  When I went in the morning to bathe in the lake, and the\nwaves, all golden in the sunrise, broke softly over my feet, I fancied\nthey had brought me a message from her; and at evening I would lie\ndown among the tall grasses, and gaze over the sunset waters, longing\nto follow the light to her castle door, whence I thought it shone.\n\nThe lake was so wide I could not see the other shore; but I knew that\nthe road which passed our house ran all around it, and I often walked\na long way upon it, hoping to reach the castle.\n\nOne day, when I had strayed far from home, a coach, all glittering in\nits swiftness, came sweeping by. \u201cO, take me in, take me in!\u201d I\nexclaimed; and in a moment I was sitting beside a lady richly arrayed,\nand we were speeding on. The lady did not speak to me, but gazed out\nof the window, so that I could only see the veil, that fell around her\nlike shimmering mist. Thus we drove on and on, and every thing passed\nus so swiftly that I could see nothing distinctly.  Indeed, I did not\nlook out much, but turned towards the lady, hoping to catch a glimpse\nof her beautiful face.\n\nAt length we stopped before a strange, dark building, that seemed to\nrise up into the very sky. \u201cCan this be the castle I have so longed\nfor?\u201d I thought in surprise.  High steps led to the entrance, and on\neach side stood a lion with a woman's head, carved in stone. The door\nopened silently, and we entered into a marble hall, and went up broad\nmarble stairs.\n\nThe lady guided me into a room lighted from the ceiling, where I found\na small white bed and a marble bath. Nothing else. \u201cIs this to be my\nroom?\u201d I wondered.  \u201cI should think there might at least be a looking\nglass: how shall I know whether my hair is smooth?\u201d But I did not dare\nto say this to the still lady. She then walked before me into another\nroom, and we seated ourselves at a marble table.  \u201cEvery thing is\nmarble,\u201d I said to myself, \u201ceven the lady.\u201d Then an old man entered\nwith a white beard, that looked like icicles frozen upon a\nrock. \u201cMarble too,\u201d I thought; but his eyes were very gentle.  Not a\nword was spoken; but white porcelain dishes stood before us, filled\nwith the most delicate food, and we ate in silence. Then the lady\narose, and I followed her into a lofty room. She seated herself, and\ngazed into the fire, while I stood beside her, waiting for her to\nspeak; but she did not notice me. At length I asked, \u201cShall I not go\nhome now?\u201d She did not glance at me, she did not speak. I looked\naround the room. Mirrors, mirrors, every where; and in every mirror I\nsaw the lady, but started when I observed, that I nowhere saw myself\nbeside her. I went nearer to them.  There were the lady and the fire,\nreflected and re-reflected a thousand times; but poor little I was\nnowhere to be seen. \u201cAm I not, then, any where?\u201d I exclaimed. \u201cThe\nlady does not hear me! The mirrors do not hold me!\u201d I clasped my hands\ntogether to feel if there was any real life in them, but almost\nthought there was not, they were so cold. I went into the marble hall.\nSilent all; ah, how silent! I opened door after door. Silver and blue\nwere all the rooms; no crimson, no gold. Statues and columns were all\naround; no paintings, no flowers. Was I not in a great cave full of\nstalactites? Longing to tread once more the green earth, I ran down\nthe broad flight of stairs; but the entrance door was closed, and I\ncould not remember the word by which the lady had opened it. I went up\nthe stairs and sought the old man, but every room was empty. At length\nI found a little wooden staircase, that led higher and higher, to a\nnarrow door. I knocked; no answer. I lifted the wooden latch; it did\nnot open. I sat on the threshold, for I liked that wooden\nstaircase. It was like the one that leads to my own little chamber at\nhome, where Mary and I slept so sweetly together. I fancied what Mary\nwas doing at that moment. It must be night, and they must be wondering\nwhere I was. I would try to find a window, and perhaps I could climb\nout. I looked into every room. They were all lighted by windows, high,\nhigh in the ceiling, and I could not hope to reach them. I returned to\nthe lady's mirrored room. There she sat in her hundred mirrors, but\nshe saw me not. I went into my little room, and weeping, fell asleep,\nto dream that my mother wept for me at home.\n\nIn the morning, on first awakening, I wondered where Mary was, for I\nforgot where I was myself; but the faint light, that fell like early\ndawn through the high window, brought all to my remembrance.  A fresh,\nwhite dress lay upon my bed; I put it on, and glided down stairs. The\nlady still sat by the fire. \u201cHad she not slept?\u201d I wondered. \u201cHad she\nnot dreamed of flowers and falling dews, of rosy faces, and of\nmother's love, as I had?\u201d She arose silently, and I followed her to\nthe room where we had taken our supper the evening before. The old man\nentered. The lady bowed her head low. I bowed mine. The dishes\nappeared upon the table, I knew not from whence, and we again ate in\nsilence.  The fruits were fair to see, but seemed to have no flavor,\nno juice. The only drink was water, in crystal vases. How I did want a\ncup of good old Brindle's milk, foaming and warm, as we have it at\nhome.\n\nAll that long day I wandered up and down. Once I saw the old man, at\nthe end of a long corridor. I thought of his gentle eyes, and sprang\ntowards him; but he vanished, I could not tell how. I began to think\nhe was a phantom; that it was all a strange dream. If there had only\nbeen a bird to sing, or a frog to hop about, or any thing living! But\nthe lady was so still she scarcely seemed to breathe, and the old man\ncame and went like a shadow. There was not even a breath of\nwind. Finest lace curtains hung in the rooms, but they never\nstirred. How much pleasanter was my little muslin curtain at home,\nthat fluttered so lightly in the summer breeze! And then my morning\nglories, that peeped into my window; they were all in full bloom,\npink, purple, and white, and I was not there to see them.\n\nAt length I found my way into this ivory room. The statues here are\nnot as stern as in the rest of the house. Some are very lovely, and\nthere is even one of a mother holding a child, which makes me think of\nmy mother and our little baby. O, how many hours I have passed at the\nfeet of this statue, weeping as I never wept before!\n\nI know not how many days I have been here, but it seems a very long\nwhile. Did you ever wake in the night, when it was all still, and you\ncould see the faint starlight through the window? and did it not seem\nas if you were awake a very, very long time, and as if a great many\nthoughts came, which you never had before? and yet, perhaps, it is\nonly a little while. So it is with me. It may be only a few days since\nI left home; but it seems to me as if the summer must have passed, as\nif all the flowers were faded, and the leaves fallen from the trees;\nand yet father may still be mowing his grass, and Mary playing in the\nhay. Happy, happy Mary!\n\nI would write to her and my mother, and tell them where I am, and\nentreat them to come for me, but I know not how to send a\nletter. There is certainly no post office here. I have no way to send\nmy letter to you; but I cannot speak to any one in this silent castle,\nand it is a pleasure to write.  If I direct it to all the children in\nthe world, perhaps one of them may some day come here and find it. I\nshall not seal my letter, because there is no sealing wax here, and no\nseal. I think the lady never writes letters to any one; but sometimes\nshe writes and throws her paper into the fire. There it shrivels up in\na moment, and the fire burns, or rather glitters, just as before. O,\nthat fire! It seems more like a keen frost than a fire, and I never\ndare to approach it. I never look at it except in the mirrors.\n\nIn an old, dark cabinet, curiously carved, standing near the fire, are\na few books, some large and some very small. They are bound in black\nleather, and clasped with jewels. I take them down, but cannot unclasp\nthem. Sometimes the old man comes in and reads aloud to the lady. Then\nshe turns her face from the fire, a little towards him. Ah, that is\npleasant. His voice is like the summer wind, and I sit beside him to\ndrink it in, but cannot understand his words. Yet they have a strange\npower over me, and I often weep as I do by the mother's statue. He\nsometimes looks mildly down upon me, and has even spoken to me; but I\ndid not understand what he wished to say.\n\nOne day, when he left the room, I followed him, very timidly, with\nsoftest steps.  He passed slowly through the great halls, and down a\ndark staircase, which I had never before seen. Yet it was not\naltogether dark; but the light was different from the clear, silvery\nlight that shines through the upper halls. I heard a heavy door open\nand close, and all was hushed.  I could not find the door, and after\ngroping a long while for it, I went back to the ivory room, and cried\nmyself to sleep, at the foot of my dear ivory statue.\n\nBut you must not think I am always unhappy here. How can I be, where\nevery thing is so beautiful? And another wondrous thing is, that the\nrooms are always changing; not much, but a little, from day to day. I\nhave never seen any thing move except the silken lady and the\nsilver-haired old man; and these, with a motion that is not like life;\nyet I can perceive that there is a change--just as, while you are\nlooking at the clouds, you can see that they have taken new forms and\ntints, and yet cannot tell how it is. I sometimes think there must be\ninvisible spirits in the castle, there are such strange lights in the\nrooms.  Perhaps the statues are enchanted queens and princes, for\nthere seems to be a presence in each one. I wander from one to\nanother, and gaze, and gaze. O, how lovely they are! If they were only\nalive, it would be almost too great a pleasure to live with such\nbeautiful people. I sometimes lay my hand upon them, to see if they\nare not warm, but quickly draw it back again, they are so very\ncold. No lips smile for me, no eye looks into mine, no hand is\nstretched out towards me.\n\nHow I wish some of you, little children, were here! Any child! The\npoorest beggar, in her rags, if she could but speak and move. If the\ncolor would come into her cheeks, and the tears into her eyes, I would\nthrow my arms around her, and kiss her a hundred times. O, she would\nnot be made of marble. But good night now. It is very late, and only a\nlittle light comes in through the pearl window. I have written a very\nlong letter for to-day. To-morrow I will write again, only I shall\nhave nothing to tell, for the days are all alike here.  Good night.\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nDear Children: I have something new to tell you. One morning, when the\nlady arose from the breakfast table, she went down the broad\nstaircase, and I joyfully followed her. She spoke the magic word at\nthe door. It opened! We passed down the steps, between the two winged\nlions, and stepped into the glittering carriage.  Away it sped. I\ncould not see the driver, but only that there were four white horses.\nOn we flew, faster and faster. I gazed out of the window at the green\nmeadows, the woods, the streams; but we passed them so rapidly that\nthey were all mingled. I could just see that there was something\nmoving about near the houses, and at work in the fields--men and\nwomen, I suppose; but they were as transparent as air, and I could see\nevery thing through them. Mere ghosts they seemed to be. Now I could\nunderstand why the lady took so little notice of me. I, and all these\npeople, were like wreaths of mist to her. I turned towards her. She\nwas looking out with the same calm eyes. It was all unreal to her, but\nshe was very real to me, very beautiful. I wished she were not. I\nwished she were not in the carriage; that it would stop; that I could\nget out, and run, dancing and shouting, through the fields. I broke\nthe silence. I implored the lady to stop the carriage; to let me go\nand find my home; to let me gather one buttercup, one blade of\ngrass. She drew her glimmering veil more closely around her; I believe\nshe thought the wind blew a little. On, on, we went! At length we\nstopped, and I thought it was my mother's house. I looked out for the\nlittle brown walls, the grass plot, the baby. I saw only the great\ncastle, frowning down upon me, and the lions with women's faces\nlooking at me with large, tranquil eyes. When we alighted from the\ncarriage I tried to escape, but the lady's power was upon me, and I\nhad to follow her up those stone steps. The door opened and closed. I\nthrew myself down by it; I pressed myself against it. I wept as if my\nheart would break. I know not how long I lay there. All night,\nperhaps. It may have been yesterday when I flew so fast through the\ngreen fields. I know nothing about time here. I have come to write to\nyou again. It is night again. My paper is all wet with my tears. O, if\nmy mother were only here to kiss me to sleep!\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nDear Children: To-day something pleasant has happened. I have found a\nlittle room I never saw before, away off in the corner of a long\nentry; and will you believe it? there are the remains of a wood fire\nin it--real ashes, which I could blow about with my breath, only I do\nnot like to disturb them, and a piece of burnt brand.  Some one must\nhave lived in this room, and perhaps not so very long ago. It is hung\nwith flowered chintz curtains, like those around my bed at home. It\nmade me so happy to see them, I kissed the flowers and the buds on\nthem; and yet it made me sad, too, I longed so for my own little\nroom. I lifted the curtains all around the walls, hoping to find a\nwindow, and found a little one in a corner, but the shutters were\nclosed.  I thought that it might overlook the lake and the hills, and\nthat perhaps some little girl had once sat there with the soft breeze\nblowing upon her, and she had seen the dancing waves of the lake, and\nfar across it our little brown house, which I would rather see now\nthan the glancing waters I once loved so well. I pushed and pulled; I\nlooked for a spring, and ran over all kinds of strange words in hopes\nto find one that would open it; but all in vain. There was no bar\nacross the shutter, and yet it was firmly closed. Then I looked around\nthe room. There was a small statue carved in wood of a boy, with an\nextinguished torch in one hand, stretching out the other as if he were\ngroping in the darkness. There was another carving in wood of a child\nlying asleep, and an angel bending over it binding a wreath of roses\non its head. I looked at this angel, with her softly-folded wings and\nloving face, for a long while, and at the little sleeping child, and\nthought, perhaps an angel is binding my head with roses while I sleep\nin this marble house, for my life here all seems like a sleep and a\ndream.\n\nThere was nothing else in the room except a wooden footstool and a\nspinning wheel, the broken thread hanging upon it.  On the walls was a\npicture of a child with a halo around its head. It might not be a very\ngood painting, but the face was lovely, and seemed to say, \u201cCome with\nme.\u201d There was a little straw mat beneath this picture, as if some one\nhad knelt before it; at least I did. Then I drew the footstool up, and\nsat near the ashes, on the hearth. I tried to imagine I was sitting by\nthe fire at home, close to my mother's side, on my little footstool,\nwhile Mary, and the baby, and father were frolicking together, as they\nalways do at night; but O, there was only the dead brand. And yet I\nwould rather sit and look into those ashes, and think what a pleasant\nfire was once there, or might be, if rekindled, than gaze, as the lady\ndoes, into that hard, glittering fire, which is always the same.\n\nWhile I sat there, feeling very homesick and sad, I spied a little\ncupboard by the side of the fireplace. I opened it rather\nhesitatingly, for I did not know what might be there, and found--what\ndo you think?--a book! You cannot tell what a joy that was to me, you\nwho have whole shelves of books. But if you had been shut up for a\nlong while in a great castle where there was no person who would speak\nto you, no book which you could read, not so much as a kitten or a fly\nto play with, and nothing to do, day after day, but wander about and\nadmire curtains and statues, and a lady like a statue,--would you not\nbe glad to find a book you could read, even Mother Goose? At first I\nhardly dared to open it, for I was afraid it might be in some unknown\nlanguage, and that would have been too great a disappointment; but at\nlength I peeped in, and there was a little hymn I used to sing with my\nmother, and another and another. It was the very same hymn book I had\nat home--one just like it I mean, only very worn and old, as if it had\nbeen read a great many times. And I shall read it many, many times;\nfor although I once knew all the hymns in it by heart, I have\nforgotten them now. But they will soon return to my memory. I sat on\nthe little stool singing them over to myself in a low voice, until it\nseemed as if my mother were really singing them with me; and now I\nshall go to bed and sing myself to sleep with one of them.\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nDear Children: I have not written to you for several days, because I\nhave not needed to write, I have been so happy with my hymn book. And\nbesides, I have found in the cupboard some small, sharp tools, with\nwhich the images in the little room must have been carved, and I am\ncarving a figure on the wooden stool. It is very pretty, I think. It\nis our little baby feeding a robin. Perhaps you would not think it a\ngood likeness of baby, but I do, it is such a chubby little\nthing. Only I cannot carve very well, I have had so little practice.\nBut I draw a great deal from the statues in the ivory room, and am\nlearning very fast.  I sing to myself while I am at work; and when I\nwander, singing, in the great halls, to rest myself, there comes a\nstrange echo through the lofty rooms. One day, when I was dancing\nalong, humming a little song I used to sing with Mary, I met the old\nman, and he laid his hand upon my head.  It seemed for a moment as if\nit must be my own father, and I almost threw my arms around him, but\nwas afraid of the long, silvery beard; and yet it does not look like\nicicles now, but is soft and flowing. It made me think of a picture\nfather has of a wise old man named Eli, and I shall always call him\nEli now, for I like that people should have names. I think the lady's\nname must be Intelletta, because I saw it written in a book that was\nunclasped, one day. It is a pretty name--do you not think so? But I do\nnot like it half so well as Mary.\n\nOne day I saw a strange sight. I was sitting on the lower step of the\nwooden staircase that leads to the narrow turret door, when the lady\npassed me by, without noticing me, however. She carried a dazzling\nsword erect in her hand, so that the point gleamed above her head. It\nwas very splendid, to see her thus mounting the stairs.  She stood\nbefore the door, but it would not open, although the sword flashed as\nif it would flash its way through. She waited very long, and then came\nslowly down, with her lips pressed together. I thought she gave one\nlittle glance at me. I arose and followed her, for whenever I see her\nmove I always follow her. She seated herself by the fire, but did not\nlook into it.  The sword fell from her hand, and she leaned her head\nagainst one of the jewel-clasped books. The old man soon entered,\nunclasped the book, and read to her. She rose from her chair, and sat\non a cushion at his feet--a little cushion near mine; and yet she did\nnot see me.\n\nI will draw you a picture of the lady ascending the stairs with the\nshining sword, and yet I can hardly venture to do so. It will not look\nlike her, for I cannot draw the glittering light in her face, and that\nmarble flower in her hair; that is too handsome for me to draw. But\nthere is no fragrance in it, and I would rather have the smallest\nviolet that blooms in my own dear garden. Good night.\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nDear Children: I have not written to you for a long time, and you will\nbe glad to know the reason why I have not. I was drawing one day with\nmy pretty opal pen, when I heard a fluttering sound above my head, and\nthere was a rosy bird flying about and singing. O, I knew that song so\nwell!  I often heard it at home when I was lying half asleep and half\nawake in the morning, and when I was quite awake I had often looked\nthrough all the garden, in every vine and tree, but had never found\nthe bird; and now it had come to sing to me again. It alighted on the\ntable. I did not touch it, but sat with my hands folded, looking and\nlistening; and I listened even after it had flown away, and all was\nsilent again. It flew away through the pearl window in the ceiling,\nwhich was open, and has remained so ever since; and now I can look up\ninto the blue sky and see clouds drifting by, and the sun shining\nin. It shines directly upon me and makes me so happy.\n\nAfter the rosy bird had gone, I missed my drawing of the lady with the\nsword, and I think he must have carried it away. Perhaps he will fly\nwith it to mother, and she will wonder what it is. She will not know\nthat I drew it, for I never drew before. If she should know it was my\ndrawing, she would send me a little note by the rosy bird.\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nEvening. Yes, the bird came again to-day, and brought me a blue\nforget-me-not. I know it very well; it came from Mary's garden. You\nwould have thought some great misfortune had befallen me, if you had\nseen how I wept over that little flower; but it was only because it\nmade me too happy. I did so long to fly away with the bird. All I\ncould do was to write a little note, and tie it under his wing, hoping\nmother would find it. So I wrote,--\n\n\u201cDearest Mother: I am your own little Anna. I am in the castle of the\nLady Intelletta.  I wish you could see how beautiful it is here. I\nwill come home as soon as I can possibly get out. Cannot you come for\nme, mother?\u201d\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nDear Children: The next day the bird brought me a note. It was written\non a bit of paper torn out of a book; but I did not care for that. It\nsaid,--\n\n\u201cAnna dear: Why have you gone away from us? Mother is so ill weeping\nfor you, that she cannot come for you. You must come to us. Your own\nsister, Mary.\u201d\n\nThen there was one word added, in a trembling hand--\u201cMother.\u201d I knew\nwho had written that.\n\nI took the note and went to the lady. I threw myself sobbing at her\nfeet. I entreated her, if she had any pity, to let me go home. I\nclasped my arms around her silken robe. She did not draw it away; she\ndid not know I was there. The rosy bird flew into the room and\nsang. She heard him. She rose and followed him. He flew out of my open\nwindow. The lady gazed up as if she had never seen the drifting clouds\nbefore. I fell once more at her feet. She looked at me a moment,\npassed her hand over my forehead, as if striving to recollect\nsomething, but resumed her seat in silence. It was a long while before\nI could control myself; but at last I sat down and wrote a note to\nmother, begging her to be well, and to come for me, and promising\nnever to leave her again. I sent it by the bird, and he brought me an\nanswer, to tell me that mother was better, and they were all coming\nfor me the next day.\n\nI searched all over the castle for the gentle Eli, for I thought he\nwould let me out. I went up the wooden stairs, and down the dark\nstairs, and through every corridor, but he was nowhere to be found.  I\nthought they were all standing outside the great door, but tried in\nvain to open it.  O, how wearied and bruised I was, with throwing\nmyself against it! At night the bird came with a note which told me\nthey had all come for me, and had gone away; that they could not\nbelieve I was in the dark castle, for I had said I was in a beautiful\nplace, and they should wait now until I came for them. And I also must\nwait, and be as patient as I can. I am happier than I was before,\nbecause the rosy bird comes every day, and brings me either a note\nfrom home, or a flower, or a leaf. The soft air comes in through my\nwindow, and the sunshine, and I know they all love me at home, and\nhave not forgotten me. So I go on drawing, that I may have copies of\nall these statues to hang on our walls, and I have almost finished\ncarving the footstool.  How pleased baby will be when she sees it!\nAh, when will that be! darling little baby!\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nDear Children: Happiest of the happy am I! Now let me tell you. I was\njust finishing off my footstool, and thinking whether the baby's hair\nwas quite curly enough, when the door gently opened and the old man\nentered. How he had found my little room I could not imagine. He\nlooked at the footstool, then taking it in one hand and leading me by\nthe other, went through the long corridors to the lady's room. He\nopened one of the great books, and there was a picture of a baby\nplaying with a robin-red-breast, just like my carving.  The lady\nlooked from the carving to the picture, from the picture to the\ncarving, and at last seated herself upon my little wooden footstool,\nwith her rich dress sweeping the floor on either side, and held out\nher hand to me. I put mine into it,--it was not so very cold,--and she\nsat looking into my face for some long minutes. I looked into her\neyes, and they made me think of the evenings when I used to lie on the\nfrozen snow, and gaze up at the bright winter stars, shining through\nthe bare branches of the elm tree. At length she said to me, \u201cHow did\nyou come to this castle?\u201d I could not but smile at the question, and\nanswered, \u201cI came in a carriage with you, but you did not see me,\nperhaps; I was hidden by your glimmering veil.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, that veil! I will never wear it again,\u201d she said; and then I had\nto tell her about my mother and the baby, the flowers and the bees,\nand all we did at home. And now that she would hear me, I told her how\nI longed to be there once again, and entreated her to let me go. \u201cYes,\nwe will go,\u201d she said, and led me to the door, which flew open.\n\nFor a moment I so feared to see that splendid, never-stopping\ncarriage, ready to receive us, that I did not venture to look out; but\nwhen I took a peep, and saw it was not there, I sprang upon the\nsphinx, ran along its back, and gave a great jump from its head, quite\nacross the gravel walk, into the grass beyond, and rolled down to the\nbottom of the bank. I scrambled up again, my white dress stained with\nthe grass, and saw the stately lady smiling at me. I ran off to gather\nhandfuls of dandelions and buttercups, and then away I went to the\nlake, to let the little waves break over my feet. O, how delightful\nthat was! I heard the lady singing a low cadence like that of the\nwaves, and saw how beautiful she was in the sunlight, so much more\nlovely than when she sat by that spell-bound fire. How glad mother\nwill be to have me bring this queenly lady home! I thought, and walked\nalong with my hand in hers. But when we came to our garden wall, over\nI sprang, and fell down into my violet bed. O, how sweet my violets\nwere! I felt as if I could lie there forever among them, but\nremembered the lady, and gathering two violets, gave her one, and put\nthe other into my bosom. \u201cBut you will crush it, child,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cO, yes, I love it so!\u201d I answered, and was bounding through the\ngarden, when I suddenly thought it would not be very polite to let the\nlady find her way alone; so I gave her my hand, and led her to the\nhouse. There sat my mother, with the baby asleep in the cradle beside\nher. What happened then I do not know; but I found myself sitting in\nmy mother's lap, with my head on her shoulder, and could hear, as if\nin a dream, a murmuring sound of the wind in the locust tree, the\nbees, the brook, the lady's clear tones, and sweetest of all, my\nmother's low voice answering her. Father and Mary also were sitting on\nthe step, and baby lay sleeping in the cradle, with her dear little\nface looking just as it did when I went away. Soon we all went in to\ntea.  How the urn smoked, and how good the baked apples tasted! I\ncould not help smiling to see the lady eat bunns, for I thought of her\nhandsome frosted cakes that never had any raisins in them. After tea I\nundressed the baby; she really seemed to remember me, and we had a\ngrand frolic together. Then I was so happy at night, when Mary and I\nfell asleep with the moon shining in through the vine leaves twining\naround our little window! I believe the rosy bird sang in the\njessamine all the night long; at least I dreamed that he did.\n\nThis morning I have been all over the farm, calling upon the cows, the\nsheep, and the chickens. Old Nabby, my brown hen, has ten little\nchickens, and I have come home just in time to take care of them. I\nleft her sitting on her nest. Will you believe it? father has not\nquite got through his haying yet. They say I have not been gone such a\nvery long time, but it seems a year and a day to me, and mother says\nit seems even longer to her; for until the bird brought the note, she\ndid not know what had become of me, and was afraid I was drowned in\nthe lake.\n\nThe lady has invited us all to go to the castle to-morrow, and father\nsays he will row us across the lake. Will not that be delightful? I\nhave always so longed to sail on the lake! I cannot say that I care\nmuch to see the castle again, but I shall like to show mother and Mary\nall the beautiful statues, and to bring home my drawings and baby's\nfootstool. Good by now; there is mother calling me to dinner.  While\nshe went out to call father I just stole a little time to write to\nyou, here in my room, at my little rosewood desk. It is not so pretty\nas the mother-of-pearl table, but I like it better. It was my last\nbirthday present.\n\nDear Children: I believe there was never before such a sunny day as\nyesterday. Early in the morning we sailed off in the boat, with the\nwater splashing and dancing around us, baby and all so happy. We were\nthree hours sailing across the lake. I did not know that it was so\nwide. We landed on the slope before the castle; the great doors were\nthrown open, and in the dark archway stood the old man, looking like a\npicture, with his long, white beard, and flowing hair. He welcomed\nmother to the castle; then the lady bowed her stately head, and we all\nentered.\n\nThe old man took my mother by the hand, and led her down the\nmysterious stairs. I think they must have entered the heavily-closing\ndoor, which I could not find when I had once groped about there; for\nwhen she returned she wore upon her breast a jewel that glowed like\nliving fire. Then he led her up the wooden stairs, bearing her baby in\nher arms. She lifted the little latch, and entered the turret door,\nwhile the lady and I waited below. When she came out of the door it\nseemed as if the sun were descending upon us, such a radiant light was\nin her face. She gave her hand to the lady Intelletta, then stooped\nand kissed me upon the forehead with a kiss that was like a burning\nstar.\n\nAs my mother and the lady left the stairs, a statue of a young girl\nstarted into life.  Her marble flowers became fragrant and blooming,\nas she knelt to offer her upraised basket. My mother took a rose, and\npresented it to the lady, who placed a fair white lily in her\nhand. Then side by side they moved along. And now a lovely statue of a\nwinged boy flew forth from its niche, and struck upon its lyre. The\nwhole castle awoke into life. The statues of grave men, with a scroll\nin one hand and their heavy robes draped in the other, descended from\ntheir pedestals. Young princes clustered around us, with graceful\ngarments and waving hair, their swords bound to their sides, and their\neyes full of light. A golden-haired princess looked upon me with the\nloveliest smile, and told me I must always be her sister. In one room,\na queen, who had long been pale marble, arose from her throne in\ngorgeous robes, and joined in our procession.  A lady with a wide brow\nand jewelled hair, rode towards us in a car drawn by lions. I\nremembered what a funny picture I had one day made of those lions,\nwhen they had not the power of motion, and was almost afraid they\nwould eat me up, by way of revenge. But they were very forgiving. A\nyoung warrior, whom I had always greatly admired, because he appeared\nto have so much life in him, even when he was but a statue, now rode\ngently towards us, bowing low before my mother.  But I knew by the\nfire in his eyes, and the restrained prance of his spirited horse,\nthat he would some time perform brave deeds.  When we entered my\nsilver room, the beautiful ivory mother bent and kissed her child, who\nleaped with joy into life. A little girl, on a gazelle, bounded from a\ncorner.  A boy, on an eagle, soared high into the sunshine through the\nopen window, then came circling down, and led the eagle near us.\nLovely girls scattered flowers, their light dresses fluttering around\nthem as they tripped along. They smiled upon me as if they knew me;\nand well they might, for when they were nothing but carved ivory I had\nsat before them day after day, with my opal pen and lilac paper,\ntrying to draw them. Then, too, they had seen my tears when I so\nlonged for home. How different it was from that silent time, to have\nmy own dear mother beside me, and all the beautiful, cold statues\nawakened into life!\n\nWe all dined at the same marble table, served by the same invisible\nhands; but the fruits were juicy as well as fair to see, and the water\nhad become fragrant wine, and there was no silence now, but\nconversation like the most enchanting fairy tales.  After dinner we\nwent to the lady's mirrored room. The fire was not still, and\ncoldly brilliant, but burned with a motion like that of a\nfountain--self-contained.  And yet I like better our wood fire at home.\nIt is so pleasant to put on fresh sticks, and rake open the coals! But it\nwas splendid to see it burning in a hundred mirrors, where all the gay\nand stately figures were reflected like sparkling light, as they\ndanced around the room in swift circles. Yes, and the lady also\ndanced. My rosy bird sat on the old cabinet and sang his sweetest\nsong, and above all, in the height of the lofty room floated the angel\nwho was crowning the child with roses, and by her side was the happy\nchild.\n\nIt was early dawn when we sailed home across the lake. I lay in the\nbottom of the boat, with my head upon my mother's lap--not asleep, I\nbelieve--but listening to the water rippling against the boat, and\nfaintly recalling the beautiful figures I had been seeing all day, I\nknew them all so well.  But how different from the marble statues were\nthe eyes beaming with life, the lips that spoke, and the glowing\nmotions of living forms. O, yes, we shall often accept the lady\nIntelletta's invitation to visit her lordly castle.\n\nI brought away my drawings, and have been pinning them on the walls\nthis morning.  Mother says they are very ornamental to the rooms, but\nI shall soon draw better ones. The baby creeps along the floor to her\nlittle footstool, and points to the robin-red-breast, then looks at me\nand laughs.\n\nMary and I are so tired to-night that we are going to have some bowls\nof bread and milk on the door step, and go to bed when baby does--at\nseven o'clock. Will not that be pleasant?\n\nTo-morrow I shall go to the village post office to put in this\nletter. I shall not write you any more now that I have mother and Mary\nto talk with; and I should not have written to you at all after I left\nthe silent castle,--now no longer silent,--only I thought you might be\ninterested to hear about my return home. I shall enclose all I have\nwritten in one large envelope, sealed with a winged head; and I think\nit will reach some of you, for I shall direct it \u201cTo all the Children\nin the wide World,\u201d--care of the South Wind.\n\n\n\n\nVENUS'S DOVE.\n\n\nIn old heathen times, on the shore of the Adriatic lived a little girl\nwhose greatest pleasure was to wander by the side of the lonely\nsea. She liked better to sit on a high rock with the spray just\ntossing against her feet, than to play with her village companions,\nwho laughed at her for her wild ways, and asked her if she were the\nchild of Neptune, and if she dwelt in a shell palace under the water;\nalthough they knew very well that old Menos, the fisherman, was her\nfather, and that she lived in a little hut, just above the line of\nseaweed which the highest tides leave upon the beach.\n\nOne day Ida roamed far along the beach, amusing herself making deep\nfootprints in the sand, which the rising tide quickly filled, when at\nlast she came upon a high wall of rock, too steep to climb, yet\nlooking as if a pleasant bay might be beyond. She scrambled along the\nrock, slippery with seaweed, until she could peep round into a great\ncave, before which was a little beach of smooth, white sand, with\ndark, frowning rocks all around, except where the sea broke gently in\nupon it. In the darkness of the cave an old woman leaned over a\nbook. Its brilliant cover attracted Ida, who, half in fear, stole\nnearer and nearer, treading so softly in the sand that her foot-steps\ncould not be heard, and at last seated herself in the shadow by the\nold woman, and listened to the wonderful stories which she read, in a\nlow, murmuring voice.\n\n\u201cHigh upon Olympus, on his golden throne, the blue sky shines above\nhim, and around stand the immortals;\u201d and then, mingled with the sound\nof the waves, came songs from Apollo's lyre, and descriptions of\nBacchus, drawn by his soft-footed leopards, of Venus and her snowy\ndoves, of fauns and nymphs, and wondrous people, of whom Ida had never\nbefore heard. She listened until the sun set and night darkened upon\nthe waters, then slowly retraced her way home, thinking every cloud\nthat floated above her might be a messenger from Olympus, and that\nevery fleck of foam was perhaps the little white hand of a nereid,\nsporting amid the waves.\n\nIn vain came her cousin Larra, the next morning, to ask her to go in\nquest of crabs and sea-urchins with the other children.  Ida went off\nalone on another quest. The old woman sat in the cave with the morning\nsun glancing upon her silver hair, and upon a most beautiful picture,\nto which she had just turned. Now, Ida was an affectionate child. She\nloved her father, although she but seldom saw him, as he was out upon\nthe sea for weeks at a time; and she loved her aunt Lydian, and her\ncousins, and all who were kind to her; yet she could not but see that\nApollo, with his golden lyre and flashing eyes, had something more\nglorious in him than she had ever seen in her father, even on that day\nwhen he came smiling home, bringing the largest fish he had ever\ncaught; and Minerva's helmet was certainly more splendid than the\npiece of cloth aunt Lydian wore on her head; and cupids, with\nfluttering wings, were much prettier than her little brown-armed\ncousins without any. So she forgot all her old friends, and day and\nnight her dreams were full of lofty forms with golden hair and faces\nlike the noonday sun.\n\nAnd being an affectionate child, she liked to do something for those\nshe loved; and she began to fancy what she could do for these unknown\nimmortals of whom she dreamed. The old woman had retreated into the\ndepth of the cave, whither Ida did not venture to follow her; and she\nwould sit just within it, gazing through its dark arch upon the wide\nwaters, and wondering if the bright sunbeams which pierced through the\nclouds, and slanted far down upon the distant sea, were not stairs by\nwhich she might ascend to Olympus. Then she would think of the boat\nher father made for her of the ivory tusks he once brought from a\nfar-off land; of the pile of shells she had herself collected, all\nvery valuable to her, but she doubted a little whether they would be\nmuch valued upon Olympus, and she could not go thither without some\noffering worthy of the immortals.\n\nOne day she found upon the shore a shell curved like a beautiful\nvase. \u201cAh, this is just the thing!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cI will fill it\nwith honey; there is nothing so delicious as honey; even the immortals\nmust like that!\u201d And away she went, deep into a wooded dell, where the\nstores of the wild bee were hidden.\n\nHow she found her way to Olympus is known only to herself. I believe\nshe first climbed some rocks, then a cloud, then sprang over a rainbow\nbridge, and at last scaled a long sunbeam, which led her straight to\nthe marble steps of Jupiter's high throne.\n\nHow joyfully she mounted! sometimes looking up to marvel at the height\nof the steps, which seemed to ascend into the very sky, sometimes\nlooking down at her little shell of honey, thinking how brightly it\nshone, like pure gold, and how pleased Jupiter would be with it. At\nlast she stood upon the summit of Olympus, and with timid step walked\nthrough the circle of gazing immortals, until she came before the\nthrone of Jupiter. There she knelt to lift the shell vase and honey\nnectar to his sceptered hand, but trembled so much that she spilt the\nhoney on his jewelled footstool.  It seemed as if she beheld at once\nevery face in that grand assembly. Jupiter apparently did not notice\nher; but Juno fixed her haughty gaze upon her, Apollo shot a glance of\nscorn, Minerva frowned, Venus turned away her head, Bacchus looked\nannoyed, Mercury smiled, and poor little Ida, covering her face with\nher apron, fled through the Golden Hall, and down the marble steps.\n\nOn the very lowest one she sat down with her feet in a cloud, and wept\nmost bitterly. Soon she heard a fluttering in the air, and Iris\nglanced by and vanished in the cloud. Presently she returned, bringing\nwith her a little girl whom Ida had often seen frolicking among the\nother children, a sunny-haired, rosy-cheeked child, named Hebe, the\nveriest romp in the village. Ida had always thought her a foolish\nlittle thing, because she was always playing about like a kitten, and\nnever came to the sea shore to listen to the winds, and see the great\nwaves roll in; and now here she was, ascending the marble stairs, with\nher white feet, and rosy smile, and rainbow colors, from the wings of\nIris, glittering all around her. Ida knew by the crystal vase she\nbore, that Hebe was to serve the immortals, and she longed to peep in\nand see how they would receive her; but she feared the haughty gaze of\nJuno, and the scornful glance of Apollo; so, burying her face in her\nhands, she remained weeping on the step.  After a long while she heard\na light motion beside her, and looking up, saw the beautiful eyes of\nPsyche, looking gently down upon her.\n\n\u201cAh, little girl,\u201d she said, \u201cyou were sadly awkward. I pitied you\nvery much, for I know what it is for a mortal to stand among the\nimmortals; I never could have been here if I had not been brought by\nLove.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I also loved them,\u201d sobbed Ida.  Psyche smiled a little. \u201cYes, my\nchild, you were dazzled by their beauty, and thought you could fly up\nhither on the first morning breeze. But know--the gods are not easily\napproached; weary were the works I had to perform before I could be\nadmitted, although led by Cupid. And know also, that all who enter\nmust come with fair foreheads and serene eyes. You are a wee thing,\nwith sad, shy eyes; and then those dusty feet of yours--Jupiter would\nnever like to have those treading upon his golden floors. It is\nuseless to sit weeping here. Minerva will order you off if she finds\nyou. She has the care of the steps. You had better go back to your\nvillage and learn to spin with your mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have no mother,\u201d cried Ida, \u201cand my father is always out\nfishing. If I go among the children they will only laugh at me,\nbecause I told them such grand stories about the immortals, and left\ntheir plays to wander alone on the shore; and how can I go back to\nseaweed and rocks again, after having had a glimpse of this golden\nOlympus?  O, I wish I were only a little brown leaf!\u201d and she wept\nmore and more, as if her very heart would break.\n\nPsyche looked thoughtfully at her a while, and then said, \u201cWould you\nlike to be one of the Doves of Venus?\u201d\n\n\u201cO, yes!\u201d exclaimed Ida, her eyes brightening.\n\n\u201cBut remember you will have to obey her every fancy, and fly far and\nwide; and her jewelled car is not light, nor does she drive with\ngentle rein.\u201d\n\nBut Ida, with clasped hands, entreated that she might become one of\nVenus's Doves; so Psyche kissed her tearful face, and she was changed\ninto a dove with soft, bright eyes, dainty red feet, and a breast\nwhite as the sea foam. She flew into the circle of immortals, and none\nrecognized in her the little stumbling girl, except Mercury, who\nmerely smiled to himself, and was too good natured to reveal the\nsecret.\n\nVenus was much pleased to see a new, shining dove fluttering at her\nfeet, and immediately harnessed it to her car, with delicate hands,\nand flew far over land and sea. Whether the little dove Ida found\nVenus and her winged car a weary burden to draw, I cannot tell you;\nbut some time you may yourself become one of Venus's doves, and then\nyou will know all about it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GALA DAY.\n\n\nPERSONS.\n\n   MRS. LANDOR.\n   EDITH, her daughter,           }\n   FANNY, Edith's cousin.         } Dressed as Fairies.\n   EDWARD, Mrs. Landor's son.\n   ELINOR, a gypsy woman.\n   JULIA. Fantastically dressed.\n   LISA. In an old brown dress.\n   CATHARINE HALL.\n   SARAH MUNN.\n   Constable and men.\n   Many children, dressed as fairies.\n\n\nSCENE 1. _A Garden; Children dressed as Fairies, playing about. They\njoin hands in a dance._\n\n\nSONG.\n\n      Sing the round;\n      Chide no bound;\n  Frisk it free with merry feet;\n      Harebells blue,\n      Violets true,\n  Lend your odors; breathe them sweet.\n\n      Bring the breeze,\n      Tallest trees;\n  Seize our songs and bear them round.\n      Circle on;\n      Anon, anon,\n  Dance we well on fairy ground.\n\n      Waters bright,\n      Gleaming light,\n  Where's the elf of Eldon Low?\n      Sit with me\n      Upon the tree;\n  Sing our songs on the topmost bough.\n\n      Wait a pace;\n      With a grace\n  Comes our queen--a gentle sprite;\n      Fireflies glow;\n      Whisper low;\n  She's the star that flits with night.\n\n_Enter EDITH as Queen, and other fairies; also JULIA._\n\n\n  EDITH.\n  Our wings are very weary. We've been flying\n  From tree to tree, with stillest motions spying\n  Into frail nests; and every dreaming bird\n  Popped up his head, when he our whispers heard.\n  They told us all their secrets--many a one\n  That is not warbled to the full-rayed sun.\n  But dance away; we will go rest a while,\n  While you with sports and songs the time beguile.\n\n  JULIA.\n  O, whip-poor-will, dost thou hear that tone?\n  Come, lightsome queen, thou'rt mine own, mine own.\n\n  EDITH.\n  Art thou the elf that in the hollow tree\n  Hoots with the owl, and mocks the night with glee?\n\n  JULIA.\n  In the halo of a star\n  Bathe thy brow, and gaze afar;\n  Stately walk, with dainty mien;\n  Fold thy robes, my fairy queen;\n  Thou art mine, and I am thine;\n  Ope thine eyes and bid them shine.\n\n  EDITH.\n  Go hence, dull raven; when I bid thee croak,\n  'Twill be when frogs sing ditties on an oak;\n  When hopping toads like winged skylarks fly;\n  When limping elves are lovely to mine eye.\n\n  JULIA.\n  'Twill be when the morning's freshness breathes,\n  And the clustering ivy thy hair inwreathes;\n  When thy voice shall be soft as the day's last sigh.\n  And hope like a shadow shall over thee lie;\n  Thou wilt call on my name; and from far o'er the sea,\n  Fierce thunders and lightnings shall mutter of me.\n\n  EDITH.\n  Thou art a gypsy girl--I know thee well;\n  Forget the queen, and Edith's fortunes tell.\n\n  JULIA.\n  Sorrow is o'er thee, though 'tis not thine own;\n  Lonely thou art, though never alone;\n  The sunshine is bright; but the sunshine is dark,\n  The sea shall betray thee; yet hide not thy bark.\n\n  EDITH.\n  Sorrow is o'er me! Not on these summer days,\n  When nature gives consent to all our plays.\n  The happy birds attune their songs to ours,\n  And rainbow hues encircle frolic showers;\n  Our saddest tears are wept without dismay;\n  Soft shining sunsets cheer the cloudiest day.\n\n  JULIA.\n  Hold thy joys lightly. Beware, O, beware!\n  Vapors rise from the earth, and mists darken the air.\n\n  EDITH.\n  Tell me thy name, and wherefore art thou here?\n\n  JULIA.\n  I am the Queen of Sorrow; to my court,\n  'Mid clouds and storms, both old and young resort.\n  The golden stream of life, on which you glide,\n  Through my grim caves must roll its head-long tide.\n\n  EDITH.\n  How wildly gleams the light within thine eye!\n  And thy dark hair hangs o'er thee mournfully.\n  O, come with me and join our gladsome dance!\n  If thou hast griefs, we'll lull them in a trance.\n  We weave our melodies from spring's soft air;\n  Sure such sweet sounds will banish all thy care.\n  Do not go forth to wander on the waste,\n  For there, they say, pale sorrows dimly haste.\n\n  JULIA _sings_.\n\n  Sweet grief, I have loved thee so long,\n    I cannot leave thee now;\n  They woo me with music and song;\n    Here at thy feet I bow.\n\n  They move in their festal robes,\n    And thine are worn and gray;\n  Let me hide 'mid their heavy folds,\n    Let me turn from their joy away.\n\n  Thine eyes threw their shadow o'er me;\n    I caught their glance so wild;\n  I stood on thy earthen floor;\n    Thou welcomed the young, timid child.\n\n  FIRST FAIRY.\n  See, pretty queen, I have brought thee a flower,\n  A little white snowdrop; 'twill droop in an hour:\n  I drove out the bee that hummed in its cell;\n  O, take it, for Caronec loveth thee well.\n\n  SECOND FAIRY.\n  Pray look at my marvels, wrought of pure gold;\n  Bright are the sunbeams they gayly enfold;\n  The elves call them king-cups, but, queen, they are thine;\n  I've filled them with dewdrops instead of red wine.\n\n  EDITH.\n  I thank you both, my merry little fays;\n  Now spread your wings, and speed along your ways;\n  And I will go where cooler shades press down,\n  For I am weary, though I wear a crown.\n\n\nSCENE 2. _Outside the Garden Gate. LISA alone._\n\n\nLISA.  I wish mother would come; I am so tired and hungry! She said\nJulia was in here, but I cannot see her. How many children are moving\nabout--all in white dresses, and so pretty! They have wings too. I\nwonder if all ladies have wings. I wish I could go in; and perhaps\nthey would give me a piece of bread; but I am afraid.  For all they\nlook so pleasant, they might drive me away. One is coming down the\npath; I am sure I might speak to her, she looks so kind.\n\n_Enter EDITH._\n\nEDITH. It is pretty to play queen and be a fairy; but I know not how\nit is, I cannot dance and frolic as usual to-day. That gypsy girl\nlooked so wildly upon me! She has been over sea and land, and knows\nmany strange things, and I have seen nothing. How sorrowful she was! I\nwished to hold out my hand to her, but feared she would throw it\naside; there was something so scornful about her. Dear little Amy! I\nwill lie down and rest in your garden. Here are the lilies of the\nvalley you planted; the moonlight shines down upon them as they lie\nfolded in their green leaves, just as you lay in my arms when you were\nso ill; and they look out and smile as you smiled at me. Why did you\ngo away from me? Amy, Amy! Who is that sobbing? It sounded like Amy\namong her flowers; but O, it cannot be. No, it is outside the gate. I\nwill go and see who is there. What is the matter, little girl? Why\ndo you cry so?\n\nLISA. I am so hungry, and so lonesome here. I wanted to speak to you,\nand was afraid.\n\nEDITH. Poor child! come in. I will run and bring you something to\neat. Sit down here by my little sister's garden until I come\nback. (_Goes._)\n\nLISA. How beautiful she is! I wonder if her little sister died. I\nwould not if I had been her sister. I wish she would let me kiss her\nonce.\n\nEDITH, (_returning._) Here is some cake for you. The children\ncalled out to me, but I snatched it from the table and flew off. Eat\nit all, and then you shall tell me who you are, and where you live.\n\nLISA. I do not live any where; I go about all the time with mother and\nthe gypsies.\n\nEDITH. You are a little gypsy girl then.  Was that your sister who\ncame into the garden?\n\nLISA. Was she there? She said she was going, but I peeped in and could\nnot see her.\n\nEDITH. And you wander about all over the world, seeing wonderful\nthings?\n\nLISA. O, yes, we walk about from one place to another, till I am so\ntired I can hardly stand. When I was small, mother used to carry me;\nbut now I am too big.  But at night she wraps her cloak round me, and\nholds me close in her arms, and sings me to sleep. I like the nights\nbest. In the day she often goes off and leaves me waiting for her,\nsomewhere, all alone.\n\nEDITH. In the nights you sleep in your tents, and hear them flapping\nin the wind, and look out at the stars?\n\nLISA. Most always we sleep in a barn.  When we can't find one we sleep\nout doors, and have a fire when it is very cold. I am so sleepy I\nnever look up at the stars, only sometimes. Last night we slept under\na tree full of blossoms, and when I woke up, they were blowing over us\nlike a snow storm. I wanted mother to see how pretty they were, but I\nknew she was tired, so I kissed her softly, and went to sleep again.\n\nEDITH. What does she sing to you?\n\nLISA _sings_.\n\n  We have wandered far through forest wild;\n  We have climbed where craggy rocks are piled;\n  Sleep in peace, my gypsy child;\n        Mother watcheth o'er thee.\n\n  Night winds breathe a lulling sound;\n  Gentle moonlight streams around;\n  Shadows settle o'er the ground;\n        Sweet visions fly before thee.\n\n  Sleep, my child; to-morrow, waking,\n  To thee shall come no sad heart-aching;\n  One is near--the ne'er-forsaking!\n        Mother watcheth o'er thee.\n\nLISA. It makes the tears come into your eyes; does your mother sing it\nto you?\n\nEDITH. O, no, my mother never sings to me. I sleep all alone, in a\ngreat, silent room, and they draw the heavy curtains all around, so\nthat not even a star can peep in.  I wish I could sleep under the sky\nas you do. Would it not be pleasant if we could change places a little\nwhile! I will be your mother's child, and you shall have all my fine\nthings, and plenty to eat, and can play about all day.\n\nLISA. O, yes, but I don't like to leave mother.\n\nEDITH. It will be only for a day or two, and I know she will be\nwilling. I will roam about with her, and see the world, and they will\nall be kind to you here; so let us change clothes. You shall have my\nfairy garments, and I will put on your brown dress.\n\nLISA. And shall I wear these beautiful things all the time?\n\nEDITH. To-morrow they will play fairy again; after that, my cousins\nwill go away, and you will have to begin to study. Do you like to\nstudy?\n\nLISA. What is study?\n\nEDITH. Do you not even know your alphabet? How funny it will be to see\nMiss Magin sitting up like a forsaken owl, calling out A, and A you\nwill softly say; then B, and C, and so on. If you had learned to read,\nyou would have to pore over books all the time. Nothing but books! I\ncould learn more, rambling about three days, than I could in books in\nhalf a century. When lessons are over, mother will come in and ask if\nyou have been good, and as you will not have had any novels or poetry\nhidden away, Miss Magin will answer, \u201cYes, madam, she has been so.\u201d\n Then mother will give you a tart and an orange, and say you may walk\nin the garden and gather pinks. You can go round the garden and look\nat the fountains, or into the grove, but not outside the wall, or you\nwill have Miss Magin tagging after you, to see that nothing happens to\nyou. After dinner, you will have to practise and sew, and in the\nevening play backgammon with mother, or talk to the visitors who come\nin.\n\nLISA. But I cannot do all these things; I don't know how.\n\nEDITH. Well, you will not have to.  They will soon find out you are a\ngypsy girl, and cannot be tamed down into a young lady. But you must\nnot let them find it out to-night, or they will immediately send you\nafter me. Your voice is so much like mine they will not notice that,\nand you must stay in the shadow of the evergreens, and not venture\ninto the moonlight.  When they talk to you, you must not say much, but\nsing gypsy songs, always changing the word gypsy for fairy; and in a\nlittle while you can steal quietly off to bed.\n\nLISA. But how shall I know where to go?\n\nEDITH. I sleep now with my cousin Fanny.  She has a blue dress and\nsilver wings; you must whisper to her and ask her to go with you; and\nthen you can tell her the secret.  She will not tell any one. Perhaps\nyou had better leave the wreath here, and the wings, for many of the\nfairies have none, and they will not think it is I, without them. You\ncannot get on my shoes--can you?\n\nLISA. I walk so much barefooted. What pretty gold shoes they are! I\nwish I could wear them.\n\nEDITH. No, you will have to leave them here. Lay them on this flower\nbed with the wings. They look as if they might belong to little\nAmy--perhaps she will come for them to-night.\n\nLISA. You seem so strange in my dress!\n\nEDITH. I like to have it on. But it will hurt me to go barefooted.\nNever mind--I wish to try how you live, in every way.  How pleasant it\nwill be to sleep in the free air to-night! But you will like my bed\nwith the flowered curtains, and the pictures, and all the things.\n\nLISA. O, yes; but you will give my love to mother.\n\nEDITH. Not to-night. I am going to be her little girl to-night. But\nto-morrow I will. I will come back in a few days and give you a great\nmany pretty presents before you go away. Good by. I hope you will have\na pleasant time.\n\nLISA. May I kiss you once?\n\nEDITH. Why, yes, indeed. You are a dear child; you look like a real\nfairy in your new dress. Good night.\n\n_LISA goes along the Garden Path. EDITH waits outside, and pulls her\nhat over her face as ELINOR approaches._\n\nELINOR. Come along. Lisa. Have you seen any thing of Julia? Here, take\nthis bundle.\n\nEDITH. How heavy it is!\n\nELINOR. Heavy, do you call it? It's I that have the burden to\nbear. I've had enough to do this day; we must be home pretty quick, I\ncan tell you. But stop, child, you have had nothing to eat; here's\nsome meat for you.\n\nEDITH, I do not want it. A lady came and gave me some cake.\n\nELINOR. A lady! What kind of a lady, I wonder?\n\nEDITH. She was all dressed in purple and gold, and we sat and ate it\ntogether.  It was very nice cake.\n\nELINOR. A lady ate with a beggar!  This is the first time I ever heard\nof such a thing. All in gold too.--(_Aside._) I must teach her\nthe business--what a chance she had.\n\nEDITH, (_aside._) What a frightful woman!  Can it be Lisa's\nmother? I must ask some questions and find out. (_To Elinor._)\nWhere do you think Julia is?\n\nELINOR. I know not, and care not.  She's a real vagrant, that girl\nis. No manner of use. She may go her own ways; I wash my hands of her.\n\nEDITH. Will you sing me to sleep to-night?  I am very tired.\n\nELINOR. Sing you to sleep? Yes, darling!  What makes you lag behind\nso?  Take hold of my hand; I'll help you along.  How your hand\ntrembles. Sing a song and cheer up. We must walk fast.\n\nEDITH _sings the song LISA sang._\n\nWe have wandered far through forests wild, &c.\n\nELINOR. She has a sweet voice; we might make something of that. But\nit's of no use--she can't be saved. I may as well begin now. Lisa, do\nyou know what is in these bundles?\n\nEDITH. Something that weighs a good deal.\n\nELINOR. It's silver, child; real silver.\n\nEDITH. But where did you get it?\n\nELINOR. Where? where do you think?  I took it out of a house.\n\nEDITH. Took it! Do you mean that you stole it?\n\nELINOR. Stole it? Out with it! Yes, I stole it. How should you like to\nsteal?\n\nEDITH. But it is not right.\n\nELINOR. Who says it is not right?\n\nEDITH. Why, every body says so.\n\nELINOR. The rich say so. They ride in their carriages, and live in\ntheir grand houses, and when we are starving, and freezing with cold,\nif we take a mouthful to eat, or a rag to put on, they call it\nstealing, and hunt us up to put us in jail, and treat us worse than\nbrutes. I tell you I hate them. I should like to see them homeless as\nwe are, with the cold winds blowing through them. Then would I laugh\nat them, as they laugh at us. Then would they know what it is to\nsuffer, with never a hand to help them.\n\nEDITH. But some of them are kind.\n\nELINOR. Kind do you call if? If you beg and beg, and tell a piteous\nstory, they will give you an old gown and a cold potato, just as they\nwould throw a bone to a dog; and you must stand in their entries all\nthe time. Your clothes are not good enough for their parlors, and they\nwatch every motion, to see that you do not steal.  But I can tell them\nI will steal. If I had not taken their clothes and their food, do you\nthink you would be alive now? You would have been frozen in the winter\nsnows, and not a hand to help you. I asked for work and work, and\nnever a bit could I get; so I took what I wanted, and you must learn\nto do so too, for I may not always be here to take care of you.\n\nEDITH. But cannot I learn to work?\n\nELINOR. You never can get any work to do, unless you can show a good\ncharacter, as they call it. I wonder what kind of characters they\nwould have if they were treated as we are. Run! Hide! Down in the\nditch with you! They are after us!\n\n_Enter a CONSTABLE and Man._\n\nCONSTABLE. Here they are! Hallo, there!  Come out of that! You need\nnot duck under like two great bull-frogs. Up with you--here's a\nhand. We're polite folks, marm. Fish out the bundles, Jim. Them's the\narticles--silver spoons and all. Off to jail with you. You'll have to\ntrip it fast enough, I'll warrant you. Here, Jim, you take the old\nbird; I'll see to the young un.\n\nELINOR. O, my child; you shall not take her away!\n\nCONSTABLE. Shall not, ma'am! If you valooed your child, you'd be right\nglad to have her go. She's got bad notions enough.  We'll edicate her\nnow.\n\nELINOR. Lisa! Lisa!\n\n_ELINOR is led off._\n\nEDITH. Where are you going to take me?\n\nCONSTABLE. To the House of Correction; you'll get a good lesson there.\n\nEDITH. You shall not; I am Miss ---- No, I will not tell him. I want\nto see what they would have done with Lisa. I can come away whenever I\ntell my name.\n\n_Exeunt CONSTABLE and EDITH._\n\n\nSCENE 3. _Same as 1st Scene. Garden, and Children dancing and\nsinging._\n\n\n  FIRST FAIRY.\n  Where is our queen?\n  She has not been seen\n  For many an hour,\n  In acorn or flower.\n  Airy bluebell,\n  Pray can you tell?\n  Anemone fair,\n  Is she not there?\n  Upspringing grass,\n  Have you seen her pass?\n  Where shall I go?\n  Does nobody know?\n\n  SECOND FAIRY.\n  Look at that squirrel, lively and shy;\n  I know he can tell, by the fun in his eye.\n\n  THIRD FAIRY.\n  There is a swallow, skimming about,\n  Set him to seek her, and he'll find her out.\n\n  FOURTH FAIRY.\n  Over the moon sails a tiny white cloud;\n  And on it she sails far away from the crowd.\n\n  _Enter LISA._\n\n  FAIRIES _sing_.\n\n  All hail to our queen! Now sing us a song,\n  While we rest in the shadows, all lying along.\n\n  LISA, _as queen_.\n\n  Fairies, fairies, ever go\n  Where the mountain torrents flow;\n  Foot it high, and foot it low,\n    A wildly joyful band.\n\n  Fairies, fairies, loud our song;\n  No man hears us pass along;\n  Rugged cliffs and vales among--\n    A wild and hidden land.\n\n  Fairies, fairies, night is nigh;\n  Light steals slowly from the sky.\n  Lay us down with lullaby,\n    Sleeping hand in hand.\n\n  FIRST FAIRY.\n  Come, lovely queen, you must dance with me now;\n  For under the alder I vowed me a vow,\n  Beneath the clear moonlight to kiss you three times.\n  And whirl you about to my swift flowing rhymes.\n\n  LISA, _as queen_.\n\n    Under the tree\n    Is the home for me;\n  Here will I sleep,\n   Through the lonely night,\n  While the cold dews weep,\n    In the pale starlight.\n\n  FAIRY.\n\n  Jewels must shine\n    In the glance of the day;\n  We shall mourn and repine,\n    If thou hidest away.\n\n  Come, my fair lily, shine graciously out,\n  While we thy leal subjects will frisk all about.\n\n  _They draw her out._\n\n  FIRST FAIRY. Why, it is not Edith; yet she has on her purple dress!\n\n  SECOND FAIRY.\n  An elf has crept into Fairyland;\n  Bid her bide, and make her stand;\n  Fairies, seize her by the hand;\n      She shall not slip away.\n\nTHIRD FAIRY. How came you with the queen's dress?\n\nLISA. She put it on me.\n\nFANNY. Edith wishes to play us a trick; this is one of the farmer's\ndaughters, perhaps.\n\n_Enter MRS. LANDOR._\n\nMRS. L. Edith, it is time to break up your plays for to-night.\nTo-morrow you shall dance again as much as you please.\n\nFANNY. It is not Edith.\n\nMRS. L. O, I thought it was; where is she? Some of you must go and\nlook for her.\n\nFANNY. This girl can tell you. She says Edith gave her the purple\ndress.\n\nMRS. L. Where is Edith?\n\nLISA. O, she has gone!\n\nMRS. L. Gone! where?\n\nLISA. She has gone with my mother.\n\nMRS. L. With your mother, child?  What do you mean?\n\nLISA. Please don't frighten me so, and I will tell you. She said she\nwanted to be a gypsy; so she put on my dress, and waited at the gate\nfor mother.\n\nMRS. L. O, my child, my child! The gypsies have carried her off. What\nshall I do?\n\nLISA. They did not carry her off; she said she wanted to go, and I\nshould stay and sleep in her bed, and have plenty to eat, and be your\nchild.\n\nMRS. L. Be my child, you little impostor!  Away with you, as fast as\nyou can go.\n\nFANNY. But she has Edith's fairy dress on.\n\nMRS. L. Let her put on her own rags again.\n\nFANNY. But Edith has her dress.\n\nMRS. L. Then she must have one of Edith's old ones. Here, Nancy, see\nthis child dressed in one of Miss Edith's frocks.  Keep an eye upon\nher, and do not let her steal any thing.\n\nFANNY. Mary, run and tell the men to go and look for Edith, and find\nEdward as soon as possible.\n\nEDWARD, (_entering._) Here I am, mother; what do you wish?\n\nMRS. L. You must go in search of Edith; she has been carried off to\nthe gypsies' camp.\n\nEDWARD. The gypsies' camp! I will find her, mother; do not be troubled\nabout her.\n\n\nSCENE 4. _A Lonely Road; LISA crying. EDWARD enters._\n\n\nEDWARD. Edith, Edith, I have found you at last. (_Throws his arms\nround her._)\n\nLISA. It is not Edith; it is only me.\n\nEDWARD. You, you little vagabond!  What have you done with Edith?\nWhere is your gypsy camp?\n\nLISA. She is not there; I have been to the gypsies. They say mother is\ncarried to jail, and Edith to the House of Correction.\n\nEDWARD. Edith in the House of Correction!  My sister! That shall never\nbe.\n\n_Exit._\n\nLISA. O, stop, stop! Pray show me the way to the jail; don't leave me\nalone here!  There, he has gone. Edith would not have done so. What\nshall I do? I am so tired I cannot drag one foot after another. I must\nlie down and die here, all alone in the dark night. And mother is in\nthe jail without me. How wretched she will be!  O mother, mother!\n\n\nSCENE 5. _House of Correction. EDITH, CATHARINE\nHALL, SARAH MUNN, and other Women._\n\nSARAH. What young thing is that they have just brought in? She looks\nas if she thought we were wild tigers from a caravan.\n\nCATHARINE. She's a proud little minx; see how she holds up her head,\nand looks about, with her old brown rags on. For all she has such fine\nways, I'll warrant you she is no better than the rest of us. I'll have\na talk with her.\n\nSARAH. Let her alone. Don't go; she's better than we, and shall be\nleft so.\n\nCATHARINE. Hands off. Do you think I'm going to be cheated of my\nsport? You had better turn minister. You look as grand as a\njudge. We'll teach her what kind of company she has fallen into. Come\nalong; you haven't had any too much amusement to-day.\n\nSARAH. Well.\n\nCATHARINE. Come, child, tell us all about it; what are you in here\nfor?\n\nEDITH. I have done nothing.\n\nCATHARINE. Arson, perhaps; that's my\ngo.\n\nEDITH. What is arson?\n\nCATHARINE. What innocence! You never set a barn on fire, did you, my\npretty one?\n\nSARAH. Only a fence, Catharine, you know.\n\nCATHARINE. You never stole a watch, or picked a pocket, or took a\ndrink or two.  O, no! How very young we are! Well, stay with us a\nwhile, and you'll soon be old.  We can give you the best instructors.\n\nEDWARD, (_entering._) Where is she?  Here, among these women!\nEdith, look up. I have come to take you home.\n\nEDITH. Home! O Edward, I have heard such things!\n\nEDWARD. Never mind the things; come quick as you can. Mother is in the\ngreatest distress.\n\nEDITH. Is Lisa there?\n\nEDWARD. No, we sent her off, fast enough. I met her in the road\nlooking for the jail and her mother.\n\nEDITH. And you showed her the way?\n\nEDWARD. No, I left her there; I was in haste to find you. I would not\nhave any one know you are here for the world; the whole village would\nbe talking about it to-morrow.\n\nEDITH. Edward, I will not stir from this place until you bring Lisa\nhere. If you knew to what dangers she is exposed, you would not have\nleft her.\n\nEDWARD. Are the bears coming to eat her? What dangers are you talking\nabout?\n\nEDITH. I cannot tell you now. Go--will you not? and bring her. She\nmust not be left with these wretched people; she must not be taught to\nbe wicked. She must go, with us, and be taken care of.\n\nEDWARD. But let me carry you home first.\n\nEDITH. No, Edward; I will not go until Lisa goes with me.\n\nEDWARD. How obstinate you have become, all of a sudden! But I suppose\nI must go; I shall find her somewhere, crying, in the road. Hide\nyourself away; pray do not let any one see you. (_Goes out._)\n\nEDITH. Hide! I should like to hide a thousand miles under the\nground. Is this the beautiful world I have dreamed so much about? It\ncannot be--such things cannot be true! Yes, I see them written on the\nfaces of these women--how dreadful they are! O, what can we do?\n\nSARAH. How could you talk to her so, Catharine? See how you have made\nher feel.\n\nCATHARINE. She'll get used to it soon; that's the way with us all at\nfirst. She'll harden to it.\n\nSARAH. It makes me almost cry to see her. Poor child! It was just so\nwith me once; but that's all over now.\n\nEDITH. You are not so bad as you seem.  There is something good in\nyou.\n\nSARAH. Once there was.\n\nEDITH. And is now. I am sure you would be good if you could come out,\nand live where people would love you, and be kind to you.\n\nSARAH. That can never be.\n\nEDITH. O, yes. You shall come and let me take care of you; I am not so\npoor as I seem. My mother is rich, and you shall come and live in one\nof her houses, and have books to read, and a little garden, and every\nthing pleasant.\n\nSARAH. Your mother will never let me come. She will tell you, you must\nnot speak to me, and send me away if I go near her.\n\nEDITH. No, she will not. I will tell her the temptations you are led\ninto; she knows nothing about it now. When she does, she will do all\nshe can for you.\n\nSARAH. O, if it might be so!\n\nEDITH. And you too; I can forgive you, although you have made me so\nunhappy.  I do not believe you are entirely wicked.\n\nCATHARINE. I am wicked enough. Let me alone.\n\nEDITH. But have you no one in the world who loves you--no mother, no\nsister, or brother?\n\nCATHARINE. I have a child. I shall never see her again!\n\nEDITH. Never see her again! Why not?\n\nCATHARINE. I sent her away from me; I do not want her to lead the life\nI lead.\n\nEDITH. But if you could lead a good life,--if she could be with you\nall day, and love you, and sleep all night with her little arms round\nyou,--then should you not be happy?\n\nCATHARINE. And scorn me, and jeer at me, as all the others do.\n\nEDITH. But she will not; she will call you her own mother, and love\nyou dearly.  You will become good, and she will never know you have\ndone wrong. Will you not come?\n\nCATHARINE. O, yes, I will, I will!\n\n_Enter LISA and EDWARD._\n\nEDITH. I am so glad you are found, Lisa; now you shall go home with\nme.\n\nLISA. O, no; my mother is in prison; I must go to her--she'll want me\nso much.  Do let me go.\n\nEDITH. Edward, we must carry her there before we go home.\n\nEDWARD. It will be useless; we cannot get into the jail at this hour\nof the evening.\n\nEDITH. To-morrow, Lisa, early in the morning.\n\nLISA. It is so long till then!\n\nEDITH. Tell me your names before I go.  \u201cCatharine Hall.\u201d \u201cSarah\nMunn.\u201d  \u201cYou will not forget.\u201d\n\nCATHARINE. And my child--you will not forget her.\n\nEDITH. I will remember you all, and come to-morrow. Good night.\n\n_She holds out her hand; CATHARINE draws back, then\ntakes it. SARAH kisses it._\n\n\nSCENE 6. _Garden, as before. MRS. LANDOR, EDITH, FANNY, LISA,\nEDWARD, and Children._\n\n\nMRS. L. Edith, how much trouble you have given me! Where have you\nbeen?  Why did you bring that girl back?\n\nEDWARD. Where do you think I found her? In the House of Correction.\n\nMRS. L. In the House of Correction!  My daughter! Edith Landor!\n\nEDITH. Mother, I have something to say to you; will you not walk down\nthe path with me? I shall come back soon, Lisa.  Be gentle, girls.\n\nFIRST GIRL. So you are a gypsy. A pretty game you have been playing!\nWhat made you steal Edith's clothes?\n\nLISA. I did not steal them; she changed with me.\n\nGIRL. That's a likely story. Your mother beat her, and made her give\nthem up.\n\nLISA. My mother did not beat her; she never beats any one. O, yes, she\npunishes Julia sometimes.\n\nGIRL. And you very often, I think.\n\nFANNY. How can you speak so to her?  See, you have made her cry. Never\nmind, little girl; we know you did not mean to do any harm. I believe\nwhat you say.  Edith is always getting into mischief in some way.\n\nLISA. You will be good to me; you will be like Edith, will you not?\n\nEDITH, (_walking with her mother._) You knew all this, and you\nsent the child away from your home, to wander houseless, and be led\ninto all kinds of evil. You love me, and take care of me, your own\nchild, and yet you let so many children suffer and do wrong, and do\nnothing to save or help them.  O mother!\n\nMRS. L. I have been very thoughtless.  I have never realized these\nthings until now.\n\nEDITH. But, mother, now that you do, you will not send this poor child\naway.  Let her live in Jane's cottage; you know there are spare rooms\nthere; and I can teach her to read and sew, and she will be so good!\nWill you not let her stay?\n\nMRS. L. Yes, Edith, have it as you please.\n\nEDITH. Lisa, you are going to live in a nice cottage of ours in the\ngrove, and I shall teach you to read and write, and we will walk and\nplay together, and be so happy.\n\nLISA. And mother too?\n\nMRS. L. No, I cannot have the gypsy woman about the place. What could\nshe do here?\n\nEDITH. But she will not be a gypsy woman if she lives here. She will\nbecome like one of us, and be very happy here with Lisa.\n\nMRS. L. These gypsies never change; their vagabond ways are in the\nblood. You can do nothing with them. She will be for wandering off,\neast, west, and north, and be like a caged lioness when she is in the\nhouse.\n\nEDWARD. They are not real gypsies, mother. I have heard the neighbors\nsay they are poor people, who have assumed the gypsy mode of life to\ntell fortunes, and impose upon the country people.\n\nEDITH. O, yes, mother, they do not seem like real gypsies. I know you\ncan make of her what you will, if you will only let her come.\n\nLISA. Do let her come--she is so good to me! I will not leave her. I\nwill go wherever she goes.\n\nMRS. L. Well, she may come too; we will try it, and see how it will\nanswer.\n\nEDITH. Dear mother, how can I thank you enough? She shall come this\nvery night. Edward, cannot we get her out of jail?\n\nEDWARD. It will be impossible, I think.\n\nELINOR. (_rushes in_.) Lisa! my child!\n\nLISA. Mother, mother, have you come?  (_Throws herself into Elinor's\narms_.)\n\nMRS. L. How did you come here, woman?\n\nELINOR. O, I ran away; they have not caught me this time. Come, Lisa,\nwe must be off like lightning.\n\nLISA. Mother, we are going to stay here, and live in a nice cottage,\nnear Edith.\n\nELINOR. Who said so? They are laughing at you.\n\nEDITH. Yes, it is true. Lisa is to be my little scholar.\n\n\n\n\nEARNING ONE'S OWN LIVING.\n\n\n\u201cWhat a shame, girls!\u201d exclaimed Anna; \u201cClara Morton's things have\nbeen sent for, and she is not coming to school any longer. Her father\nhas failed, and they are to give up house and furniture, horses and\ncarriage, and the girls are going out to earn their own living.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot really?\u201d said Fanny.\n\n\u201cWhy, every one knows it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do not mean to say that Clara Morton is going to earn her own\nliving,\u201d said little Effie. \u201cThe last person in the world! Why, I do\nnot believe she ever sewed a stitch in her life. She never even\nbrought her own books to school, but had them carried for her by a\nboy.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut there are other ways of earning a living besides sewing. Clara\nplays beautifully, and could give music lessons as well as----;\nwell--perhaps not as well as Mr. Cantari.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed! Can you not see one of his queer smiles at the idea of\none of us girls giving lessons?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it. How flat one feels, after playing a piece so splendidly,\nto turn round and meet, for one's only applause, that incomprehensible\nsmile! Poor Clara! I hope that smile will not meet her, wherever she\ngoes in the world. I am sure it will haunt me, for I can never see it\nwithout a dim apprehension of the possible fate that awaits our\nlessons and accomplishments in that formidable ocean into which our\nschool days are to empty.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour geographical comparison is very natural for you; but as I do not\npride myself upon my acquirements in that branch, I confess I do not\nsee what it has to do with Mr. Cantari's smile.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do not take music lessons, I believe, Miss Erudition; and perhaps\nthe forebodings of examination day would be a comparison in which you\nwould be more at home. I only hope poor Clara will not be reminded of\nit by the world into which she has fallen.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow do tell us, Anna, what you mean by the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, the world is--the people that laugh at every thing we school\ngirls do.  Not exactly that, but the people who know how every thing\nshould be done, and give one of Mr. Cantari's smiles at our way of\ndoing it; they do not always know how, either. It is not that--it\nis--it is--you girls sitting there, calmly watching me extricating\nmyself from my definition. Well now, into this world, whatever it is,\nClara has dropped, just as if she had been riding in something, and\nthe bottom had come out, leaving her standing on the actual ground;\nand the poor child must walk on her feet which any little barefooted\nbeggar girl can do better than she.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat reminds me of a funny adventure which happened to me, when I was\na little girl, in India,\u201d said Effie.\n\n\u201cIn India! O, do tell us about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know I was born in India, where the people--that is, the people\nwho are any body--never think of walking, but ride in palanquins\ncarried on men's shoulders.  These coolies, as they are called, are\njust like horses here, and one never thinks of their having any will\nof their own, or any thought, but of trotting patiently all day under\nthe palanquin. As for me, I hardly knew there was such a thing as the\nground, till one day the palanquin bearers, for some reason which I\nnever understood,--a quarrel among themselves I believe,--suddenly set\nthe palanquin down on the ground, and left me all alone in a strange\npart of the city, crying, and begging the passers by (who did not\nunderstand a word I said) to carry me home; but I never should have\nreached there if I had not been found by some one who knew our\nfamily.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a wonderful adventure, to be sure!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I thought I had something to tell when I began. I am sure I\nknow now what you mean by Mr. Cantari's smile.  But it was not so much\nmy little adventure in itself, though that always seemed something\ntill now; but after that I never could get the palanquin out of my\nhead. It seemed to me that all the people in India lived in\npalanquins, except the poor people, and that they were nothing but\nbearers.  No one did any work, not even the servants, for every\nservant seemed to have another under him, though, to be sure, there\nmust have been some at last with their feet on the ground, trudging\nalong to carry on the household. But this was always a puzzle to me,\nand I used to wonder if some time every thing would come down to the\nground, like the palanquin; for the bearers were human beings after\nall, and I had found, for once, at least, that they had wills of their\nown. But this was, I suppose, something like the fear of the Indians,\nwhich some of you say you always had when little children. I do not\nthink it could have troubled me much, however, for I remember I used\nto lie all day in a hammock, reading story books, with a half-waking\nand half-sleeping sense of the poor story writers being palanquin\nbearers, to carry us about so delightfully, without any thought or\ntrouble on our part. But really, now, was it not natural to be\nreminded of all this by Clara's situation? Was it not, Miss Revere?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Effie,\u201d answered Miss Revere.  \u201cAnd probably we could each of us\nremember a similar impression, if we would recall the circumstance in\nour lives which brought us into closest contact with the reality of\nlife, which Clara is now finding, I fear, so different from her\nschool-girl ideas of it For my own part, you have reminded me of my\nearliest years, when my palanquin, also, was set down with a shock I\nhave never forgotten.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, were you ever in India, Miss Revere?\u201d  asked Fanny.\n\n\u201cNo, dear, but Effie has already hinted that the country of palanquins\nis not so far from us as that.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo tell us about it, Miss Revere. I have always longed to know your\nhistory, for I was sure you had one. You seem to be so apart from us\ngirls, and to do every thing as if you had done it before, and as if\nyou stood so far back, that things which make us happy or unhappy are\nonly things to be looked at by you, just like Leonora, who is always\nquietly sketching us, when the greatest excitement is going on.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will tell you, if you wish, all that is to be told of a life,\nwhich, with one exception, has been without events, that would appear\nsuch to any one but myself. It will only, therefore, be the result,\nand not the history of my life, which I can tell you, and that rather\nfor the pleasure I shall have in exacting the same of you, than for\nany I shall take in recalling my own. I say there has been but one\nevent in my life; it was that which left me an orphan. O girls, we\nspeak of Clara's coming down to the ground; we speak of seeing our way\nclear, and treading on solid ground; these are expressions of those\nwhose feet only would walk upon the ground, while their hearts and\neyes are on a level with those about them, who have never known how\nhard to the forehead is the ground, when all we love lie beneath it;\nhow one hides her face in terror from the vacant air, finding her only\nrefuge in the earth, where lies all her grief. But I do not wish to\nbring my dark robe among your gay dresses.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Miss Revere!\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me if you think it possible for one who is absolutely alone in\nthe world to be happy, after having once been so with others?\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot imagine being alone, any more than I can imagine a sound,\nwithout being there to hear it,\u201d answered Anna.\n\n\u201cPoor Mr. Polanco, in the Darien expedition!  Was not that absolute\nsolitude?  After being left to die alone by his companions, who were\nforced by starvation to desert him, think of his bones being found\nlong after, stretched on the grave of his friend, who had been buried\na day's march behind!\u201d  said Miss Revere.\n\n\u201cI know. Was it not frightful?\u201d said Anna. \u201cCan you imagine a solitude\nso appalling, that a dying man would drag himself a whole day's march\n(poor men! it was but a few miles in their condition) to find in a\ngrave some semblance of human society.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs if a drowning sailor, in an Arctic sea, should swim to an island\nof ice,\u201d said Kate.\n\n\u201cOnly think how many have gone down in the sea with nothing in sight\nbut the waves; and people have fallen down precipices, and known they\nwere going, and no one has ever known what they have felt.  We only\nhear about those who are saved.  I would give any thing to know the\nlast thoughts of those who have never been heard of.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Anna, is it not the same to every one at the last moment?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps so; but it seems different.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Anna,\u201d said Miss Revere, \u201cthat _seems_ is the old story of\nthe palanquin again. Just as we _seemed_ safer the other night,\nwhen we all huddled together in one room, in the thunder storm.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat an awful night that was!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet here we all are, safe. I never could have believed, years\nago, when I was lying alone in a heavier night than that, that I\nshould ever be sitting here tranquilly telling of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, yes, do tell us the rest.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I should tell you all, it would only be answering my own question,\n'whether one could be happy after being left alone in the world by all\nwhom she loved.' Little thing as I was then, I learned that there is\nno comfort from others, no diversion from a great calamity. Every\nthing that one clings to for help is only the sailor's block of ice,\nwhich is itself water. May you never know how utterly alone one is in\na great sorrow; but if you ever should, may you find yourselves, as I\ndid at last, taking root in the very ground on which you fall, and\ndrawing a new life from the reality of your desolation. Thus I had to\nearn my own living; and you can judge if Clara's lot can seem a hard\none to me, who have known so well what poverty is.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, Miss Revere, how can you speak of poverty? I thought you had\nevery thing you wished,\u201d exclaimed Effie.\n\n\u201cDear child, I believe it is only those who have been unhappy, or in\nsome way thrown out of their natural life, who can understand\ncomparisons. We must all earn our own living in some way, and always\nin the way in which our life is different from all others.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish, Anna, you had not told about the sailor swimming to that\nawful ice. I do not see the use of thinking of such things before they\nhappen. I am sure I shall never dare to go to sea,\u201d said Kate.\n\n\u201cHow did you feel, Fanny, when you were out in the boat, in the middle\nof the ocean?\u201d asked Linda.\n\n\u201cWhy, was she ever at sea?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd in a real shipwreck, my dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, Fanny here? Do, pray, tell us all about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought every one knew about it.  And yet I remember when we\nlanded,--for we were picked up by another ship,--and I thought every\none in the city would be thinking of nothing else, how strange it\nseemed that no one thought much about it. We went up to a hotel, and\nevery one was seeing to his own baggage, and every thing going on just\nas if nothing had happened.  I suppose this is why I have never talked\nmore about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut tell us; you know we shall be interested in it. I have always\nwanted to hear about a shipwreck from some one who had actually been\nin it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd then it was not so much the actual wreck. I think I rather\nenjoyed it,--what I remember of it,--and I suppose I was too ill most\nof the time to take much notice.  But the voyage I remember\ndistinctly, or rather after a certain time, for I was so young that my\nfirst recollections were about that ship, so that it seems to me as if\nI had been born upon the ocean. I remember playing dolls in the cabin\njust as if I had been in a house; and although it rocked about\nterribly, the vessel was so large, with all kinds of other cabins and\nforecastles, and holds, which I heard them speak of, but had never\nseen, that I never thought of it as actually floating on a deep sea,\nand separate from every thing else; for we were really, you know,\nthousands of miles out on this immense ocean. But I always thought of\nit as something like the floating bridge at the salt water bath,\nfastened in some way, at one end, to the place we had left,--of which,\nhowever, I had no recollection,--and at the other end to the place to\nwhich we were going, about which I had almost as little idea.\n\n\u201cI must have been kept in the cabin, I think, by my nurse, for I\nremember so distinctly the first time I climbed up the steep stairs,\nand found myself alone by the side of the ship. Now I think of it, I\nmust have been on deck before, for I have a confused sense of the\nglittering of the sun on the waves, which seemed very near, and the\nspray, and the wind in the ropes, and altogether like a city or a band\nof music; perhaps there was music on board, though I don't remember\nhearing it again. But now it was after sunset, and there were no\nlittle sparkling waves, but great, solemn swells rolling, as if their\nloneliness, out there in the middle of the ocean, was too awful to\nthink of, out to the gray edge of the sky, so far and vast all around,\nwith nothing to hold on to, and then swelling up so deep against the\nside of the ship, and lifting it up,--that great, heavy vessel,--as\nthey passed under; and then I felt for the first time the motion of\nthe whole ship, and the depth of the sea beneath it, and understood\nwhat some one meant who had said one day at table, that there 'was but\na plank between us and eternity.' I had some sense of what he meant\nwhen he said it; but there were so many planks in the ship, so many\ndecks, one below the other, that I never thought till now, that, last\nof all, there must be one plank along which the deep water was always\nwashing, and if this should give way, we should go down 'with every\nsoul on board!' These words I had heard said by a very solemn man, a\npassenger, who was also, I think, the one who spoke of the plank and\neternity. After this they were always sounding in my ears, and at\nnight, after lying awake, trying not to listen to the wash of the\nwater against the side of the ship, and not to feel it heaving up on a\ngreat wave and then sinking down--down--till I felt certain something\nwould give way, and we never should come up, I would fall asleep, and\ndream the ship had sunk, and 'every soul on board' was tossing alone\non the waves, with 'only a plank between him and eternity.'\n\n\u201cI forgot to say that we had a captain whom I loved very much; he was\nso kind and polite to us all, and at the table particularly, was so\nattentive to me, that I thought the ship would be safe so long as he\nwas in it. He was very young and handsome, and I thought he sat at the\nhead of the dinner table like a real nobleman. And so I believe he\nwas, as I heard one of the sailors say one day,--a gruff old fellow he\nwas,--that nobody but a lord's son would ever have given such an order\nas that, whatever it was. I heard him say, too, one day, to a\npassenger who looked as if he had something to do with vessels, that\nif the captain had earned his own living, as he had, at the ropes, he\nwould have known something or other from a marline-spike. He said,\ntoo, that ships never would be safe so long as captains who had never\n'served up' were appointed over the heads of old salts, like himself.\n\n\u201cI felt dreadfully troubled to learn that the ship was not considered\nsafe by an old sailor; but I could not make out what he meant by\nsaying the captain had not 'served up,' the only use of those words\nwhich I had ever known being in reference to the dinner, about which\nthe captain was always very particular with the steward. I at last\nasked one of the sailors, who laughed, and said it meant that the\ncaptain had not come up from the forecastle, but had come in at the\ncabin windows. After this I gave up asking questions of the crew, and\npuzzled myself alone over their queer sea terms; but I took all the\nmore notice of their ways towards the captain, and soon found that he\nwas not so great a man with them as with the passengers. What knowing\nlooks they would give each other, when obeying his orders! There!--I\nknew when you were speaking of Mr. Cantari's smile, it reminded me of\nsomething like it that had happened years ago; it was that look, of\nthose sun-browned, good-natured sailors. I seem to see the captain\nnow, standing so handsome and gentlemanly on the deck, the color\nmounting into his face as he gave some order about taking in sails, or\ntightening ropes, or such things, and the crew going about this way\nand that, and looking sidewise at each other, with that good-natured,\nwicked smile; I do believe the captain was more afraid of that than he\nwould have been of a pirate ship. There was one old man, in\nparticular, who was more grave than any of them, and never moved his\nface, but had an odd way of smiling with his eyes at the men, and\nputting out his cheek with his tongue; and the captain's voice always\nseemed to be a little tremulous when he was giving an order while this\nman was standing by. I was very fond of him still; but it was a great\nshock to me to find the crew thought so little of one in whom I had\nplaced such unbounded confidence.  What was to become of us now in\ncase of danger?--though of that I thought less than of that awful sea\nwhich lay day and night beneath us; and now, more than ever, there\nseemed to be but 'a plank' between me and it, now that the captain was\nno longer between the plank and me.\n\n\u201cThen I thought how safe and careless of danger the sailors seemed to\nbe, and that it must be because they knew the ship so well, knew every\ntimber in it, and where it was, and how strong it was; and I\ndetermined I would learn too, and asked the captain to tell me all\nabout it; but I found his knowledge of it did not reach much below the\ncabin floor, and the passengers could tell me little. Then I said to\nmyself, I will go to the forecastle and 'serve up,' for I had found\nout by this time what that meant; and this, Miss Revere, was really\nwhat you would call 'earning my living.'  I learned from the crew, and\nparticularly from the same old man who troubled the captain so much\nwith his silent smile, and who would cut little ships, and parts of\nships, and put them together for me, so much, that at last I could\nstand upon the upper deck and know every deck below, and the principal\ntimbers of the frame down to the very keel. I suppose I could not have\nknown all this very well, such a child as I was; but I had learned\nenough to feel safer and to feel the motion of the waves through the\nwhole ship, up to the planks on which I stood; so that I felt no\nlonger like a loose piece of ballast, rolling helpless about, but as\nif the ship were a great living thing, and I was its spirit and life.\nAbout that time I used to go to the bow of the ship, when great waves\nwere buoying it up, and repeat, with my hair streaming behind my\nhead,--\n\n   'And the waves bound beneath me, as a steed\n   That knows his rider!'--\n\nsome lines that I had heard from a passenger; till one day I turned\nround, and there was the old sailor putting out his cheek, and winking\nto one of the men; and I ran off as if I had seen a shark, and I\nbelieve I never went forward of the cabin after that.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Fanny, how could you remember so well what happened when you\nwere such a mere child as you must have been then? What you say does\nnot sound like a very little child,\u201d said Effie.\n\n\u201cI dare say many of the things I am telling were at the time very\nindistinct and confused; but if I should tell them in the same way,\nthey would not have form enough for you to see them. Then I cannot\nremember the voyage in course,--day after day,--but particular times I\nremember just as distinctly as if they had happened yesterday. If I\nshould confuse a little what I felt then with what I have felt since,\nit would be perfectly natural; for I do feel sometimes as if I had\nnever left that ship.  I wonder if we never have but one thought all\nour lives? That ship was then the whole world to me, and now the whole\nworld seems the ship. And that carries me back to one splendid\nnight,--the only perfectly beautiful night in the voyage,--in fact it\nis the only night I remember; I suppose the nurse usually kept me\nbelow for fear of the night air. That night there was a great deal of\nnoise and talking in the cabin, and I stole away to the deck. All was\nstillness and starlight, with a gentle sound in the sails like the\ncooing of a dove, and every thing as if it had been going on so for\nhours. A few long swells reached to the horizon, and I could see their\nwaving lines against the sky, and the light came up from beyond them,\nso that the whole world seemed to be ocean, and the ship the only\nliving thing, swaying on its bosom as lightly as Anna's cross, (what a\nbeauty it is, Anna!) and the top of the masts sweeping over whole\ntracts of stars, and the stars blinking as if keeping time with the\ndipping of the vessel, till it all seemed a dance, ship and stars\ntogether, the stars seeming ships in an ocean of space, and the ship\nto hang in a liquid sky, and I,--there I was alone on the deck, my\nworld under my feet; and who knew but that in each of the stars was a\nbeing whose steed bounded beneath him as intelligently as mine? Would\nnot these sometimes speak each other, as the passing ships? Perhaps\nthey do now, I thought, in a way as much finer as the ocean on which\nthey all sail is larger than ours; and by listening attentively\nperhaps my ear will become fine enough to hear them. Now, what are you\nlaughing at Kate?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly to think how Humboldt would look, to hear you describing the\nworld which you had conquered so scientifically.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust as if I felt so now, and did not know that only a little child\nas I then was would ever have such magnificent ideas of itself. I\ndon't believe even then I looked any wiser than you, when you came to\nschool with your new Geology, walking as grand as if you were treading\non the old red sandstone.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow don't, Fanny! We all feel proud enough of our new studies; it\nseems like having attained the greater part of a science to have\nbought the books; but we feel humble enough to make up for it on\nexamination day.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut all the time you have not said a word about the shipwreck,\u201d\n suggested Effie.\n\n\u201cO, yes, the shipwreck!\u201d exclaimed the girls.\n\n\u201cI know that is all you want to hear; but you have put me out, so that\nI shall make but a short story of it. Besides, as I said before, that\nwas the least part of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot long after that splendid night, I was called up on deck by the\ncry of a sail in sight, which, you know, is the great event at sea. It\npassed at some distance, though near enough for us to see it\ndistinctly; but it was a clouded sky, and the waves, dark and\nforeboding, left such a dreary space of water between it and us, and\nthe poor ship looked so forlorn and helpless, tumbling about on the\ngreat loose waves, that all my old fear came back. I thought perhaps\nthere were those on board that dismal little bark who thought, as I\nhad, that they were carrying the centre of the world along with them;\nand perhaps there were hundreds of other such, scattered all over the\nsea in their poor little cockleshells, and our great ship would seem\nas little and helpless to them as theirs to us.  After the ship was\nout of sight, and I was looking off indifferently in that direction,\nall at once the back of an immense fish arose out of the sea and\ndisappeared. Perhaps it was the coming up of a storm which spread a\ngloom over the sea, and made that huge black thing so awfully distinct\nand lonely; but it was the most fearful sight I had ever seen. There\nwas that creature, out there in the middle of the ocean, in a security\nfrightful to think of, and we in an artificial fabric, which, at best,\nwas only the 'single plank.'  To feel as safe as the fish, was now my\nonly desire, and I tried to give up all thought of the ship, and\ncommit myself boldly to the waves,--as I had heard Arion did, who was\nsaved by the dolphin,--not really, you know, but I could not even\nimagine it; when it came to the last point, I could not even think of\nplunging into the deep sea, and I went to bed dreadfully depressed,\npartly owing, I dare say, to the mournful sound of the rising storm in\nthe rigging.  All I remember afterwards was dreaming the fish had\nchanged into a mermaid, and was holding out her arms to me, and\nwaiting for me to make up my mind, and I was thinking that if I leaped\ninto them, the sea would have no power over me, and then plunging down\nand finding not her arms, but the cold sea, then waking up and\nactually feeling the cold water dashing over me, and a moment after,\nsome one seizing me, and hurrying me on deck amid shrieks and\nscreams,--and then finding myself in a little boat, crowded with wet\npeople, and tossing about in the dark, not knowing which was sea,\nwhich was sky. Only one thing I remember after this, and that\nis--after the storm had gone down, and the boat was rising and falling\non the great swells, the sailors resting on their oars, and a\nclergyman in the boat offering up a prayer, and then reading from a\nlittle wet Bible about Jesus walking on the water and holding out his\nhand to Peter, telling him if he had faith he could walk on the sea,\nas he did. I thought this was better than Arion and the dolphin, and I\ncould really understand how it could be, though it is all gone now. I\ncan only remember lying, crying, in the bottom of the boat. I was so\nhappy and weak,--for I think we had nothing to eat after we left the\nship,--and I would keep falling asleep and seeing some one stretching\nout his hand to me, and saying 'It is I; be not afraid;' then half\nwaking up, and hearing some one say, in a solemn tone, 'But a plank\nbetween us and eternity,' and if it had not been for something, 'every\nsoul on board'--and that is the last recollection I have of any thing,\nuntil we were coming into port in another ship; and every thing, as I\nsaid, was just as if nothing had happened, only I was very weak, for I\nhad been quite ill; and the captain, when he saw me coming on deck,\ncaught me in his arms and kissed me, which he had never done before,\nand the grave old sailor with the queer smile gave me _such_ a\nhug. The smile was all gone now, and when we left the ship I saw him\nshaking hands with the captain, with the most serious face I ever\nsaw. I had overheard the old man telling some one the captain had\nshown he had the real grit in him, and if he had not had the\nmisfortune to be born a gentleman he would have been as good a sailor\nas ever did something or other, I forget what; as if he had said he\nwould have been as good a sailor as he had shown himself a brave man.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that all?\u201d said Effie. \u201cI thought when you came to the shipwreck\nit would be something grand and dangerous.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose you would like to hear that the ship was struck by\nlightning, and went down in the middle of the ocean, with every soul\non board but me, and that I drifted for days on a single oar, and at\nlast came to a savage coast with a horde of wild Arabs ready to pounce\nupon me the moment I should be dashed upon the beach.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would be nice.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr to have had me swallowed by a shark, thousands of miles out of\nsight of land, and then you might have told the story for yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, I did not mean to complain of your story; and I dare say if it had\nhappened to one of us, it would have been the greatest event in our\nlives.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust like my night in the woods which Fanny's starlight night\nreminded me of. I have been thinking of it ever since she came to that\npart.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere, Linda! I knew you were thinking of something else than my\nstory, and I believe that is the reason it began to sound so flat\ntowards the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I should not have thought of it, if it had not been for what you\nwere telling; so that it shows I really was interested, as you would\nbelieve, if you knew how much it was like that night of my own.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo tell us about it, Linda; were you out all night alone?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe whole night long. But I begin to think it was not so much of an\nevent after-all; you girls are so critical. It seems to me sometimes\nwe are like those stones which are full of caves, and grottoes of\ncrystal inside, to ourselves, while to others we are only common\npaving stones.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you must remember it is just so with all, and not contrast the\ninside of your paving stone with the outside of others',\u201d said Anna.\n\n\u201cI was thinking whether there was outside enough to my little\nadventure to make it worth telling. But if it is thinner than that of\nthe rest, it will be easier to break open.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere, Linda, you have let that stone roll long enough; now let it\nrest with me and gather moss.\u201d\n\n\u201cI understand you, Ella. You are off now on one of your fairy stories,\nand I shall have one listener the less. Well, I am glad of it, for I\nshall not have you looking at me in your calm way all the time, and\nthinking how much better you could tell the story.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Ella, let us have the fairy story, and call it the paving stone if\nyou please.  Never mind if it is not clear to you yet, but think as\nyou go along,\u201d said Fanny.\n\n\u201cNo; leave me alone. Perhaps it is nothing, and I know too well that\nno story is good for any thing, unless one knows what it is going to\nbe before one begins.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hate stories with morals; they are just like going in the cars,\nwhere all you think of is the end of your journey,\u201d said Kate.\n\n\u201cBut unless you know where you are going, you would never go at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it is so pleasant to go off for a day's walk without knowing\nwhere you are going, and with nothing to do but to enjoy what you\nsee.\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly as I thought when I set out on the adventure which led to\nthat eventful night. But you were about to say something, Ella.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was only going to say that things never look so well to me as when\nI have some place to go to, and see them on the way. But the\nadventure.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, I set out without knowing whither I was going, though I found\nsomething so like a moral before I was through with it, that my story\nwould be nothing without it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat may be, but you will not tell it in the same way.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, for I know well enough where it leads to, and my only fear now\nis, that incidents on the way will not seem interesting enough to make\nit worth the telling.\u201d\n\n\u201cLeave that to us, Linda; and now for the adventure.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou remember what a time I had with Madam Irving, three or four years\nago; you were here, Fanny, and you, Miss Revere--you remember, of\ncourse.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen you ran away from school and frightened Madam Irving almost to\ndeath, and were so glad to get back again?\u201d said Fanny.\n\n\u201cWell, I will not dispute you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do not look so resigned about it.  If you could only have seen\nthe contrast between yourself leaving the school room with the air of\nQueen Catharine leaving the court, and your first appearance on the\nmorning after your return!\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose I did look rather cowed; but if you had gone through what I\ndid! It was all very well the first night, though I slept on the floor\nof a miserable little hut,--well, I may as well compress it, for I see\nyou know something about it,--in the bed, then, of that little ragged\nberry girl who lives up on the mountain. I slept on the floor at\nfirst, but it was so cold that I had to give in.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou might have foreseen, then, how long you would hold out with Madam\nIrving.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, Fanny, you know I have always said--but it's no use. Well,\ngirls, I lay awake most all that night arranging my plans for the next\nday. When I left the school, I had some vague idea of going home on\nfoot,--three hundred miles, you know,--with nothing but that little\nbundle, (how long it took me to make up that bundle! I thought I never\nshould get off;) but then I feared I should be sent back, and the idea\nof facing Madam Irving after taking leave of her as I had done--\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, it did come hard; I really pitied you.\u201d\n\n\u201cFanny, you are too bad. Well, my mind was made up that night, and\nevery thing was clear before me for the next day's campaign. It seems\nthat word made a great impression on that little, impertinent\nJenny. She was here the other day at the door with her berry basket;\nand when she saw me, do you think, she looked up sidewise, with the\nsmile those girls have, and said, in a subdued way, 'Campaign.' I\nwished she were in Guinea. To think of the solemn way in which I had\ntalked to that girl about the importance of the step I was to take,\nand confided to her all the reasons for my leaving a society with\nwhich I could not agree, and giving up all the associations in which I\nhad been born, and which were at variance with my views of life, and\nliving henceforth dependent upon no one but myself; for I was really\nquite eloquent, I assure you, and inspired her with such enthusiasm\nthat she readily agreed to follow me, and share, as my servant, the\nfortunes of the new life which opened before me. Poor thing! She had\nnothing to lose, and every thing was gain to her. She had nothing to\ncome down to, either; for with her bare feet she was as near the\nground as she could be, and I had still a pair of shoes between me and\nthe rough fields over which we rambled all that day, though I did\nthink of taking them off at first, as I did not wish to have any\nadvantage over her. I found, however, before night, the advantage was\naltogether on her side, for she made nothing of stones, and brambles,\nand bushes, that put me out of breath, and tore me all to pieces. What\na sight I was that evening as we came to an overhanging rock on the\nmountain side, and chose it as our camp for the night. The sun was\njust setting over an immense tract of country, entirely new to me; and\nI might have been on the Cordilleras for any thing that I recognized\nin that scene. It occurred to me, that, although, when out on a ride\nor a walk before, I always took notice of every thing, here I had been\na whole day, and had actually never thought of looking up from the\nground. And even now, with all that splendid view and sunset before\nme, and the feeling of being fairly embarked on a new life, where\nschool and civilization were already so distant that they were not to\nbe thought of, yet I am ashamed to say, the great subject that\noccupied my thoughts was our supper. We had provided against that\nevent, which we had looked forward to half the afternoon--a great\nstore of blackberries, which I had conscientiously refrained from\ntouching, though I was as hungry as a bear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat an expression for a young lady!\u201d  said Kate.\n\n\u201cI really believe we all should be bears if we lived out doors, as I\ndid, for any length of time. Besides, any one who has seen you look at\nthe baskets when we have a picnic!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, yes! On the mountain when I'm tired of gazing at a great, vague\nview.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know I think as little of such things as any one when we are at\nhome; but when we are out for the day, I declare a biscuit on a rock\nlooks more picturesque than any thing in the landscape,\u201d said Kate.\n\n\u201cThat's a confession!\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe you would all say the same, if you would acknowledge the\ntruth, except Leonora; and I suppose a tree or a rock looks just the\nsame to her as a luncheon basket would to us.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are always talking about the picturesque, Kate, like every one\nelse except Leonora. Now, once for all, what do you mean by it?\u201d asked\nAnna.\n\n\u201cLeonora, you must answer for me, for I am sure you ought to know, if\nany one.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was thinking that you had already defined it as well, perhaps, as\nit could be.  But if I should tell you all you have reminded me of by\nyour comparison, we should never hear the end of Linda's story, in\nwhich I was becoming quite interested.  I was thinking what a good\nsketch she would have made, sitting a little way down that mountain\nside with the ragged berry girl, and that great sunset before them.\nSo you must let me go on quietly with my drawing, and while Linda is\nfinishing her adventure, I will be finding a point of view for my\nthoughts, which are just now rather indefinite. If I knew precisely\nwhat the picturesque is, perhaps I should not be sketching it; but if\nyou must have a definition, perhaps this will do for the present--to\nsay it is the look of home which things have in a strange place; and\nperhaps, to a party of hungry girls, a prettily-arranged lunch on a\nrock, in the shade of a beech tree, with the light glancing up under\nit from a bend of brook below, would be as near an approach to that\nlook as the circumstances would permit.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish you had been with me, Leonora, instead of that little imp of a\nberry girl.  It was just that sense of not being at home that made\nthat mountain life, at last, so unbearable to me. Yet home without\nthat seemed so flat and lifeless, down on a dead level, with not a\nstreet or garden but could be counted and measured. I thought if I\ncould only have a hut on the mountain side, with a goat or a dog, or\nsomething to give life to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith a little girl or an old woman to do the work,\u201d said Effie.\n\n\u201cAnd some of us to come and take tea with you every other afternoon,\u201d\n said Kate, \u201cout in front of the house, with that great view before\nus. Would it not be charming?\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you believe it! I talked with that child as if she had been my\ndearest friend, and I should be afraid to tell you how near I crept to\nher side that night, as we slept under the shelf of rock. What I\nshould have done without her I do not know. I knew the next night, as\nyou shall hear; for, do you believe, that creature, after all I had\ndone for her--\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat had you done for her?\u201d asked Kate.\n\n\u201cWhy, I had--well, I had treated her like a friend, besides giving her\nfourpence for carrying my bundle, and another for her share of the\nblackberries, though I never thought of it till this moment, I believe\nshe had picked them all. In the morning, after waking rather cold and\nwith a feeling as if I had been jolted all night on a rough road,\nthough nothing could be more different from travelling than that still\nrock,--how still it was, and every thing else too in that early dawn,\nevery thing gray and unsocial!--I tried to call out to break the\nsilence; but the sound of my voice frightened me.  Just then the sun\nbegan to stream over the tops of the trees, and a blue-jay pierced the\nair with a scream, as if from the heart of the wilderness, and yet as\nif he had a right there which I had not--as if he was at home while I\nwas only thinking of it. There was a harsh warmth in that single note,\nas if the sunlight was to him what a good fire would have been to me,\nwhich I believe I needed sadly, for it was at that time in the autumn,\nwhen the nights are cold, though the days are so warm. I said that the\nsense of not being at home was at last unbearable; I had not come to\nthat point yet, and I resolved, come what might, that I would stay on\nthe mountain till I should feel as much at home as the blue-jay, for I\nfelt how really splendid such a life was, even though I had had no\nbreakfast; for I forgot to say that, seeing a house at a distance,\ndown the mountain, and having a little money left, after what I had\ngiven the day before to that ungrateful girl, I gave it all to her, to\ngo down and buy something for us to eat. Just this once, I thought,\nand then we will live like the birds and the squirrels. Yes, said I to\nthe distant house, as if it were the civilized world, I have now\nparted with the last link that binds me to thee, and repeated aloud,\nin the excitement of the moment, 'I have burned the ships behind me! I\nhave cast the die, and passed the Rubicon!' I must tell you that after\nI had given utterance to these words, I turned round involuntarily to\nsee if there were not half a dozen of you girls behind me; and nothing\ncan give a better idea of the solitude of the place than that you were\nnot. My only auditor was a little striped squirrel, who disappeared\nwith a chit, leaving an acorn with the marks of his teeth upon it,\nwhich I picked up, wondering if I could not also live upon acorns.  I\nbit it, and found it could be eaten in case of necessity. Now, I\nthought, I can be entirely independent of all the unnecessary comforts\nof civilized life. Wherever I may be, I can earn my own living by\nadapting myself to the place, and assimilating to myself the fruit of\nevery situation.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe what?\u201d said Effie.\n\n\u201cWell, I cannot remember exactly what I was philosophizing about. The\nother day I found in one of my old dresses that very acorn with the\nmarks of my teeth and those of the squirrel upon it; I tried to bite\nit again, but it was so hard that I could make no impression upon\nit. Then it brought all that day's questioning back to me, and I\nthought if I had only finished and settled it then, while it was new\nand soft, I could have made it clear for my whole life perhaps,\ninstead of letting it go as I did, till it is so hard now that I must\nleave it where it is, and go back to that girl, for whom I waited and\nwaited until I was almost famished. Then I looked around, and there\nwere the rocks all waiting so silently, and looking as if they had\nbeen waiting for ages, and could wait ages longer; and there was I,\nlike that single blade of grass growing in the crevice of one of them,\nwith only a summer to see and know them all. I could bear it no\nlonger, and rushed wildly down the mountain in hopes to meet the girl;\nfor any human face, even hers, would be better than that eternal\nsilence. The motion restored my courage, and before I had gone far I\nfelt ashamed of what seemed a retreat. I wonder if any of you ever\nfeel so about any thing that you particularly dread, that if you do\nnot meet it then and overcome it, it will come up again and again all\nyour life, each time more fearful than before, and harder to\nconquer. I felt so then, and determined I would not give way; so I\nturned to retrace my steps; but I had rushed down at such a rate, that\nI could not remember the way, and taking, as I thought, the general\ndirection, I went up and up, till I lost myself in a labyrinth of\nrocks, that grew higher and higher, and I saw that I had taken\nentirely the wrong way. But I was too tired to go farther, and finding\nsome bushes covered with blackberries, which I suppose no one but\nmyself had ever seen, I began to pick them for my late breakfast. When\nI had picked enough,--and if you ever want to know how good\nblackberries are, you must pick them, as I did, when there is nothing\nelse to be had,--thinking I had time enough before me to find my way\nout, I sat down in the shade of a rock, and gradually lost myself in\nthat great dream of a day. What a day it was! I wondered if they were\nalways such on the mountains; it seemed to have an existence of its\nown, and I could understand how a day can be as a thousand years. The\ninsects murmured, and buzzed, and chirped about me, as if they had\nsuch a sense of it, and were concentrating all life into their little\nexistence, perhaps as long to them as my life to me, which I am sure\nwould not be long enough to remember and tell all that I thought of in\nthat day.\n\n\u201cThen at last I began to come back to my former life, which seemed\nalready so far back, and to think of a little, common school day, and\nwhat you were all doing.  They have had the forenoon recitations, I\nthought; they have had dinner, and now,--where can that girl be? I\nexclaimed, as I looked up and saw that the sun had left one side of\nthe ravine in the shade, and that I must hasten to find my way out.\nBut the farther I went, the more I became involved, and at last I\nbecame aware, all at once, that I was lost. It was as if some one had\nmade the announcement to me, and I received it at first with calmness,\nor as if it was felt suddenly by something within me, and had not yet\ncome to my understanding; but I knew it was coming, and though I was\nperfectly calm, a great deal more so than I am now in telling it, I\nwalked quickly to a place where I could sit down, and when I reached\nit, trembled so that I had to lean against a rock for support. I did\nnot then comprehend my situation, or hardly think of it. I only felt\nfrightened about myself, and thought if I could only get my breath, or\nif my heart would beat, or stop beating, whichever it was, and the\ntremor would pass off, I could look the danger calmly in the face. At\nlast I recovered so far as to feel all that had burst upon me at once\ncome back, step by step, till the truth of my situation stood before\nme, solid and bare as those cruel rocks. It was late in the afternoon\nwhen you could see, in the sunbeams over the shaded ravine, every\ninsect; not a breath of air stirring the leaves, and the great cliffs\noverhanging, as if just ready to fall.  The silence was stifling, and\nI tried to scream; but the sound of my voice was so faint and\nchildish, among those great rocks, that I threw myself on the ground\nin an agony of terror, and if I had ever wished for a good cry, I had\nit then. If it had been on the open mountain side, or any where else\nbut shut in there among those rocks!--but I really felt they were\nclosing in upon me, and would crush me. I cried till I was too weak\nfor fear, and then I found myself thinking of the blade of grass in\nthe crevice of the rock, and I seemed to be that grass blade, and\nlifting at one end that whole weight of rock, never to get out of the\nplace till I succeeded; and then I thought of the tender flower stem,\nwhich I had read of, lifting the heavy clod, and I tried to be quiet,\n(if I struggled or moved I knew I should be crushed,) and to pervade\nthat whole mass with the gentle pressure, till I could lift it from\noff me. This sense seemed a new breath of air in my lungs, to keep the\nmountain from pressing me flat beneath it; and now I seemed to myself\nbreathing my own life into the inert mass, till imperceptibly it\nbecame lighter and lighter, and at last I was free.\n\n\u201cWhen I waked up the stars were shining over me, and I seemed to be\nset into the dewy ground, I had lain there so long. I positively\nthought for a moment I had been actually crushed, instead of only\ndreaming it, and that my body lay dead beneath me; for I could neither\nstir hand nor foot, and every thing seemed so cold and distinct about\nme. I saw a moment after that this was because I was chilled through\nby the night air and dew; but the sensation was so pleasant--to feel\nfree like a spirit--that I remained just as I waked. How I did think\nof every thing that night! There I was, lost; but I had lost all fear\nof that, so long as I was sure of being there myself.  This seemed a\nnew starting-point, which it was strange I had never thought of.\nSuppose I should be where I had been in the morning; I should know\nalmost as little where I was as now; for without that girl's help I\ncould never find my way back to the school; and if I were there I\nshould still be lost, unless I knew my position in respect to every\npart of the world; and if I knew all that, still the earth would be a\nship without a compass, unless I knew its place in reference to all\nthe stars. The only place that I felt certain about, after all, was\nwhere I was, for I kept coming back to that; and then it seemed to me\nI was a ball of yarn, that had unrolled as it went, and now all I had\nto do was to wind it up to where it started from. Would not this lead,\nI thought, at last to the point from which all things have their\nplace? Then I remembered the long, sharp teeth of that little\nsquirrel, and how every animal has an organ which enables him to earn\nhis own living in his own way, and it seemed unreasonable to think\nthat man had not one to enable him to follow that clew. I had thought,\nat one time, of praying for a direct interposition of Providence,\nwhich I had heard was the shortest way of leading one out of trouble,\nfor it seemed so much more direct, the clear space above, with nothing\nbetween me and the stars, than to be losing myself farther and farther\namong those black woods and rocks. But then, I thought, what is prayer\nbut feeling our way along that thread? and is not my _sense_ of\nthis the faculty by which I may follow it up? That thought was like a\nnew sense of touch, and I felt the thread within my hand, and was\ncertain that every thing has within itself the way out.\n\n\u201cWhile these thoughts were passing through my mind, they seemed\ngradually to become audible, and when they passed away, the same tone\nwent on; and as I listened, I could hear, in the stillness of the\nnight, the dripping and flowing of some little stream, far back in the\nmountain. As soon as it was light, I followed the sound, and then the\nbrook, till it led me down the mountain to the open fields; and where\ndo you think, girls, I came out? Why, up there on the cleared part of\nthe mountain, directly in front of the school house.\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw you when you came in at the gate,\u201d exclaimed Fanny; \u201cand what a\nsight you were! But that is always the way; we always come back to\nwhere we began.  It is the reason, I believe, why we never have better\nstories nowadays.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must allow there is some difference between coming back to the\nbeginning, and merely being there because we have never been away. As\nfor the story, I told you at the outset that you had nothing to\nexpect.  But come, Leonora; I have given you time for your point of\nview, as you call it; or perhaps, as I have come to a full stop, I can\nfurnish you with one.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could not give me a better, for I have been thinking all along\nthat your story would almost do for mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo look, girls, at what Nora has been drawing,\u201d exclaimed Kate. \u201cHere\nwe all are just like life, only so much better. How charming it is,\nwhen we are all going on so, without thinking of any thing but what we\nare doing, to find we have been making a scene for some one else! It\nis just like sitting talking in a boat, and looking up suddenly, and\nfinding ourselves afloat on the lake.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you know I always enjoy more sitting on the shore, and seeing\nyou, than being in the boat myself,\u201d said Leonora.  \u201cIt seems odd,\nperhaps, that such a scene of life as that is should remind me of\nLinda when she waked up and thought she was lying dead beside\nherself. But did you ever, Linda, feel more alive than at that\nmoment?\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe I had never thought of myself at all before. You know I\nsaid that all the time I was so troubled because I did not know where\nI was, I never once thought of being any where.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, to be sure, is the most important, for it would be hardly worth\nwhile to go round the world to find where our house was situated, and\nto come back and find it occupied by some one else. That is often the\ncase with those who travel from home, and I believe we must come back\nevery night to be sure of not losing it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow every thing brings in every thing else!\u201d said Kate. \u201cI believe\nyou will never begin.\u201d\n\n\u201cI soon learned that,\u201d answered Leonora, \u201cand that brings me to the\nbeginning of my story, if you will have it that I am to tell one,\nthough I would rather tell it in my own way, by drawing the\nillustrations to Linda's, which, as I said, would almost answer for\nmine; but why should it not, as we were each to tell something in our\nexperience resembling Clara's?\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor Clara! I had almost forgotten her,\u201d said Fanny.\n\n\u201cNone are poor but those who think themselves rich. How proud I felt\nof my first poor little drawings! How well I remember them! The house,\nand the fence before it, and the lattice in the garret window, and\nthen the great elm and the brook, and by degrees the distant hill\nbehind, for I kept adding to my pictures as I advanced, having to go\nback farther and farther for a point of view, till at last the hill on\nthe outskirts of the village, overlooking the whole, was my favorite\nspot for sketching, if I may dignify my stiff little achievements by\nsuch a term. Still it was the house that was the centre of the\npicture; but, as Kate says, one thing leads to every thing, and I\nfound there was no end to the things I must introduce; and yet they\ndid not seem to belong to the house, but to be fastened to it in some\nway. I could not get them off, and remember, when some one was saying\nthat a painter of his acquaintance could not get his pictures off his\nhands, feeling a certain pride in knowing that I was contending with\none of the regular difficulties of the art. But at last I succeeded,\nin some degree, in getting my picture right, and did not altogether\ndisbelieve what every one said at home, that it was beautiful. As I\nwas led, however, farther and farther back, by the necessity for a\nwider view, the house began to have rather a subordinate look; but\nstill it was my home, and nothing seemed a picture without it.  As yet\nI had had no instruction, as you would easily believe if you should\nsee my productions of that period, until one day, as I was bending\nover my drawing board, (I was very particular about my drawing paper\nthen, and always had the best,) and had just got in the house, a shade\nfell across my picture, and looking up, I saw a young man with camp\nstool and portfolio slung across his shoulder, looking down at my\nwork. I drew a little back, that he might see it better, rather\npleased that he should see that I also was in that line. He glanced at\nthe landscape, then looked again at my sketch with a smile. He had not\nsaid a word, and yet the opinion of all my family, aunts, cousins, and\nall, admiring my picture on a thanksgiving day after dinner, would not\nhave weighed a straw with me against that smile. Yet he asked me to go\non with it, which I did lest he should go away, looking up now and\nthen, and seeing him regarding my work with the half-curious interest\nwith which one would watch an ant-hill, till at last I threw down my\npencil, and asked him if he would not oblige me with a sketch of his\nown.\n\n\u201cHe gave one look at the landscape.  What a look!--it was a new\nrevelation to me in art,--like an eagle taking in the whole view at\none sweep. He seemed to hold every hill and valley fixed with his eye\nas in a vice, and to weigh the place and proportion of every thing as\nin a balance, on the firm line of his mouth. All at one glance too;\nfor, without unstrapping his camp stool, he placed his portfolio on\nhis knee, kneeling on the other, and hardly looking up twice, handed\nme in a few minutes a complete sketch. I say a complete sketch, for I\nhad not known till then that a sketch may be as complete as a finished\npicture. But I forget that my story also must be a sketch, and I will\nnot spoil it by details which cannot be interesting to you.\n\n\u201cAs soon as I saw his sketch, I found, to my astonishment, that he had\nleft out the house altogether; and even the village he had put away at\none side as of no importance.  On mentioning the oversight, he took\nout his eye-glass and looked at the house, asking me what particular\nimportance I attached to it. I timidly replied that I lived there.\n\n\u201c'Ah,' he exclaimed, and apologized for his omission, saying he would\nnot forget so important a feature in the landscape.  'Come' said he,\n'you shall be my guide over these hills, to which I am a stranger.\nLet us forget the house for a while, and look up a new view of the\nvillage, which does not come in very well here.' How strange it seemed\nto me that he should speak of the village where I had been born, as a\nthing to be introduced here or there at his convenience. Already his\nwords seemed to set it afloat; but when, after a long detour, leaving\nit quite out of sight, we came suddenly upon the edge of the mountain,\nwhere the whole valley lay like a toy village almost directly under\nour feet, it was like a fairy enchantment. There was the actual\nvillage, every house and garden in its place, so near that it could be\nseen distinctly, and yet so far down that it had a foreign look.  Then\nhe took out a spy-glass, and adjusting it, handed it to me. 'Now for\nthe house,' said he; and after carrying the tube over half the\nvillage, I exclaimed for joy. There I was directly at the gate; it was\nat the back of the house, and the forenoon work was going on as\nusual. My father was standing at the door giving some silent direction\nto the man, who seemed to answer him without saying a word, and Jane\nwas going about like a historical personage, hanging out clothes.\n\n\u201cIt was exactly as if I had been looking at a place I had been reading\nabout in some old book; and yet the persons were so familiar to me,\nmore so than ever. I handed the spy-glass to the stranger that he\nmight share my delight, but he did not care to look.  'That is the\nway,' said he, 'all places look to me. To the artist the familiar is\nstrange, and the strange familiar.'\n\n\u201cI only thought the remark was strange, and wondered if it would ever\nbe familiar to me.\n\n\u201cThen he went on to describe the village as if he were looking at it,\nwith me, through the glass. 'Do you see the old woman at the window,\nlooking down the street? And the man asleep on the church steps? And\nthe single figure crossing the green?' Just as if they were all\nregular figures in a picture, and not people who happened to be there\nat that moment, as they really were.\n\n\u201c'Now for something new!' he said, putting the glass in his pocket and\nleading me over the mountain. But nothing seemed new to him. He\nappeared to look at every view we came to as if he saw it for the\nfirst time after a long absence, and remembered every tree and stone\nin it. When I told him so, he sat down, and opening his portfolio in a\nplace unlike any I had ever seen before, and not, I thought,\nparticularly interesting, he began to sketch, and to tell me at the\nsame time, so that I should not be tired, the old story which we have\nall read, (the first, I believe, we ever read,) but which I let him\ntell, it was so new as he told it, about the little child that was\ncarried away by the gypsies, and years after, when they came back to\nhis native country, strolled off till he came to the house where he\nwas born; and the sense by degrees came over him that he had been\nthere before, and it all became clearer and clearer, until at last the\ngate and the doorstep were no dream; and as he went over the whole\nstory, he would give a touch here and a touch there, that seemed to\nwaken a recollection in me, as if I were the little child he was\ntelling about, coming nearer and nearer, till, with a few strokes, he\nfinished the picture; and there, to be sure, was our very house, and I\n_was_ the little child he had been telling about. It was all\nperfectly clear to me, though it is a mystery even now how he could\nhave made it so. When I looked again, I saw it was not exactly our\nhouse; and yet it looked even more like it than if it had been, and\nthere was nothing in it that I could have altered without spoiling the\npicture.\n\n\u201cThen he would walk on, and sit down again and take another view with\na different house, but with the same home-like look, and yet exactly\nsuiting the landscape. And at last he would draw places without any\nhouses at all, and yet as if a human being was looking at them, to\nwhom they were in some way a home, just as he drew my bonnet and\nportfolio on the edge of a hill, so that any one would have known I\nwas somewhere about.\n\n\u201cAs we went back, at the close of the day, every object he pointed out\nseemed to light up with a life of its own, and every step we took was\nlike finding a bird's nest in the grass. He parted with me in the\nroad, saying that he had left his horse somewhere on the hill where he\nhad found me in the morning, and that he should remember the day with\npleasure.\n\n\u201cAs for me, I thought, as I walked slowly homeward towards the fading\nsunset, that I never should remember any thing else.  When I have read\nsince of the great days of Creation, which are believed to have been\nyears of our time, I have thought of that day, and it has not seemed\nnecessary that the old time should have been different from ours.  It\nseemed an age since I had left the village in the morning, and every\nthing looked as it does when we go home at the end of term.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe seem so much older, too, then,\u201d said Fanny, \u201cand as if we had seen\nso much, and should meet ourselves at the gate, little things as we\nwere when we left.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought of myself, and my little sketches of the morning, as if I\nhad been a tame pigeon pecking about before the door, with its little,\nshort feet; and now I had seen the eagle which I had heard of, and his\ngreat wings had opened for me all the wide space behind the rim of the\nhills which enclosed the village. And yet it looked all the more like\nhome for being encompassed with that great region. Every thing looked\nso old, with a new meaning, and as I approached the house, it looked\nas it had when I saw it through the spy-glass, and the gate, as I\nopened it in the stillness of the twilight, seemed to say, with its\ncreak, 'The familiar made strange;' for these words were to me like a\nsentence in old German text in an English book.\n\n\u201cAs I was dressing for tea, I heard the sound of a horse's hoofs, and\na moment after a knock at the door. Could I ever know the meaning of\nthose other words of his, 'The strange made familiar,' as I did when I\nheard it in the sound of the stranger's voice?\n\n\u201cHe had called with my portfolio, which he had carried for me, and I\nhad forgotten to take from him. I heard my father inviting him in, and\nwhen I went down, there was my eagle sitting at the tea table, bending\nforward, courteously, to take a cup from my sister, like any other\nvisitor.\n\n\u201c'You see I am keeping my promise,' he said, 'not to forget the house\nwhich I treated with such neglect in the morning.'\n\n\u201cI was too bewildered with the joy of my surprise to make any reply;\nand taking my seat, which happened to be next his, I could only sit in\nsilence, and try to comprehend my happiness. It was as if I understood\nperfectly the answer to some riddle, without knowing what the riddle\nwas. The china on the table, and the people, had always given me the\nfeeling of being fixed to it, like a doll's tea set, where the table\nand dishes are all in one piece; and it made no difference how learned\nor profound my father's visitors might be; when they spoke it gave me\nthe unpleasant sensation of taking up your cup and having the saucer\ncome with it.\n\n\u201cThen, too, we were all so near at home, that we never gave each other\nroom; and if we did, it was by going away entirely.\n\n\u201cBut here was a person who set every one off at a respectful distance,\nhimself among the rest, and yet preserved their relation to himself\nand each other by encouraging their peculiarities, outside of that\nlimit, and set us all agoing by placing us at the right point of view,\nwith, in some mysterious way, the common sense of the whole party as\nspectator; so that we were like figures in a landscape, which, while\nwe were looking at them, I knew, without knowing why, to be ourselves.\n\n\u201cEven grandmother, who always comes dead upon a stranger, and there is\nno shaking her off, could not get within the charmed circle, but had\nto keep in her orbit; and really she appeared like quite an\nentertaining old lady, and all the more so for her peculiar style of\nconversation, which is apt to be the family consternation at table.\nOur little group that evening reminded me of a system of stars\nrevolving around each other, with a general motion of the whole in\nreference to some point without, which I had a sense of, though I did\nnot understand it; but I felt sure that our stranger did; and this, I\nthink, was what attracted me towards him, for I felt the need of\nsomething out of the sphere of everlasting praises for wretched little\ndrawings, which I knew were only good so far as their defects showed\nthere was something better.  Now, he stood on the outside of all the\nthings that he drew, and I knew he could see them as they were.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sure I am on the outside of all you are saying,\u201d interrupted\nKate. \u201cWhich of us was it who hoped to get rid of moralizing by\ncalling upon Nora for a story?\u201d\n\n\u201cPictures themselves, as Anna said, may perhaps have no moral; at\nleast, they are not so prosy in telling it as I am; but those who have\nno moral, no idea, are not usually the persons who paint them. But I\nsee I have been going out of my province; for a picture, whatever else\nit may be, should be intelligible, and the painter's account of\nhimself ought to be no less so. So I will not tell you how I learned\nfrom one person, who had a place to stand upon, how nothing can be\nseen as it is by one who has none.  I have at least learned to prefer\nstanding on my feet to having even so excellent a teacher as Mr. Moran\nfor palanquin bearer.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt he would be glad if we all would relieve him, in the same\nway, of a burden which he carries with such resignation,\u201d said\nAnna. \u201cBut he certainly will be much indebted to you for the valuable\ninformation you can give him in regard to your fixed point, although I\nbelieve the only point he thinks of when here, is that on the clock,\nwhich marks the end of his hour.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not so presumptuous as to think a school girl's ideas could be\nof any value to an artist like him, though, if we may believe men,\nthey all draw from us their best inspirations. Perhaps, after all, it\nis the destiny of us girls, in some unconscious way, with the finer\ninstinct which men attribute to us, to spend our lives in winding up\nLinda's ball of yarn for them to throw out again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank Heaven the ball is wound up so far!\u201d said Kate. \u201cNow, Ella, do\nbreak off the thread, and give it to the fairies to play with.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, yes, Ella, do! After all this scraping and tuning, let us have the\ndance at last,\u201d said Effie.\n\n\u201cPositively I have not a word of it ready,\u201d answered Ella. \u201cI thought\nof something when I spoke, but it was like turning a kaleidoscope;\nwith every turn it became something else. And then I began to listen\nto Linda, and to Leonora, and my story became so confused with theirs,\nthat you would not know it for a fairy story, if I should tell it to\nyou; but if you will let me off until I disentangle it, Anna, I know,\nwill take my place, for she never wants a moment's notice. If you\nshould wake her up in the middle of the night, and ask her for a\nstory, she would immediately begin with 'Once upon a time,' and go on\ntelling it after we were all asleep. Come, Anna, take the\nkaleidoscope, and I will give you the princess, the castle, the grim\nfather, and the disappointed suitors for beads to put in it. So give\nit a turn, and let us see what it will be.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere was once a princess, who was the most beautiful who had ever\nbeen seen--\u201d\n\n\u201cO, of course!\u201d interrupted Kate. \u201cWho ever heard of a princess, in a\nstory, who was not?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you ever hear, my dear, of one who was so beautiful that of all\nher maids of honor (each of whom was so beautiful herself, that a\nwhole village would go crazy about her if she but drove through it)\nnot one, however they might dispute for the preference among\nthemselves, ever thought of raising the least pretension to beauty in\nher presence? There never was but one such, and that was my princess.\n\n\u201cAlthough her father, who was the wealthiest and haughtiest prince of\nall that region, lived in a castle so grand and stately, and although\nin sight of the highway, separated from it by grounds so severely\nelegant and august, that except for the beautiful princess no one\nwould have ventured to approach it, yet it was open to all, and many a\nbold youth, who had heard of her fame, preserved his courage all along\nthe avenue, until he reached the stately front door, nor remembered,\nuntil it was opened by the awful footman, that he did not know whom to\nask for.\n\n\u201cFor it seems the people, through the influence, probably, of the\nmaids of honor, had begun to copy the manners of the court, and every\npretty girl in the country had begun to fancy herself a princess; and\none day when her father was walking through the town, he was so\nannoyed at hearing every third child called by his daughter's name,\nthat he went home, and shut her up in the castle, and declared she\nshould never again be called by any name, until some one should come\nwho would give her his own. You may be sure there were not wanting\nyouths who would have been happy to present her with such a gift; and\nit was not long before she numbered among her suitors the princes of\nall the provinces in the kingdom, each of whom had appeared at the\ncastle gate with full assurance that his name would be one which the\nprincess would be only too happy to accept. But their names were not\nso powerful at court as at home. The maids of honor, each of whom was\na princess in her own country, did not fail, like mischievous things\nas they were, to take advantage of the confusion arising from there\nbeing no name for the princess, to go down when any one was announced,\nin one of her dresses,--of which you may imagine the number when I\ntell you she never wore the same twice,--and impose herself on the\nunsuspecting visitor, as the princess whom he wished to see.  What\nfun, to be sure, all the rest must have had, listening at the\nhalf-open door of the next room, to hear the protestations, one after\nanother, of these poor, deluded lovers, each to a different lady! They\ndid not once think what troubles might arise among so many suitors,\neach of whom considered himself as the chosen one, if they should\nhappen to meet where the princess was the subject of conversation.\nHowever, this very circumstance, which occurred, turned out for the\nbenefit of the princess, if not of the suitors; for a young nobleman\nin their company, hearing them disagree so widely in their\ndescriptions of her beauty, very naturally concluded that each had\nseen a different one, and that neither, perhaps, had seen the princess\nherself. So he called the next day to see for himself, and soon found,\ncharming as the young lady was who came down to see him, that she was\nassuming the air of a higher personage than herself; for one who knows\nwhat he seeks is not so easily put off by appearances. So he took\nleave, and coming next day in disguise, beheld another lady; and so\nevery day, until he had seen them all, and satisfied himself that he\nhad not seen their mistress.  With all their grace and beauty there\nwas an air about them as of reflected light, and he fancied he\ndetected now and then a listening kind of look, as if the main life of\nthe house was going on somewhere else.  Yet he did not wonder at the\npassion of the suitors, for each of these maids of honor was so\nlovely, that the lifetime of almost any man would not have been too\nmuch to devote to her. But he looked at them as one looks at the moon\nwhen waiting for the daybreak, and was not long in sending a message\nby the footman, that brought down the princess herself, who entered\nthe room in all her loveliness, leaning upon the arm of her father. A\nsingle glance sufficed to tell the youth that she was indeed the\nprincess that his heart had foretold, but also that he never could win\nher without the consent of the stern old monarch upon whom she\nleaned. Nor did he feel dismayed, for he also valued that ancestral\npride, nor without reason; for in the veins of the poor young nobleman\nalso ran the blood of a royal line, although the sword that hung at\nhis side was all that was left him of its former glory; and the old\nking might have seen it flashing in his eye with a trace of the old\nsplendor, as he boldly asked the hand of his daughter. But though the\nfather frowned, the daughter smiled, for the glance of the youth had\nsparkled in her heart, as if it were already the marriage ring upon\nher finger.\n\n\u201c'Come hither,' said the sire; and the youth followed him to the\nbalcony which overlooked the country about the castle.  'On every\nside,' said he, 'farther than the eagle's flight can measure in a day,\nbehold my domain. Think'st thou I will permit this inheritance of my\nfathers to go into the hands of a man of yesterday? Let him win it,\nthen I may know that he can keep it. Go down again, and look up over\nthe castle gate, and see the escutcheon of this house. No heraldic\ndevice is that, but the veritable coat of arms which the founder of\nthis house placed there as the seal of his work. Know also the\ntraditionary challenge to whoever aspires to the hand of the daughter\nof the house. Only as an equal can he win her from her father's hand,\nwho will condescend to meet in arms none but those who can take down\nand wear that armor.' Then with an inclination of the head that seemed\nto freeze the air about him, he dismissed the youth, who feared him\nnot, but saw in him only the massive foundations of that stately\ncastle, from the upper window of which the fairest princess in the\nworld waved him a farewell of hope.\n\n\u201cWhen he was outside the gate he looked up, and there was the coat of\narms, not, as one would suppose from the careless glance usually given\non entering the door of a palace, an ornamental escutcheon,--though of\nenormous size, as befitted the proportions of the edifice,--but the\nveritable arms themselves, which must have come down from a race of\ngiants. Even if he could have worn them, it would have been impossible\nto take them down, as they were built into the wall of the house, and\nindeed seemed so essential a part of the structure, that it was, as it\nwere, the face of the whole front, and could not be taken away but\nwith the whole body. No wonder he felt for a moment disheartened, as\nhe stood before the frowning portal; and perhaps he would have turned\naway in despair, had not his eye caught at that moment the merry faces\nof the maids of honor peering out, one over the other, at the side\nwindows, and been drawn thus to a golden gleam at the great oriel\nwindow above, which was no other than the radiant face and arm of his\nprincess; and although she disappeared the next minute, yet that light\nseemed for a moment to lift, from within, the whole dark castle, and\nto fall upon the device on the shield of the escutcheon, which was so\neffaced by time, that he had not observed it before. With a smile that\nwould have become the stern face of the lord of the castle himself, he\ngayly turned, and walked down the long avenue, not for years to\nreturn, touching now and then the hilt of his sword, as one would pat\nthe neck of his war-horse, which was pawing for him to mount; and well\ndid that sword deserve his trust, for though it was his all, a king's\nransom would not have purchased it.  It had been the sword of his\ngreatest ancestor, and possessed the charm of giving to the arm of its\nwearer the strength of every one it overcame.\n\n\u201cBut before he left, in return for the information the deluded suitors\nhad so unwittingly given him, he told them of the arms, and the\ncondition upon which the princess was to be won. Did he not fear that\nin his absence the prize might be carried off by one of these other\nsuitors, so much more powerful in name than himself?  Or had he a\nreason of his own for keeping them from their own dominions?\n\n\u201cNow, each of these suitors was the ruler of one of the provinces of\nthe kingdom, and each had been attracted thither by the fame of the\nprincess's beauty. In the old time the kingdom had belonged to a race\nof giants, and the provinces were departments, bounded by no\nterritorial limits, and the tenure upon which they were held was the\nright of the strongest.\n\n\u201cIn the mining district, the ancient ruler had been the mightiest\nsmith.\n\n\u201cIn the forest he had swung the largest axe.\n\n\u201cAnd so, through all the provinces of that kingdom, each ruler had\nbeen the master of his own craft. But the ancient heroes, thinking the\nposterity of the strong are the strong, and that no state is safe\nunless maintained by the same power which won it, had left a\nchallenge, each, on his castle gate, which was open to all who should\ncome in after times; and whoever should accept it might contest with\nits occupant the possession of the castle and its domains. In former\ntimes this challenge had been no empty form; but for many years no one\nhad appeared to accept it, and it now hung at the castle gate\nunnoticed, as a portcullis, whose chains have rusted with centuries of\npeace.\n\n\u201cNow, the rulers were absent, with no thought of their provinces,\nwasting their strength in useless efforts to take down the king's\narmor, not dreaming that they might be losing their own and fighting\namong themselves in rivalry for the hand of the fair princess, whom\nneither of them had ever seen. How many of them flattered themselves\nthat they should succeed in single combat with the old monarch, whom\nthey could not even meet in his grounds without awe, cannot be known,\nbut the coat of arms had many a tug from that day; and we can imagine\nthe feelings of each suitor, as he retreated ignominiously down the\nlong, straight avenue, the subdued laughter of those tantalizing maids\nof honor behind him, at the windows, stiffening his elbows, and\ntwitching his knees, till by the time he reached the highway, he was\nbreathless, as if he had been fighting the ancient wearer of the armor\nhimself.\n\n\u201cMeantime, where was the youth upon whom the princess had smiled? In\nthe remotest hamlet of the kingdom, disguised as a peasant; in his\nhands the charmed sword had become an axe, with the fame of whose\nexploits the woods still ring. Nor was he long in winning the strength\nof every woodman's arm, and with the last stroke the axe in his hands\nbecame a hammer, with whose lusty blows, ere long, every anvil in the\nneighboring province echoed, till with the last blow the hammer in his\nhands became a ploughshare; and thus, through each province, beginning\nat the foot and leaving at the head, until there was not an acre in\nthat vast domain which he did not know better than those who tilled\nit; no forge or furnace at which his arm had not proved the strongest;\nno art or craft that did not own him master.  Then the sword returned\nto its sheath, and he said, 'I have served my apprenticeship; now let\nme take my degrees.'\n\n\u201cThen he boldly presented himself at each castle, and demanded the\nancient right of trial.\n\n\u201cAt the gate of the first hung a mighty axe, which the giant arm of\nthe ancient lord had placed there, as a defiance to after times, with\nthe inscription, 'To him who can wield it.'\n\n\u201cHe took it down as if it were a toy, and sunk it to the helve in the\ngate post, carving on the handle the words, 'To him who can draw it.'\nThen he entered the castle, and investing himself with the rights and\ntitles that belonged to him as victor, and leaving the province in the\nkeeping of a suitable deputy, he went on to the next, at whose castle\ngate hung the ponderous hammer of the royal smith, its former owner,\nwith the inscription, 'To him who can swing it.' This he not only\nswung around, as if it were a walking stick, but left buried to the\nhead in the gate of massive oak, and with unmoved breath bade the\nchamberlain, who, with all the retinue of servants, had flown to open\nit at his thundering summons, to carve upon the handle the words, 'To\nhim who can take it.'\n\n\u201cThen entering, and assuming his rightful authority, and leaving the\nadministration of the province in proper keeping, he went on to the\nnext castle, where at the gate stood a huge plough, with the\ninscription, 'To him who can hold it.'\n\n\u201cBreaking to the yoke the wild bulls of the old stock,--for there were\nnone of the present race who could move it,--he ploughed a furrow half\nround the castle, and left it buried to the beam, cutting upon it the\nwords, 'To him who can finish it.'\n\n\u201cHe turned loose his team into the forest, and entering the castle,\nleft it, as he had the rest, in the charge of his own deputy; and thus\nproceeding from castle to castle, and leaving each province as its\nlord, because its master, he completed the round, and thus became\npossessed of all that kingdom, save one castle; but that was the\nking's.  'I have the parts--now for the whole,' he said, laying his\nhand on the hilt of his sword.\n\n\u201cBut before he went forth on his last trial, he gave a year to the\nordering and uniting of his separate provinces. 'The body is ready for\nits head,' he then said, and went forth to the king's castle.\n\n\u201cAs he drew near, he observed the suitors still tugging at the armor,\nthe maids of honor still watching them from the windows, though with\nless mirth, and each with more interest, he thought, in some one whom\nher eyes followed.\n\n\u201cBut above all, in the great oriel, his own fair princess, fairer than\never, held out both arms to him in welcome.\n\n\u201cOne glance at the armor, and the inscription on the shield, 'To him\nwho can wear it,'--which he could hardly see, so covered was it with\nthe figures of the suitors,--and a smile to think how the armor was\nwearing them, and he boldly entered the castle, sending his challenge\nto the king to meet him in equal arms, according to his\npromise. 'Where is the armor in which you were to meet me?' said the\nmonarch, on entering, with submissive dignity.\n\n\u201c'To him who carries the kingdom on his shoulders, the castle is a\nhelmet, and the arms a crest,' said he, and demanded the hand of the\nprincess. As he spoke, the sword in his hand became a sceptre, and the\nking, bowing low, with a reverence in which knelt the proud humility\nof the dethroned sovereign, said, 'Brave prince, we can only have what\nwe earn. I have no power to say that what you have earned you shall\nnot have. You have won it; Heaven grant you a long life to keep it.\nLong last the throne whose wood the king's own hand hath hewn!'\n\n\u201cThen he placed the princess's hand in his, and gave him, what he\nalready had, yet what without her were not worth having, the kingdom,\nfor her dowry.\n\n\u201cAt the marriage which took place, the maids of honor were affianced\neach to her favored suitor, who loved her no less than if she had been\nthe princess for whom he had mistaken her; and each was better pleased\nto be the princess of a province than to play at being princess of a\nkingdom.  For to each was given, with the consent of the bridegroom, a\nprovince in the dowry of the princess, with a recommendation by him to\neach restored ruler, who was to hold it in trust to observe the words\ninscribed upon his castle gate, and to stay at home hereafter and\nattend to his own department.\n\n\u201cBut before the marriage was completed, the father of the bride drew\nthe prince aside, and reminded him that he had sworn his daughter\nshould have no name until one should come who should give her his own.\n\n\u201c'Names are for commoners,' he said; 'kings have none. Know then that\nthe kingdom which I have again made good from the foot, has come down\nto me from the head, and that the princess's ancestry and mine go back\nuntil they meet in the same name. But let her whose name is profaned\nby all, be ever nameless for me; and lest her maidens again compromise\nher by assuming it, let them keep it for a surname, and I will couple\nit with a distinction.'\n\n\u201cThen he named each of them from the name of her province, and their\nmistress is never spoken of by them but under the title of their\nqueen.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, Ella,\u201d said Fanny.\n\n\u201cThe beginning of Anna's story will do for mine with the change of a\nword. There was once a brother, the most critical who had ever been\nseen--\u201d\n\n\u201cIt must have been mine,\u201d interrupted Kate.\n\n\u201cDid you ever venture to tell him a story? If you have, you may know\nhow much spirit I must feel at the idea of repeating mine. But as my\nbrother has so large a part in it, I may as well tell you something\nabout him.\u201d\n\n\u201cO,\u201d said Fanny, \u201cif we get on the subject of brothers, we shall never\ncome to your story.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut as without mine we never should have come to it at all, as you\nwill see, he is a part which cannot be left out,\u201d said Ella.\n\n\u201cMy brother had the gravest way of telling the strangest adventures,\nas if they had really happened, so that although I might have been\ntaken in by him a thousand times, I invariably yielded the most\nimplicit trust to every new story; while I had such a way of telling\nreal occurrences that no one would believe they were not inventions.\nIf he could tell my stories, I believe they would be better than his;\nfor, telling them in his plausible way, he would need to leave nothing\nout, as I do, for fear of being laughed at; and they would have the\nadvantage over his, of not only appearing true, but really being so,\nwhich is all the praise I can claim for them now. Yet he would insist\nthat he never told any thing but what he had actually seen.\n\n\u201c'Facts for men, fancies for girls,' he would say; for he had a way of\nsetting up one thing against another, as if nothing could stand\nalone. Thus he would say the oddest things with the gravest face, and\nwould set me crying with a look like a harlequin.\n\n\u201cBut although he laughed at my 'fancies,' I could not but notice he\nwas always getting me to tell them, yet as if for some end of his own\nwhich I never could discover; for often when he had set me going in\nthis way, I could feel myself pushed forth from him, as if I were the\nantenna of some insect with which he was exploring unknown regions,\nand making in his own wise head conclusions with which I had nothing\nto do.\n\n\u201cThen he was always fond of having me with him, and had always a new\nname for me, which I liked because he gave it to me, although I could\nnever see its significance.  Now I was his witch-hazel, though I never\nknew what springs I found for him. Now I was his ger-falcon, but could\nnever see what game he loosed me at, although, certainly, no falcon\nwas ever kept more closely hooded.\n\n\u201cVery different was the confidence I had in him; for whatever was in\nmy mind, I was sure to go to him, and he was always ready to satisfy\nme. There was nothing so strange that I wished to see, but he could at\nonce tell me, with the most explicit directions, where I could find\nit; but when I returned, as I almost invariably did, without success,\nthe only explanation he would give was, that I had not found the\nplace. Many a fool's errand of this kind he sent me upon, from which I\ncame back as wise as I went.  But one thing he told me which turned\nout exactly as he said, and it may prove so with others which are a\npuzzle to me to this day.\n\n\u201cOne day, when I had been reading about the fairies until I had the\ngreatest desire in the world to see them, I went to my oracle, whom I\nfound sitting beside the stream above the mill, for our father was a\nmiller, and this had been our favorite spot from my earliest\nrecollection. He was looking at the water, apparently thinking of\nsomething else; but when he saw me coming, he appeared absorbed in a\nbook, which I observed was upside down.\n\n\u201c'Tell me really and truly,' said I, 'do you think such creatures as\nfairies actually exist?'\n\n\u201c'Certainly,' he answered, 'for I have seen them myself.' I looked at\nhim in amazement, but his serious face assured me he was not joking;\nand I begged him to tell me where he had seen them, and why, if they\nreally existed, every thing was not known about them. 'There is also a\nnation in the heart of Africa,' said he, 'supposed to be somewhere\nabout the source of the Nile; but no one has ever discovered them, or,\nif he has, has not returned, and we have no information about them.'\n\n\u201c'If I lived on the Nile,' I replied, 'I should never rest until I had\ndiscovered them.'\n\n\u201c'But,' said he, 'as we live on the mill stream, perhaps that will do\nas well for us.  And, now I think of it, it is the very thing, as I\nlearned from a conversation which I overheard when among the\nfairies--'\n\n\u201c'But tell me first,' said I, 'how you came to be there.'\n\n\u201c'O,' said he, 'I came upon them once by accident, which is a rare\npiece of good fortune. I had often before come upon them suddenly in\nthe same way, but they were off before I could fairly see them, or lay\nlike a brood of partridges, taking the color of every thing about\nthem, so that I might look for them an hour, I could never find\nthem. It is no use to wait, for they can wait longer than you can. The\nonly way is to go off and come back again when the affair is blown\nover, and take them again unawares, when they will again, perhaps,\nspring up under your very feet, and be off before you know they are\nthere. But by repeated attempts, at sufficient intervals, coming\nnearer each time, and looking with a certain attentive indifference,\nyou may succeed in seeing them. But it is useless to chase them\nwhither they appear to have flown, unless you have a dog perfectly\ntrained; for Diana's hounds, I believe, are the only ones who have\never been able to follow them up. But as they frequent the same spot,\nif you leave it, they will be sure to come back, only you must mark\nthe trees as you go away, or you will not find the place again; for\notherwise you might be close by and never know it. I did not neglect\nthis precaution when I saw them; but though I marked the trees, I\nforgot the mark, and have never been able to recall it.  Perhaps you\nmay have better fortune, for there is another way which I learned, as\nI said, from the conversation I overheard when there. But if I tell\nyou, it must be on one condition--that you will break the twigs, or\notherwise mark the way as you go along, so that I can follow.'\n\n\u201cOn my giving the promise demanded, 'It seems,' said he, 'the fairies,\nthough living so far apart from men, are still dependent upon them for\ntheir bread, and must come down now and then to the mill for their\ngrist, which John takes good care to leave out for them, or they would\nturn off the water from above, he says. When they are on their way\nback, they are always in good humor if they have found their grist,\nand are willing to take up a passenger in their boat. But it must be a\ngirl, and therefore I have never been able to go up in that way\nmyself. They say that women can find the way to their camp, but can\nnever find the way back; but if men should once get in, they would\nthink of nothing but getting back to report it, and it would be\noverrun with visitors, who would bring nothing with them, and carry\nevery thing away. For it is a custom of their hospitality to present\nevery guest with a gift; to the women an ornament of their beauty with\nwhich they would never part, but to the men they could give nothing\nwhich they would not carry home to convert into money. So that it is\ndoubtful which of us has the advantage; you who can get in, but can\nmake nothing of it, or I, who could turn it to account, but cannot get\nin.'\n\n\u201c'O, I, to be sure!' said I; 'for the great thing after all is to get\nin. But how am I to secure a passage in their boat?'\n\n\u201cHe told me I must be asleep on the bank of the stream at the time the\nfairies' boat would be going up, and they would take me in when they\nsaw me. He had tried to find out from John when they were in the habit\nof coming for their grist; but John could not tell, or would not, as\nhe did not care to watch their comings or goings, he said. So long as\nthey allowed him sufficient head of water to keep the mill going, it\nwas none of his business, and they were not people that he cared to\nmeddle with.  But he supposed they came, when they did come, at night,\nor sometimes, perhaps, when he was taking his nooning.\n\n\u201cAfter that I went every day to the bank of the stream, and did my\nbest to compose myself to sleep; but in vain: the more I tried to\nsleep, the more I would be awake, in spite of the counsel of my\nbrother, who gave me no peace on the subject of sleep, and was\ncontinually telling me of Napoleon, who had the power of going to\nsleep whenever he chose. At last, one day when I had fairly given up\nin despair, and had forgotten all about the fairies, and every thing\nelse but the rippling of the stream,--for it happened to be the hour\nof noon, and the mill wheel was still, which usually drowned the voice\nof the brook,--I must have been falling into a sound sleep, when the\nrippling changed into the silver laughter of infant voices, and then a\nmurmuring and consulting, breaking into faint acclamations, as of a\nbusy throng, babbling, in an under tone, of some mysterious plot\nagainst some one they were fearful of waking. And then I felt myself\nborne away on little undulating arms, too far gone in sleep to resist,\nand then dancing and flickering on tiny waves, and lulled by their\nliquid echoes, till I lost myself in a deep sleep, which seemed to be\npillowed on a sense of being carried on and on into a realm of\nsilence, and then being lifted and carried, as on a living bier, with\nnew senses waking clearer and clearer, as if naked in the delicate air\nof a new life, and at last waking and finding myself alone in an open\nspace of forest, shadowed by trees of an unknown grace, and lighted by\nmagic vistas where the distance found its last repose on the summits\nof sun-lit mountains.\n\n\u201cA perpetual afternoon shaded that sward of loveliest green, alive\nwith fairest flowers, with not a breath of air stirring the heavy\nleaves; and if the slender stems of the undergrowth waved ever so\nlightly, it was with an almost imperceptible motion of their own. Yet\nwas there not at that moment the same slight movement in every shrub\nand leaf? and where were those who had brought me hither? Was it a\nwhispering I heard behind me? There was no one there, but, gradually,\nas in the silence of the night the air is oppressed by the sense of\nsome one being in the room, I became aware of being surrounded by\ninvisible beings, who were holding their breaths with a general hush,\nthat I might not know they were there. In a moment every thing lighted\nup with the thought that I was within the charmed circle of the\nfairies, and a mysterious influence from something close at hand\nbrought back the most distant recollection of my childhood, as the\nmagic word that would compel the fairies to appear. A faint perfume\ndrew my eyes downward, and at my feet was the little violet, my first\nand earliest love. I stooped to pick it, but an '_Ah_!' of horror\nstayed my hand, which already held the stem.  'No,' I said, shutting\nmy eyes as if to enclose the dear recollection of my childhood safe\nfrom harm, 'thy life is more to me than to know all.' When I opened my\neyes the violet was gone, and in my hand I held a wand, as if a line\nfrom the purple edge of a rainbow.\n\n\u201cI waved it around my head, and every thing stood clear and perfect in\na light that seemed to crystallize with distinctness the texture of\nevery flower and leaf. I waved it again, and it was as if a page of\nHebrew had become the most domestic English.\n\n\u201cWas not this enough?\n\n\u201cBut I waved it a third time, and Heavens!  every tree, and shrub, and\nflower had disappeared, and in the place of each was a human figure,\nbut one transfigured into a form of inconceivable majesty, grace, or\nloveliness. But each stood fixed as by its root to its place, and I\nthought, 'Could I only say the word that would set them free!' A voice\nwhispered in my ear, 'The free only can set free.' Then I felt for the\nfirst time how heavy I was in the presence of those graceful\ncreatures, and my weight seemed to sink down into a root that fastened\nmy feet to the ground.\n\n\u201cWas there still another set of fairies, invisible to the eye? I felt\nmyself lifted by unseen arms, and could feel harmonious breaths around\nme like an atmosphere which I was inhaling through every pore, and\nwhich was swelling every fibre with a thrill of lightness, until I\nonly touched the ground like a bird ready to fly. I raised the wand,\nand a strain from an unseen band lifted on its wings the whole\nassembly surrounding the green, who nodded, and waved, and swayed with\nthe opening movement as if catching the time of a tune to which they\nwere to dance; the flute and the violin catching, like a flame, from\none to the other, the tortuous wreathing of the bass-viol, with\nlabored ease possessing their limbs, and the bugle and the trumpet,\nwith a gush of melody in which all the rest joined, leaving their\ngraceful heads floating in the loveliest confusion of harmony.  Then a\npause fell like a shadow, pointing across the greensward; and when it\nended, faint as figures in a deep valley, burst forth a chorus of tiny\nvoices, and there were the fairies themselves, in groups on groups,\nand wreath involved in wreath, dancing to their own song, countless as\nthe fireflies in a meadow on a summer evening.\n\n\u201c'If I were only small enough to dance with them!' said I, listening\nso intently that I felt myself contracting into the compass of their\nsong, and the wand diminishing in my hand, till there we were, myself\nand the loveliest little fairy queen dancing together through the\nmazes of the tiny troop, bewildered by the grace of the faces that\npassed us like dreams of beauty, and the soft crush of bewitching\ndresses that wafted, as they swept by us, such dizzy perfumes as only\nthe bee or the butterfly could imagine. The songs to which we danced,\nevery group singing a different one, and yet all in harmony, were\nwithout words; but our feet, pattering, innumerable as the drops of a\nsilver rain, or the softest piano and flute accompaniment, echoed with\ntheir meaning, and every step was the understanding of emotions, for\nwhich language had no name. For we were so slight and pure that there\nwas no interval between the music and the meaning, but our forms,\nwhich were only the harmony and enjoyment of both, sparkling into life\neach moment our footsteps touched the ground.\n\n\u201c'The dance for thought, the waltz for love,' said my fairy queen,\nlooking at me with velvet eyes, and wreathing her arms around my\nwaist. Then we floated off on the violin accompaniment, that seemed to\nfly from under our feet at every step, gliding through the sinuous\nmazes of a movement interweaving and unfolding into newer and newer\ncombinations, till we swam in a delirium of uncomprehended harmony,\nbuoyed up so lightly, as if on half-open wings, that our feet only\noccasionally touched the ground to remind us of the earth.\n\n\u201c'O, let us fly!' I exclaimed.\n\n\u201c'The fairies belong to the earth, like yourselves,' she answered;\n'but would you learn the dance?'\n\n\u201c'O, yes; and I will love you and live with you forever!'\n\n\u201c'Till when?'\n\n\u201c'Till I have learned it, and can take it home with me.'\n\n\u201c'Dear child,' said she, 'the fairies have no homes but yours, and we\ncan only come down to them on your feet. Without you we are only eyes\nwithout a smile. But if we cannot come down to you of ourselves, how\nhappy are we when one comes to us who can carry us back with her! How\ndid you come hither?'\n\n\u201c'I sailed up on the stream.'\n\n\u201c'Then take me down with you,' she said, sinking upon my face with a\nkiss, into which she dissolved like a mist, and I closed my eyes to\nclasp her to my heart forever.\n\n\u201cWhen I opened them, the stream was rippling at my feet, and my\nbrother was raising his face from mine with a smile that left me in\ndoubt if I was not still in Fairyland.  'Now tell me, Violet Eyes,'\nsaid he, 'all about the fairies.'\n\n\u201c'How do you know I have been there?'  I asked.\n\n\u201c'Have you never heard that whoever looks first into the eyes of one\nwho has been there, catches a glimpse of Fairyland?  But tell me\nquick, before you forget. You know you promised to break the twigs as\nyou went, to mark the place for me.'\n\n\u201c'O, I forgot all about it!' said I.\n\n\u201c'Never mind,' said he; 'but tell me what you remember.'\n\n\u201cSo I told him all I could, and much more than I have told you now,\nfor he had such a comical look on his face when I was describing the\nbest part of it all,--after betraying me, too, as he had, into telling\nit, with the greatest appearance of interest,--that I resolved I never\nwould tell it again; so you must blame him, and not me, if I have left\nthe best part out.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, we all know the best part of a story is always left out!\u201d said\nKate, \u201cparticularly by those who have taken the most pains to put\nevery thing in. But there goes the school bell. I wonder if the\nfairies ever come down so far into the world as to visit the school\nroom. Fancy Ella dancing with her fairy queen, with an 'Algebra' under\none arm, and an 'Elements of Criticism' under the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is nothing so heavy that the fairies cannot make it dance,\u201d\n said Ella.  \u201cThe trouble is to get their assistance.  And what a\ncapital story it would make,--the fairies coming at night and setting\nour books to waltzing on the school room floor!  There is no end to\nthe funny contrasts it suggests.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe best stories always come when it is too late to tell them,\u201d said\nAnna.","title":"The Magician's Show Box, and Other Stories","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":46528}