DREAMLAND

by

JULIE M. LIPPMANN

Author of "Miss Wildfire, " "Dorothy Day, " etc. 

The Penn Publishing CompanyPhiladelphia

MCMXIV

TO

LULU AND MARIE. 

 CONTENTS. 

 THE WAKING SOUL BETTY'S BY-AND-BY THE WHITE ANGEL IN THE PIED PIPER'S MOUNTAIN MARJORIE'S MIRACLE WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL MARIE AND THE MEADOW-BROOK NINA'S CHRISTMAS GIFTS

DREAMLAND. 

THE WAKING SOUL

Larry lay under the trees upon the soft, green grass, with his hattilted far forward over his eyes and his grimy hands clasped togetherbeneath his head, wishing with all his might first one thing and thenanother, but always that it was not so warm. 

When the children had gone to school in the morning, they had seenLarry's figure, as they passed along the street, stretched outfull-length beneath the trees near the gutter curbstone; and when theyreturned, there he was still. They looked at him with curiosity; andsome of the boys even paused beside him and bent over to see if he weresunstruck. He let them talk about him and discuss him and wonder athim as they would, never stirring, and scarcely daring to breathe, lestthey be induced to stay and question him. He wanted to be alone. Hewanted to lie lazily under the trees, and watch the sunbeams as theyflirted with the leaves, and hear the birds gossip with one another, and feel the breeze as it touched his hot temples and soothed him withits soft caresses. 

Across the street, upon some one's fence-rail, climbed a honeysucklevine; and every now and then Larry caught a whiff of a faint perfume asthe breeze flitted by. He wished the breeze would carry heavier loadsof it and come oftener. It was tantalizing to get just one breath andno more in this way. 

But then, that was always the case with Larry; he seemed to get a hintof so many things, and no more than that of any. Often when he waslying as he was now, under green trees, beneath blue skies, he wouldsee the most beautiful pictures before his eyes. Sometimes they werethe clouds that drew them for him, and sometimes the trees. He would, perhaps, be feeling particularly forlorn and tired, and would flinghimself down to rest, and then in a moment--just for all the world asthough the skies were sorry for him and wanted to help him forget histroubles--he would see the white drifts overhead shift and change, andthere would be the vision of a magnificent man larger and morebeautiful than any mortal; and then Larry would hold his breath inecstasy, while the man's face grew graver and darker, and his strongarm seemed to lift and beckon to something from afar, and then from outa great stack of clouds would break one milk-white one which, whenLarry looked closer, would prove to be a colossal steed; and in aninstant, in the most remarkable way, the form of the man would bemounted upon the back of the courser and then would be speeding offtoward the west. And then Larry would lose sight of them, just at thevery moment when he would have given worlds to see more; for by thistime the skies would have grown black, perhaps, and down would come therain in perfect torrents, sending Larry to his feet and scuttling offinto somebody's area-way for shelter. And there he would crouch andthink about his vision, fancying to himself his great warrior doingbattle with the sea; the sea lashing up its wave-horses till they rosehigh upon their haunches, their gray backs curving outward, their foamymanes a-quiver, their white forelegs madly pawing the air, till with awild whinny they would plunge headlong upon the beach, to be pierced bythe thousand rain-arrows the cloud-god sent swirling down from above, and sink backward faint and trembling to be overtaken and trampled outof sight by the next frenzied column behind. 

Oh! it sent Larry's blood tingling through his veins to see it all soplainly; and he did not feel the chill of his wet rags about him, northe clutch of hunger in his poor, empty stomach, when the Spirit of theStorm rode out, before his very eyes, to wage his mighty war. And thenat other times it would all be quite different, and he would see thefigures of beautiful maidens in gossamer garments, and they would seemto be at play, flinging flecks of sunlight this way and that, orwinding and unwinding their flaky veils to fling them saucily acrossthe face of the sun. 

But none of these wondrous visions lasted. They remained long enoughto wake in Larry's heart a great longing for more, and then they woulddisappear and he would be all the lonelier for the lack of them. Thatwas the greatest of his discouragements. What would he care for heator cold or hunger or thirst if he could only capture these fleetingpictures once for all, so that he could always gaze at them and dreamover them and make them his forever!

That was one of the things for which Larry was wishing as he lay underthe trees that summer day. He was thinking: "If there was _only_ someway of getting them down from there! It seems to me I 'd do anythingin the world to be able to get them down from there. I--. "

"No, you would n't, " said a low voice next his ear, --"no, you wouldn't. You 'd lie here and wish and wonder all day long, but you wouldn't take the first step to bring your pictures down from heaven. "

For a moment Larry was so mightily surprised that he found himselfquite at a loss for words, for there was no one near to be seen whocould possibly have addressed him; but presently he gained voice tosay, --

"Oh, I know I could n't get 'em o' course. Folks can't reach up andbring clouds down out o' de sky. "

"I did n't say anything about clouds nor about the sky, " returned thevoice. "I was speaking about pictures and heaven. Folks can reach upand bring pictures down out of heaven. It's done every day. Geniusesdo it. "

"Who is geniuses?" asked untaught Larry. 

"People who can get near enough heaven to catch glimpses of itswonderful beauty and paint it on canvas or carve it in marble for theworld to see, or who hear snatches of its music and set them upon paperfor the world to hear; and they are called artists and sculptors andcomposers and poets. "

"What takes 'em up to heaven?" queried Larry. 

"Inspiration, " answered the voice. 

"I don't know o' that. I never seen it, " the boy returned. "Is itdeath?"

"No; it is life. But you would n't understand if I could explain it, which I cannot. No one understands it. But it is there just the same. You have it, but you do not know how to use it yet. You never willunless you do something besides lie beneath the trees and dream. Whycan't you do something?"

"Oh, I'm tired with all the things I 'm not doin'!" said Larry, in hispetulant, whimsical way. 

For a little the voice was silent, and Larry was beginning to fear ithad fled and deserted him like all the rest; when it spoke again, inits low-toned murmur, like the breath of a breeze, and said, --

"It is cruel to make a good wish and then leave it to wander about theworld weak and struggling; always trying to be fulfilled and neversucceeding because it is not given strength enough. It makes anameless want in the world, and people's hearts ache for it and long tobe satisfied. They somehow feel there is somewhere a blessing thatmight be blesseder, a beauty that should be more beautiful. It is thenthat the little unfledged wish is near, and they feel its longing to bemade complete, --to be given wings and power to rise to heaven. Yes;one ought not to make a good wish and let it go, --not to perish (fornothing is lost in this world), but to be unfulfilled forever. Oneought to strengthen it day by day until it changes from a wish to anendeavor, and then day by day from an endeavor to an achievement, andthen the world is better for it and glad of it, and its record goesabove. If all the people who wish to do wonderful things did them, howblessed it would be! If all the people who wish to be good were good, ah, then there would be no more disappointment nor tears nor heartachein the world!"

Larry pondered an instant after the voice had ceased, and then saidslowly: "I _kind_ o' think I know what you mean. You think I 'd oughtto be workin'. But what could I do? There ain't nothin' I could bedoin'. "

"Did n't I hear you complaining of me a little while ago, because I didnot carry heavy enough loads of honeysuckle scent and did not comeoften enough? I carried all I was able to bear, for I am not verystrong nowadays, and I came as often as I could. In fact, I did mybest the first thing that came to hand. I want you to do the same. That is duty. I don't bear malice toward you because you weredissatisfied with me. You did not know. If you tried the best youcould and people complained, you ought not to let their discontentdiscourage you. I brought you a whiff of perfume; you can bring someone a sincere effort. By and by, when I am stronger and can blow goodgales and send the great ships safely into port and waft to land thefragrant smell of their spicy cargo, you may be doing some greater workand giving the world something it has been waiting for. "

"The world don't wait for things, " said Larry. "It goes right on; itdoes n't care. I 'm hungry and ragged, and I have n't no place tosleep; but the world ain't a-waitin' fer me ter get things ter eat, nerclo'es to me back, ner a soft bed. It ain't a-waiting fer nothin', asI can see. "

"It does not stand still, " replied the voice; "but it is waiting, nevertheless. If you are expecting a dear, dear person--your mother, for instance--"

"I ain't got no mother, " interrupted Larry, with a sorrowful sigh; "shedied. "

"Well, then--your sister, " suggested the voice. 

"I ain't got no sister. I ain't got nobody. I 'm all by meself, "insisted the boy. 

"Then suppose, for years and years you have been dreaming of a friendwho is to fill your world with beauty as no one else could do, --whoamong all others in the world will be the only one who could show youhow fair life is. While you would not stand still and do nothing whattime you were watching for her coming, you would be always waiting forher, and when she was there you would be glad. That is how the worldfeels about its geniuses, --those whom it needs to make it morewonderful and great. It is waiting for you. Don't disappoint it. Itwould make you sad unto death if the friend of whom you had dreamedshould not come at last, would it not?"

Larry nodded his head in assent. "Does it always know 'em?" he asked. "I mean does the world always be sure when the person comes, it 's theone it dreamed of? Mebbe I'd be dreamin' of some one who wasbeautiful, and mebbe the real one would n't look like what I thought, and I 'd let her go by. "

"Ah, little Lawrence, the world has failed so too. It has let itsbeloved ones go by; and then, when it was too late, it has called afterthem in pleading to return. They never come back, but the world keepsrepeating their names forever. That is its punishment and their fame. "

"What does it need me for?" asked Larry. 

"It needs you to paint for it the pictures you see amid the clouds andon the earth. "

"Can't they see 'em?" queried the boy. 

"No, not as you can. Their sight is not clear enough. God wants themto know of it, and so He sends them you to make it plain to them. Itis as though you went to a foreign country where the people's speechwas strange to you. You could not know their meaning unless some onewho understood their language and yours translated it for you. Hewould be the only one who could make their meaning clear to you. Hewould be an interpreter. "

"How am I to get that thing you spoke about that 'd take me up toheaven, so's I could bring down the beautiful things I see?" inquiredLarry. "Where is it?"

"Inspiration?" asked the voice. "That is everywhere, --all about you, within and without you. You have only to pray to be given sight clearenough to see it and power to use it. But now I must leave you. Ihave given you my message; give the world yours. Good-by, Lawrence, good-by;" and the voice had ceased. 

Larry stretched out his hands and cried, "Come back, oh, come back!"

But the echo of his own words was all he heard in response. He layquite motionless and still for some time after that, thinking about allthe voice had said to him, and when finally he pushed his hat back frombefore his eyes, he saw the starlit sky smiling down upon himbenignantly. And then, from behind a dark cloud he saw the radiantmoon appear, and it seemed to him like the most beautiful woman's facehe could imagine, peering out from the shadow of her own dusky hair towelcome the night. 

He got upon his feet as well as he could, for he was very stiff withlying so long, and stumbled on toward some dark nook or cranny where hecould huddle unseen until the morning; his head full of plans for themorrow, and his heart beating high with courage and hope. 

He would dream no more, but labor. He would work at the first thingthat came to hand, and then, perhaps, that wonderful thing which thevoice had called inspiration would come to him, and he would be able tomount to heaven on it and bring down to earth some of the gloriousthings he saw. He thought inspiration must be some sort of a magicalladder, that was invisible to all but those given special sight to seeand power to use it. If he ever caught a glimpse of it he intended totake hold at once and climb straight up to the blessed regions above;and dreaming of all he would see there, he fell asleep. 

In the morning he was awake bright and early, and stretching himselfwith a long-drawn yawn, set out to find some way of procuring forhimself a breakfast. First at one shop-door and then at another hestopped, popping in his shaggy head and asking the man inside, "Give mea job, Mister?" and being in reply promptly invited to "clear out!"

But it took more than this to discourage Larry, heartened as he was bythe remembrance of his visions of the day before; and on and on hewent, until, at last, in answer to his question--and just as he wasabout to withdraw his head from the door of the express-office intowhich he had popped it a moment before--he was bidden to say what itwas he could do. Almost too surprised at the change in greeting to beable to reply, he stumbled back into the place and stood a moment inrather stupid silence before his questioner. 

"Well, ain't yer got no tongue in yer head, young feller? Seemed terhave a minute ago. Ef yer can't speak up no better 'n this, yer ain'tthe boy fer us. "

But by this time Larry had recovered himself sufficiently to blurt out:"I kin lift an' haul an' run errants an' do all sorts o' work about theplace. Won't ye try me, Mister? Lemme carry out that box ter show yehow strong I am;" and suiting the action to the words, he shouldered aheavy packing-case and was out upon the sidewalk and depositing it upona wagon, already piled with trunks and luggage, before the man had timeto reply. 

When he returned to the door-step he was greeted with the gratefulintelligence that he might stay a bit and see how he got along as anerrand-boy if he liked; and, of course, _liking_, he started in at onceupon his new office. 

That was the beginning. It gave him occupation and, food, but scarcelymore than that at first. He had no time for dreaming now, but oftenwhen he had a brief moment to himself would take out of his pocket thepiece of chalk with which he marked the trunks he carried, and sketchwith it upon some rough box-lid or other the picture of a face or formwhich he saw in his fancy; so that after a time he was known among themen as "the artist feller, " and grew to have quite a little reputationamong them. 

How the rest came about even Larry himself found it hard to tell. Butby and by he was drawing with pencil and pen, and selling his sketchesfor what he could get, buying now a brush and then some paints with thescanty proceeds, and working upon his bits of canvas with all the ardorof a Raphael himself. 

A man sat before an easel in a crowded studio one day, give the lasttouch to a painting that stood before him. It pictured the figure of alad, ragged and forlorn, lying asleep beneath some sheltering trees. At first that seems all there was to be seen upon the canvas; but ifone looked closer one was able to discover another figure amid thevaporous, soft glooms of the place. It grew ever more distinct, untilone had no difficulty in distinguishing the form of a maiden, fair andfrail as a dream. She was bending over the slumbering body of the boy, as if to arouse him to life by the whispered words she was breathingagainst his cheek. 

The artist scrawled his signature in the corner of his completed workand set the canvas in its frame, and then stood before it, scrutinizingit closely. 

"'The Waking Soul!'--I wonder if that is a good name for it?" murmuredhe to himself. And then, after a moment, he said to the pictured lad, --

"Well, Larry, little fellow, the dream's come true; and here we are, you and I, --you, Larry, and I, Lawrence, --with the 'wish grown strongto an endeavor, and the endeavor to an achievement. ' Are you glad, Boy?"

BETTY'S BY-AND-BY. 

 "'One, two, three! The humble-bee! The rooster crows, And away she goes!'"

And down from the low railing of the piazza jumped Betty into the softheap of new-mown grass that seemed to have been especially placed whereit could tempt her and make her forget--or, at least, "notremember"--that she was wanted indoors to help amuse the baby for anhour. 

It was a hot summer day, and Betty had been running and jumping andskipping and prancing all the morning, so she was now rather tired; andafter she had jumped from the piazza-rail into the heap of grass shedid not hop up nimbly at once, but lay quite still, burying her face inthe sweet-smelling hay and fragrant clover, feeling very comfortableand contented. 

"Betty! Betty!"

"Oh dear!" thought the little maid, diving still deeper into the lightgrass, "there's Olga calling me to take care of Roger while she getshis bread and milk ready. I don't see why she can't wait a minute tillI rest. It's too hot now. Baby can do without his dinner for aminute, I should think, --just a minute or so. He won't mind. He 'sglad to wait if only you give him Mamma's chain and don't take away herwatch. Ye-es, Olga, --I 'll come--by and by. "

A big velvety humble-bee came, boom! against Betty's head, and gottangled in her hair. He shook himself free and went reeling on his wayin quite a drunken fashion, thinking probably that was a verydisagreeable variety of dandelion he had stumbled across, --quite toolarge and fluffy for comfort, though it was such a pretty yellow. 

Betty lazily raised her head and peered after him. "I wonder whereyou're going, " she said, half aloud. 

The humble-bee veered about and came bouncing back in her directionagain, and when he reached the little grass-heap in which she lay, stopped so suddenly that he went careering over in the most ridiculousfashion possible, and Betty laughed aloud. But to her amazement thehumble-bee righted himself in no time at all, and then remarked inquite a dignified manner and with some asperity, --

"If I were a little girl with gilt hair and were n't doing what Iought, and if I had wondered where a body was going and the body hadcome back expressly to tell me, I think I 'd have the politeness not tolaugh if the body happened to lose his balance and fall, --especiallywhen the body was going to get up in less time than it would take me towink, --I being only a little girl, and he being a most respected memberof the Busy-bee Society. However, I suppose one must make allowancesfor the way in which children are brought up nowadays. When I was alittle--"

"Now, _please_ don't say, 'When I was a little girl, '--for you neverwere a little girl, you know, " interrupted Betty, not intending to besaucy, but feeling rather provoked that a mere humble-bee shouldundertake to rebuke her. "Mamma always says, 'When I was a littlegirl, ' and so does Aunt Louie, and so does everybody; and I 'm tired ofhearing about it, so there!"

The humble-bee gave his gorgeous waistcoat a pull which settled it moresmoothly over his stout person, and remarked shortly, --

"In the first place, I was n't going to say, 'When I was a littlegirl. ' I was going to say, 'When I was a little _leaner_, ' but yousnapped me up so. However, it's true, isn't it? Everybody was alittle girl once, were n't she?--was n't they?--hem!--confusing weatherfor talking, very! And what is true one ought to be glad to hear, eh?"

"But it is n't true that everybody was once a little girl; some werelittle boys. There!"

"Do you know, " whispered the humble-bee, in a very impressiveundertone, as if it were a secret that he did not wish any one else tohear, "that you are a very re-mark-a-ble young person to have been ableto remind me, at a moment's notice, that some were little boys?Why-ee!"

Betty was a trifle uncomfortable. She had a vague idea the humble-beewas making sport of her. The next moment she was sure of it; for heburst into a deep laugh, and shook so from side to side that shethought he would surely topple off the wisp of hay on which he wassitting. 

"I think you 're real mean, " said Betty, as he slowly recoveredhimself; "I don't like folks to laugh at me, now!"

"I 'm not laughing at you _now_, " explained the humble-bee, gravely; "Iwas laughing at you _then_. Do you object to that?"

Betty disdained to reply, and began to pull a dry clover-blossom topieces. 

"Tut, tut, child! Don't be so touchy! A body can laugh, can't he, andno harm done? You 'd better be good-tempered and jolly, and then I 'lltell you where I 'm going, --which, I believe, was what you wished toknow in the first place, was n't it?"

Betty nodded her head, but did not speak. 

"Oho!" said the humble-bee, rising and preparing to take his departure. And now Betty discovered, on seeing him more closely, that he was not ahumble-bee at all, but just a very corpulent old gentleman dressed inquite an antique fashion, with black knee-breeches, black silkstockings, black patent-leather pumps with large buckles, a mostelaborate black velvet waistcoat with yellow and orange stripes across, and a coat of black velvet to correspond with the breeches; while inhis hand he carried a very elegant three-cornered hat, which, out ofrespect to her, he had removed from his head at the first moment oftheir meeting. "So we are sulky?" he went on. "Dear, dear! That is avery disagreeable condition to allow one's self to relapse into. H'm, h'm! very unpleasant, very! Under the circumstances I think I 'dbetter be going; for if you 'll believe me, I 'm pressed for time, andhave none to waste, and only came back to converse with you because youaddressed a civil question to me, which, being a gentleman, I was boundto answer. Good--"

He would have said "by;" but Betty sprang to her feet and cried:"Please don't leave me. I 'll be good and pleasant, only please don'tgo. _Please_ tell me where you 're going, and if--if you would be sogood, I 'd like ever and ever so much to go along. Don't--do--may I?"

The little gentleman looked her over from head to foot, and thenreplied in a hesitating sort of way: "You may not be aware of it, butyou are extremely incautious. What would you do if I were to whisk youoff and never bring you back, eh?"

"You don't look like a kidnapper, sir, " said Betty, respectfully. 

"A what?" inquired the little gentleman. 

"A kidnapper, " repeated Betty. 

"What's that?" questioned her companion. 

"Oh, a person who steals little children. Don't you know?"

"But why _kidnapper_?" insisted the little old man. 

"I suppose because he naps kids. My uncle Will calls Roger and me'kids. ' It is n't very nice of him, is it?" she asked, glad to air hergrievance. 

"Child-stealer would be more to the point, I think, orinfant-abductor, " remarked the old gentleman, who saw, perhaps, howanxious Betty was for sympathy, and was determined not to give heranother opportunity of considering herself injured. 

He seemed to be very busy considering the subject for a second or so, and then he said suddenly: "But if you want to go, why, come along, forI must be off. But don't make a practice of it, mind, when you getback. "

"You have n't told me where yet, " suggested Betty. 

"True; so I have n't, " said the old gentleman, setting histhree-cornered hat firmly on his head and settling the fine laces athis wrists. "It's to By-and-by. And now, if you 're ready, off we go!"

He took Betty's hand, and she suddenly found herself moving through theair in a most remarkable manner, --not touching the ground with herfeet, but seeming to skim along quite easily and with no effort at all. 

"If you please, Mr. --" She paused because she suddenly remembered thatshe did not know the name of the gentleman who was conducting her on sodelightful a journey. 

"Bombus, " said he, cheerfully, --"B. Bombus, Esq. , of Clovertop Manse, Honeywell. "

"But you 're not a minister, are you?" inquired Betty. 

"No; why?" returned the gentleman, quickly. 

"Because you said 'Manse. ' A manse is a minister's house, is n't it?"asked Betty. 

"No, not always, " Bombus replied. "But I call my place Clovertop Mansebecause it belongs to me and not to my wife, do you see? I call itManse because it _is_ a man's. It is perfectly plain. If it was awoman's, I 'd say so. "

"Well, I don't think you 're much of a _humble_-bee--" began Betty, andthen caught herself up short and stopped. 

Mr. Bombus gave her a severe look from under his three-cornered hat, but did not reply at once, and they advanced on their way for somelittle time in silence. Then the gentleman said:

"I 've been thinking of what you said about my not being a humble-bee. Of course I am not a humble-bee, but you seemed to lay considerablestress on the first part of the word, as if you had a special meaning. Explain!"

Poor Betty blushed very red with shame and confusion; but the gentlemanhad a commanding way with him and she dared not disobey. 

"I only meant, sir, " she stammered, --"I only meant--I--did n't thinkyou were very humble, because you seemed very proud about the placebeing yours. I thought you were 'stuck up, ' as my brother says. "

"Stuck up? Where?" queried Mr. Bombus, anxiously. "Pray don't makesuch unpleasant insinuations. They quite set my heart to throbbing. I knew--I mean I saw a humble-bee once, " he remarked impressively, "andwould you believe it, a little boy caught him and impaled him on a pin. It was horrible. He died in the most dreadful agony, --the bee, not theboy, --and then the boy secured him to the wall; made him fast there. So he was stuck up. You surely can't mean--"

"Oh, no, indeed! I meant only proud, " replied Betty, contritely; forMr. Bombus's face had really grown pale with horror at the remembranceof the bee's awful fate, and she was very sorry she had occasioned himsuch discomfort. 

"Then why did n't you say only 'proud'?" asked her companion, sharply. "You said 'proud, ' and then added 'stuck up. '"

Betty thought it was about time to change the subject, so she observedquietly that By-and-by seemed a long way off. 

"Of course it is a long way off, " replied her companion. "Don't youwish it to be a long way off?"

Betty hesitated. "Well, I don't think I ever wished much about it. Can you tell me how many miles it is from some place I know about? Yousee, Mr. Bombus, I am pretty sure it is n't in the geography. Atleast, I don't remember that I ever saw it on the map. Could n't youtell me where it is?"

Mr. Bombus considered a moment, And then asked, "Do you know where Nowis?"

Betty thought a minute, and then replied, "I suppose it is Here, sir. "

"Right!" assented the old gentleman, promptly. "Now, if you had saidThere, it would have been wrong; for Then is There. You see, this isthe way: When we have lived in Now until it is all used up, it changesinto Then, and, instead of being Here, is There. I hope it's plain toyou. Well, you asked me where By-and-by was. That 's the very thingabout it: it never was, not even _is_; it's always _going to be_, andit's generally a rather long way from Now; so, if you know where Nowis, you can make your own calculations as to the distance of By-and-by. "

"But I don't know anything about calculating distances, " said Betty, dolefully. 

"It does n't matter, " remarked Mr. Bombus; "for even if you did youcould n't apply it in this case. But we 're getting on in our journey. Yes, indeed, we seem to be really getting on. "

"Why, I should hope so!" returned Betty. "It seems to me I never flewso fast in all my life before and for such a long time. If we were n'tgetting on, I think I should be discouraged. We seem to be almostrunning a race, we go so quickly. "

"We are running a race, " observed Mr. Bombus. 

Betty opened her eyes wide and said: "Why, _I_ did n't know it. Whendid we begin?"

"When we started, Child. Pray, don't be stupid!" replied her friend, alittle severely. 

"But with whom are we running it?" queried Betty. 

"With Time, " whispered Mr. Bombus, confidentially. "One always has tobeat him before one can get to By-and-by. And then it depends on one'sself whether one likes it or not after one gets there. "

But even as he spoke Betty seemed to feel herself hurried along morerapidly than ever, as if she were making a final effort to outstripsome one; and then she was brought to so sudden a standstill that shehad to do her best to keep from falling forward, and was still quitedizzy with her effort when she heard a panting voice say, "That lastrush quite took away my breath!" and found herself being addressed byMr. Bombus, who was very red in the face and gasping rather painfully, and whom she had, for the moment, forgotten. 

Betty said: "My, Mr. Bombus, how warm you are! Sit right down on thegrass and cool off before we go any farther, please. "

"Oh, dear, no!" objected her companion. "That would be terriblyimprudent, with these cold autumn winds blowing so; and winter justover there. I 'd catch my death, Child. "

"Why, I 'm sure, " replied Betty, "I don't know what you mean. It's assummer as it can be. It's a hot August day, and if you can't sitoutdoors in August, I 'd like to know when you can. "

"Allow me to inform you, my dear child, that it isn't August at all;and if you had half an eye you 'd see it, let alone feel it. Do theseleaves look as if it were August?" and he pointed to a clump of treeswhose foliage shone red and yellow in the sunlight. 

Betty started. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "How came they tochange so early?"

"It _is n't_ early, " explained Mr. Bombus. "It's the last ofOctober, --even later, --and keeps getting more so every minute. "

"But, " insisted Betty, "it was August when I first saw you, a few hoursago, and--"

"Yes, _then_ it was August, " assented Mr. Bombus; "but we 've gotbeyond that. We 're in By-and-by. Did n't you hear your mother say itwould be October by and by, and it _is_ October. Time is jogging on, back there in the world; but we beat him, you see, and are safe andsound--far ahead of him--in By-and-by. Things are being done here thatare always _going_ to be done behind there. It's great fun. "

But at these words Betty's face grew very grave, and a sudden thoughtstruck her that was anything but "great fun. " Would she be set todoing all the things she had promised to do "by and by"?

"I 'm afraid so, " said Mr. Bombus, replying to her question though shehad only _thought_ it. "I told you it depended on one's self if onewere going to like By-and-by or not. Evidently you 're _not_. Oh!going so soon? You must have been a lazy little girl to be set aboutsettling your account as quick as this. See you later! Good--"

But again he was not permitted to say "by, " for before he could fairlyget the word out, Betty was whisked away, and Mr. Bombus stood solitaryand alone under a bare maple-tree, chuckling to himself in an amusedfashion and, it must be confessed, in a spiteful. 

"It 'll be a good lesson for her. She deserves it, " he said tohimself; and Betty seemed to hear him, though she was by this time faraway. 

Poor child! she did not know where she was going nor what would takeplace next, and was pretty well frightened at feeling herself powerlessto do anything against the unknown force that was driving her on. 

But even while she was wondering she ceased to wonder; and what wasgoing to happen had happened, and she found herself standing in anenormous hall that was filled with countless children, of all ages andnationalities, --and some who were not children at all, --every one ofwhom was hurrying to and fro and in and out, while all the time a voicefrom somewhere was calling out names and dates in such rapid successionthat Betty was fairly deafened with the sound. There was a continualstir in the assembly, and people were appearing and reappearingconstantly in the most perplexing manner, so that it made one quitedizzy to look on. But Betty was not permitted to look long, for in themidst of the haranguing of the dreadful voice she seemed to distinguishsomething that sounded strangely familiar. 

"Betty Bleecker, " it called, "began her account here when she was fiveyears old by the World calculation. Therefore she has the undoneduties of seven years--World count--to perform. Let her set aboutpaying off her debt at once, and stop only when the account issquared;" whereupon Betty was again whisked off, and had not even timeto guess where, before she found herself in a place that reminded herstrangely of home and yet was not home at all. Then a wearisome roundof tasks began. 

She picked up pins, she opened doors, she shut windows, she raisedshades, she closed shutters, she ran errands, she delivered messages, she practised scales, she studied lessons, she set her doll-house inorder and replaced her toys, she washed her face and brushed her hair, she picked currants and stoned raisins, she hung up her skipping-ropeand fastened her sash; and so she went on from one thing to anotheruntil she was almost ready to cry with weariness and fatigue. Half thethings she did she had forgotten she had ever promised to do. But shehad sent them into By-and-by, and here they were to be done, and dothem she must. On and on she went, until after a while the tasks shehad to perform began to gain a more familiar look, and she recognizedthem as being unkept promises of quite a recent date. She dusted herroom, she darned her stockings, she mended her apron, she fed her bird, she wrote a letter, she read her Bible; and at last, after an endlessspace and when tears of real anguish were coursing down her cheeks, shefound herself amusing the baby, and discovered that she had come to thelast of her long line of duties and was cancelling her debt toBy-and-by. 

As soon as all was finished she felt herself being hurried, stillsobbing and crying, back to the place from which she had started, andon entering heard the same voice she had listened to before, say, --

"Betty Bleecker's account is squared. Let a receipted bill be givenher; advise her to run up no more accounts, and send her home. "

At these words Betty wept afresh, but not now from sorrow, but fromgladness at the thought of returning home. And before she could evenrealize it, she was standing beside Mr. Bombus again, with something inher hand which she clutched tightly and which proved to be a signedreceipt for her debt to By-and-by. Then she heard her companion say, --

"Like to look about a bit before you leave? By-and-by's a busy place;don't you think so?"

And Betty replied promptly, "Oh, no, sir--yes, sir--not at all, sir--ifyou please, sir;" quite too frantic at the thought of having to goback, even for a moment, to answer the questions. 

But all the while she was very angry with Mr. Bombus for bringing herthere, quite forgetting she had pleaded with him to do so; and hissmiling at her in that very superior fashion provoked her sadly, andshe began upbraiding him, between her sobs and tears, for hisunkindness and severity. 

"It would only have been harder in the end, " replied her companion, calmly. "Now you 've paid them and can take care not to run up anymore debts; for, mark my words, you 'll have to square your accountevery time, and the longer it runs the worse it will be. Nothing inthe world, in the way of responsibility, ever goes scot-free. You haveto pay in one way or another for everything you do or leave undone, andthe sooner you know it the better. "

Betty was sobbing harder than ever, and when she thought she caught atriumphant gleam in Mr. Bombus's eyes and heard him humming in anaggravating undertone, "In the Sweet By-and-by, " she could restrainherself no longer, but raised her hand and struck him a sounding blow. Instantly she was most deeply repentant, and would have begged hispardon; but as she turned to address him, his cocked hat flew off, hislegs doubled up under him, his eyes rolled madly, and then with afierce glare at her he roared in a voice of thunder: "BET-TY!"

And there she was in the soft grass-heap, sobbing with fright andclutching tightly in her hand a fistful of straw; while yonder in thewistaria-vine a humble-bee was settling, and a voice from the house washeard calling her name:

"Betty! BET-TY!"

THE WHITE ANGEL

Once upon a time there lived in a far country a man and his wife, andthey were very poor. Every morning the man went his way into theforest, and there he chopped wood until the sky in the west flushedcrimson because of the joy it felt at having the great sun pass thatway; and when the last rim of the red ball disappeared behind the lineof the hills, the man would shoulder his ax and trudge wearily home. 

In the mean time the wife went about in the little hut, making it cleanand neat, and perhaps singing as she worked, --for she was a cheery soul. 

Well, one day--perhaps it was because she was very tired and worn; I donot know--but one day she sat down by the door of her hut, and was justabout to begin sewing on some rough piece of hempen cloth she had inher lap, when, lo! she fell asleep. 

Now, this was very strange indeed, and even in her dream she seemed towonder at herself and say: "I have never slept in the daytime before. What can it mean? What will Hans think of me if he should come homeand find me napping in the doorway and his supper not ready for him, nor the table spread?"

But by and by she ceased to wonder at all, and just sat leaning againstthe door-frame, breathing softly, like a little child that is dreamingsweet dreams. 

But presently the trees of the forest began to bow their heads, and thewind chanted low and sweet, as though in praise; the sun shot a goldenbeam along the foot-path, and made it glitter and shine, and then awonderful silence seemed to fall on the place, and before her stood anangel, white-robed and beautiful. He said no word, but stretched outhis arms to her and would have taken her to his heart, but that shecried out with a great fear, --

"Ah, no! not yet; I cannot go yet. I am young, and life is sweet. Icannot give it up. Do not take me yet!" and she fell at his feet. 

The angel smiled sadly and said: "Be it so, then. I will not take, Iwill give. But bemoan thou not thy choice when the life thou deemestso sweet seems but bitter, and thy load more heavy than thou canstbear. I will come once again;" and smiling down upon her, he was gone. 

With a great cry she rose; for the light that shone all about the angelseemed to make many things clear to her, and she would have been gladto do his will, but it was now too late. 

The tree-tops were motionless again, the wind had ceased its chanting, the sun had withdrawn its wondrous light, and along the worn littlefoot-path came Hans with his ax upon his shoulder. She said nothing tohim about her dream, for she was afraid; but she got his supper forhim, and when the stars had slipped out from behind the spare clouds, he had dropped to sleep and left her to lie awake gazing at themsilently until each one seemed to smile at her with the smile of anangel, and then it was morning, and she had slept, after all, and thesun was shining. 

After that Christina was always busy preparing for the gift the angelhad promised her, and she sang gayly from morning till night, and wasvery glad. 

So the months rolled along, and the memory of her dream had almostfaded from Christina's mind. Then one day a strange sound was heard inthe little hut, --the sound of a baby's crying. Hans heard it as hecame along, and it made his eyes shine with gladness. He hastened hissteps, and smiled to himself as he thought of his joy in having alittle child to fondle and caress. 

But at the door he paused, for he heard another sound besides that ofthe baby's voice. It was Christina's, and she was weeping bitterly. 

In a moment he was beside her, and then he knew. There he lay, --theirlittle son. The angel's gift, --a wee cripple. Not a bone in all hislittle body was straight and firm. Only his eyes were strangelybeautiful, and now they were filled with tears. 

"It were better he had died, and thou, also, Christina, " sobbed Hans. "It were better we had all three died before this sorrow was broughtupon us. " But Christina only wept. 

So the years went by, and the baby lived and grew. It was always inpain, but it seldom cried; and Christina could not be impatient whenshe saw how uncomplaining the little child was. 

When he was old enough she told him what she never told any onebefore, --the story of the angel; and his eyes were more beautiful thanever when she wept because she could not suffer it all alone, but mustsee him suffer too. And while Hans scarcely noticed the boy, Christinaspent all her time thinking of him and teaching him, and together theyprayed to the white angel to bless them. 

But as the years went on many men came to the forest and felled thetrees, not with axes but with huge saws; and so Hans was turned away, for no one wanted a wood-chopper now. And so they were in greattrouble; and Hans grew rough and ill-tempered, and did not try to usethe saw, nor would he ask the men to let him work. He would only standidly by, and often Christina thought the blessings she prayed for wereturned to curses; but she never told the child her sorrow, and stillthey prayed on to the white angel to bless them. When Christina sawHans would really do no work, she said no more, but sewed and spun forthe men about who had no wives, and in this way she earned enough tobuy food and wood. It was very little she could earn, and she oftengrew impatient at the sight of Hans smoking idly in the doorway; butwhen she said a hasty word the boy's eyes seemed to grow big with adeep trouble, and she would check herself and work on in silence. Butthe more she worked, the idler grew Hans and the more ill-tempered; andhe would laugh when he heard them pray to the angel to bless them. Instead of blessings new sorrow seemed to be born every day; for Hanswas injured by a falling tree, and was brought home with both his legscrushed, and laid helpless and moaning on the rough bed. 

These were weary days for Christina; but she did not rebel, even whenHans swore at her and the child, and made the place hideous with hisoaths. 

"You brought us all these troubles, you wretched boy!" he would say. "Don't talk to _me_ of patience. Why don't you pray to your angel forcurses, and then we may have some good luck again? As it is, you mightas well pray to the Devil himself. "

But the child only drew Christina's head closer to his poor littlemisshapen breast, and whispered to her, "It is not so, is it, littlemother?"

And she always answered: "No, dear heart. They are indeed blessings ifwe will only recognize them. It we prayed only for happiness, we mightthink the white angel heard us not; but we pray for blessings, and sohe sends us what we pray for, and what he sends is best. "

Then again the boy's eyes shone with a great light, and there seemed aradiance about his head; but Christina was kissing his shapeless littlehands and did not see. 

One day Christina was returning with a fresh bundle of work in herarms, when, just as she came in sight of the hut, she saw a pillar ofsmoke rise black and awful to the sky from the rude roof of the place. 

In a moment she felt a horrible fear for Hans and the child. Neitherof them could move; and must they lie helpless and forsaken in the faceof such a fearful death? She ran as though her feet were winged. Nearer and nearer she came, and now she saw the flames rise and lickthe smoky column with great lapping tongues of fire. 

Nearer and nearer she came, and the crowd of men about the hut stoodstricken and dared not venture in. 

"It is of no use, " they screamed. "We did not know soon enough, andnow it is too late; we should smother if we tried to save them. "

But she tore her way through the crowd and flung herself into theburning place. 

Hans, writhing and screaming, had managed to drag himself near thedoor; and thinking, "The child is more fit for heaven, I will save Hansfirst, " she lifted him in her arms and carried him outside. It was asthough some great strength had been given her, for she carried him asif he had been a little child. Then into the hut she went once more, and to the bed of the child. But now the flames were licking her feet, and the smoke blinded her. She groped her way to the bed and felt forthe boy, but he was not in his accustomed place; and she was about tofling herself upon the little couch in despair, when a great lightfilled the place, --not the red light of the flames, but a clear whiteflood such as she had only seen once before. 

There stood the white angel, radiant, glorious; and looking up she sawhim smiling down at her with the eyes of the boy. 

"I am come again, " he said. "When you would not give me your life, Igave you mine, and it was spent in pain and torture. Now that youwould gladly give yours to spare me, you are to taste the sweetest ofall blessings. The lesson is over; it is done. " And he took her inhis arms and she was filled with a great joy, for she knew the angelhad answered all her prayers. She remembered the words: "He thatfindeth his life shall lose it; and he that loseth his life for my sakeshall find it. "

The men outside waited in vain for Christina, and when she did not comethey shook their heads and some of them wept. They did not know. 

IN THE PIED PIPER'S MOUNTAIN. 

It was a great honor, let me tell you; and Doris, as she sat by thewindow studying, could not help thinking of it and feeling just a weebit important. 

"It is n't as if I were the oldest girl, " said she to herself. "No, indeed; I 'm younger than most of them, and yet when it came tochoosing who should speak, and we were each given a chance to vote, Ihad the most ballots. Miss Smith told me I could recite anything Ichose, but to be sure it was 'good, ' and that it was not 'beyond me. 'Well, this is n't 'beyond me. ' I guess;" and she began:--

 "Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover City; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its walls on the southern side, -- A pleasanter spot you never spied. But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townfolk suffer so With vermin was a pity. "

For she had chosen Browning's "Pied Piper of Hamelin. " That was surely"good;" and if it was long, why, it was "so interesting. " As she wentalong she could almost see the rats as they "fought the dogs and killedthe cats. " She could almost see the great Mayor tremble as the peopleflocked to him and threatened to "send him packing" if he did n't findsome means to rid them of those awful rats. She could almost hear thePied Piper's voice as he offered to clear the town of the pests; and itseemed to her she could hear the music of his pipe as he stepped intothe street and began to play, while the rats from every hole and crannyfollowed him to the very banks of the Weser, where they were drowned inthe rolling tide. 

It seemed awful that after promising the Piper those fifty thousandguilders, the Mayor should break his word; and it certainly wasterrible, when the Piper found he had been duped, that he should againbegin to pipe, and that the children--yes, every one in HamelinTown--should follow him just as the rats had done, and that by and byhe should lead them to the mountain-side, that it should open, andthat, lo! after they had all passed in, it should close again, leavingonly one little lame boy outside, weeping bitterly because he had notbeen able to walk fast enough to keep up with the merry crowd. It wasall so distinct and plain. 

She wondered where the children went after the hill-side shut them in. She wondered what they saw. She thought the Piper's music must havebeen very odd indeed to charm them so. She could almost hear-- _Whatwas that_? She gave a start; for sure as you live, she heard the soundof a fife piping shrill and loud round the corner. She flung down thebook and ran into the street. The air was cold and sharp and made hershiver, but she did not stop to think of that; she was listening tothat Piper who was coming around the side of the house, --nearer andnearer. She meant to follow him, whoever he was. There! How the windwhistled and the leaves scurried!

Wind! Leaves! Why, it was the Pied Piper himself with his puffedcheeks and tattered coat; and before him ran the host of children, dancing, as they went, to the tune of the Piper's fife. 

Away--away--

With a bound Doris left the door-step and followed after, running andfluttering, skipping and skurrying, sometimes like a little girl andsometimes like a big leaf, --she had n't time to ask herself which shereally was; for all the while she was listening to that wonderful fifeas it whistled and wailed, shrieked and sighed, and seemed to coax themon all the while. 

She followed blindly after the rest of the whirling crowd. 

Away they went, always more and more, --away they went, clear out oftown and into the bare country, --away they went; and the Piper behindthem made his fife-notes shriller and louder, so that all could hear, and they seemed to be carried along in spite of themselves. 

It was like a race in a dream. Their feet seemed not to touch theground. The leaves rustled--no, the children chattered as theyfluttered--no, hurried along. Doris could catch little sentences hereand there; but they seemed to be in a strange tongue, and she did notunderstand. But by and by she grew very familiar with the sounds, and, strangely enough, she found she could make out the meaning of the queerwords. 

"It 's German, " she thought; "I know they're talking German;" and soshe listened very attentively. 

"Sie ist eine Fremde, " she heard one say to another; "sie gehoert nichtzu uns, "--which she immediately knew meant: "She is a stranger; shedoesn't belong to us. "

"Nein, " replied the other; "aber sie scheint gut und brav zu sein. " Atwhich Doris smiled; she liked to be thought "good and sweet. "

On and on they went; and after a time things began to have a veryforeign look, and this startled Doris considerably. 

"We can't have crossed the ocean, " she thought. But when she asked hernearest neighbor where they were and whether they had crossed theAtlantic, he smiled and said, --

"Ja, gewiss; wir sind in Deutschland. Wir gehen, schon, nachHamelin, "--which rather puzzled Doris; for she found they had crossedthe sea and were in Germany and going to Hamelin. 

"It must be the Piper's wonderful way, " she thought. 

But she did not feel at all homesick nor tired nor afraid; for thePiper's fife seemed to keep them all in excellent spirits, and shefound herself wondering what she would do when they came to the fabledhill-side, --for she never doubted they would go there. On they went, faster and faster, the Piper behind them playing all the while. 

She saw the broad river; and all the children shouted, "Die Weser. "

One little flaxen-haired girl told her they were nearing Hamelin. 

"It used to have a big wall around it, with twenty towers and a largefort; but that was all blown up by the French, years and years ago, "she explained. 

"But it has a chain-bridge, " she remarked proudly, --"a chain-bridgethat stretches quite across the Weser. "

Doris was just about to say: "Why, that's nothing! We have a hugesuspension bridge in New York;" but the words seemed to twistthemselves into a different form, and the memory of home to melt away, and she found herself murmuring, "Ach, so?" quite like the rest of thelittle Teutons. 

But at length the fife ceased playing, and the children stopped. 

There they were in quaint old Hamelin, with its odd wooden houses, andits old Munster that was all falling to ruin, and its rosy-cheekedchildren, who did not seem to notice the new-comers at all. 

"We must be invisible, " thought Doris; and indeed they were. 

Then the Pied Piper came forward and beckoned them on, and softly theyfollowed him to the very hill-side, that opened, as Doris knew itwould, and they found themselves in a vast hall. A low rumblingstartled Doris for a moment, but then she knew it was only thehill-side closing upon them. She seemed to hear a faint cry as thelast sound died, away, and was tempted to run back, for she feared somechild had been hurt; but her companion said, --

"It can't be helped, dear; he _always_ gets left outside, and then heweeps. You see he is lame, and he cannot keep up with us. "

So Doris knew it was the self-same little lad of whom Browning hadwritten in his story of the Piper. 

What a chattering there was, to be sure; and what a crowd was gatheredabout the Piper at the farther end of the hall! Every once in a whileall the children would laugh so loudly that the very ceiling shook. Itwas such a merry throng. 

"Tell me, " said Doris to her little neighbor, --"tell me, are you alwaysso gay here? Do you never quarrel? and have you really lived in thishillside all this long, long time, --ever since the Piper first came toHamelin five hundred years ago?"

"Ja, wohl, " replied the girl, nodding her flaxen head. "We are alwaysso happy; we never quarrel; therefore we are ever young, and what thoucallest five hundred years are as nothing to us. Ah! we are well caredfor here, and the Piper teaches us, and we him; and we play and frolicand sometimes travel, 'und so geht's. '"

"But what can you teach _him_?" asked Doris, wondering. 

"Ah! many things. We teach him to tune his fife to the sounds of ourlaughter, so that when he travels he may pipe new songs. Ah! thoufoolish one, thou thoughtest him the _wind_. And we teach him to be asa little child, and then he keeps young always, and his heart is warmand glad. And we teach him-- But thou shalt see;" and she noddedagain, and smiled into Doris's wondering eyes. 

The hall they were in was long and wide, and hung all about the wallswere the most beautiful pictures, that seemed to shift and change everymoment into something more strange and lovely. And as Doris looked sheseemed to know what the pictures were, --and they were only reflectionsof the children's pure souls that shone out of their eyes. 

"How beautiful!" she thought. 

But the Piper was singing to them now; and as she drew nearer him shesaw he had two little tots in his arms, and was putting them to sleepon his breast. 

So the children were still while the Piper sang his lullaby, andpresently the two little ones began to nod; and the Piper did not move, but held them to his kind heart until they were fast asleep. Then herose and carried them away and laid them down somewhere. Doris couldnot see where, but it must have been far enough away to be out of thesound of their voices; for when he came back he did not lower histones, but spoke up quite naturally and laughed gayly as he said, --

"Well, what now, Children? Shall we show the new friend ourmanufactory?"

And they were all so anxious to do whatever he proposed that in amoment they had formed quite a bodyguard about the Pied Piper, and werefollowing and leading him down the vast hall. 

"What is the manufactory?" asked Doris of a boy who happened to bebeside her. 

"Wait and thou shalt see!" he replied. "We always are patient untilthe Herr Piper is ready to tell us what he wishes; then we listen andattend. "

Doris would have felt that the boy was snubbing her if his eyes had notbeen so kind and his voice so sweet. As it was she took it allpleasantly, and determined to ask no more questions, but to contentherself with as much information as the Piper was willing to bestowupon her. 

But now they had passed out of the first great hall and into anotherthat seemed even more vast. At first it seemed quite empty to Doris, but as soon as her eyes grew accustomed to the strange light, she sawits walls were flanked by any number of wee spinning-wheels; and abovethem on shelves lay stacks of something that looked like golden flax, and shimmered and glittered in a wonderful way. The floor was carpetedwith something very soft and of a tender, fresh green, and Doris's feetseemed to sink into it at every step; and then a sweet perfume seemedto rise up like that one smells on an early spring-day when one goesinto the country and is the first to lay foot on the fresh young grass. The ceiling was so high that at first Doris thought it was no ceilingat all, but just the sky itself, and it was a deep, clear blue. 

"This is our Spring-room, little Doris, " explained the Piper. "Now, Children!"

And at these words they broke away from him, leaving only Doris by hisside; and each group began a different task. One new to the stacks ofgold and separated them into long, heavy skeins; while another spun thethreads back and forth till they sparkled and danced and seemed to turninto sunbeams that at length broke away and glanced into the blueabove, where they played about just as the sunlight does on a brightspring-day. Others, again, knelt down upon the soft carpet, and seemedto be whispering something very sweet to some one or something hiddenbelow; and before very long up sprang long, tender shoots, and thenthin buds appeared, and by and by the buds swelled and burst, and thenwhere every bud had been was a flower. And all this time there hadbeen a sound as of falling drops that seemed to be keeping time to asoft little melody the children were crooning. 

The Piper, looking at Doris's wondering face, said, smiling: "Thou dostnot comprehend, dear heart? Well, I will explain. As I said, this isour Spring-room, and in it all the sunshine and flowers and clouds andrain are made that go to make up a spring day. They, " he said, pointing to the first group, "are separating the golden skeins so thatthey can be spun into sunbeams. It takes great patience before theyare completely finished; and if one of the spinners should sigh whileweaving, it would ruin the beam and make it dull and heavy. So, yousee, the sunbeam-children must be very light-hearted. Then thoseothers are coaxing the flowers to spring up and bud. After they areall well above ground the flower-children hide a secret in the heart ofeach blossom, and a very beautiful secret it is, and so wonderful thatvery few ever succeed in finding it out. But it is worth searchingfor, and one or two world-people have really discovered it. Thou maystguess what a difficult task is that of my flower-children; for at firstthe flowers are drowsy and would prefer to slumber yet awhile; and mychildren must whisper to them such beautiful thoughts that they forgeteverything else and spring up to hear more. The singing thou nearestis the lullaby the rain-children are singing to the drops. Thouknowest that the clouds are the rain-cradles, and when my children singslumber songs and rock the clouds gently to and fro, the drops growsleepy and forget to fall. But sometimes they are too restless toremain in their beds, and then they fall to earth; and if we could waitso long we might hear the children teach them their patter-song. Butwe have much else to see, and must go forward. Now, Children!"

At this there was a slight commotion while the deft hands put asidetheir tasks; but it was over in a moment, and the Piper once more inthe midst of the merry crowd, who laughed gayly and chattered likemagpies, while Doris looked her admiration and delight, and the Pipersmiled approvingly. 

"The next is the Summer-room, " he said, as they wandered on. "Thouseest we are never idle. The world is so large, there is always plentyto do; and what would become of it if it were not for the children?They are the ones who make the world bright, little Doris; and soeverything depends upon their keeping their hearts glad; and one 'sheart cannot be glad if one's soul is not beautiful. Thou thoughtestnot so much depended upon the children, didst thou, dear heart?"

Oh, the wonders of that Summer-room! The perfect chorus that rose asthe fresh young voices taught the birds to sing; the beauty of therainbows, the glory of the sunsets. It was all so wonderful that Dorisscarcely knew how to show her appreciation of it all. 

The Autumn-room was scarcely less bewildering, and the Winter-room wasso dazzling that Doris shut up her eyes for very wonder. 

In the Autumn-room all the little musicians set about transposing themelody of the bird-songs from the major to the minor key, and theytaught the Piper to bring his fifing into harmony with their voices. The small artists began changing the sky-coloring, and brought aboutsuch wonderful effects that it was marvellous to see, and Doris couldscarcely realize at all that such wonders could be. 

After they had shown her the Winter-room and had seen her amazement atthe glory of the snow-crystals and the mysterious way in which therainbow colors were hidden in the ice, the Piper nodded his head, andthey all turned back and began to retrace their steps. 

"I suppose thou didst wonder where we had been when thou didst join us, little friend, " said the Piper. "I will tell thee. In the spring weall set out on our travels; for my children must see and learn, besidesshowing and teaching others. So in the spring we leave this place andgo into the world. Then I go wandering about with my fife north andsouth, east and west, and the people think me the wind. But my dearchildren could not bear such fatigue; so they take up their abode inthe trees, and remain there guiding the seasons and seeing that all iswell; whispering to me as I pass and to one another, and singing softlyto the stars and the clouds, and then every one mistakes and thinksthem simply rustling leaves. Then, when I have finished my journeying, I give them a sign, and they dress themselves in gala-costume, --for joyat the thought of coming home, --and when every one is gay in red, purple, and yellow, they all slip down from the trees and away we go. People have great theories about the changing of the foliage, but it isa simple matter; as I tell you, it is only that my children are gettingready to go home. 

"During the winter we leave the world to sleep, for it grows very wearyand needs rest. My children arrange its snow-coverlets for it, andthen it slumbers, and the moon and stars keep watch. So now thouknowest all, little maid, and thou canst be one of us, and make theworld bright and glorious if thou wilt. It only needs a beautifulsoul, dear Doris; then one remains ever young, and can work manywonders. "

"Oh, I will, I will!" cried Doris, instantly. 

"But, " said the Piper, "it takes such long experience. Thou seest mychildren had long years of it; and until thou canst make life brightwithin, thou couldst not venture without. But if thou wilt try, and becontent to work in patience, --there are many children who are doingthis--"

"Oh, I will, I will!" said Doris, again. 

Then the children laughed more happily than ever, and the Piper raisedhis fife to his lips and blew a loud, glad note. 

What was this? The children had disappeared, the Piper was gone, andDoris sat by the window, and her book had dropped to the floor. Sherubbed her eyes. 

"It was a dream, " she said. "It is the Piper's wonderful way; he hasleft me here to work and wait, so that I may make the world beautifulat last. " And she smiled and clapped her hands as the wind swept roundthe corner. 

MARJORIE'S MIRACLE. 

"Shall we have to wait until all these folks have been taken?" askedMarjorie, looking from the crowd of people who thronged the fashionablephotograph-gallery to her mother, who was threading her way slowlythrough the press to the cashier's desk. 

"Yes, dear, I 'm afraid so. But we must be patient and not fret, elsewe shall not get a pleasant picture; and that would never do. "

While she paid the clerk for the photographs and made her arrangementswith him as to the desired size and style, Marjorie busied herself withlooking around and scanning the different faces she saw. 

"There!" she thought; "what for, do you s'pose, have I got to wait forthat baby to have its picture taken? Nothing but an ugly mite of athing, anyway! I should n't guess it was more than a day old, from theway it wiggles its eyes about. I wonder if its mother thinks it's anice baby? Anyhow, I should think I might have my picture taken first. And that hump-backed boy! Guess I have a right to go in before him!He 's not pretty one bit. What a lovely frock that young lady hason, --all fluffy and white, with lace and things! She keeps looking inthe glass all the time, so I guess she knows she 's pretty. When I ama young lady I 'll be prettier than she is, though, for my hair isgoldener than hers, and my eyes are brown, and hers are nothing, butplain blue. I heard a gentleman say the other day I had 'a rare styleof beauty, ' he did n't know I heard (he was talking to Mamma, and hethought I had gone away, but I had n't). I 'm glad I have 'a rarestyle of beauty, ' and I 'm glad my father 's rich, so I can have lovelyclothes and-- Seems to me any one ought to see that I 'm prettier thanthat old lady over there; she 's all bent over and wrinkled, and whenshe talks her voice is all kind of trembly, and her eyes are as dim--But she 'll go in before me just the same, and I 'll get tireder andtireder, until I-- Mamma, won't you come over to that sofa, and putyour arm around me so I can rest? I 'm as sleepy as I can be; and bythe time all these folks get done being _taken_, I 'll be dead, Is'pose. _Do_ come!"

Her mother permitted herself to be led to the opposite side of theroom, where a large lounge stood, and seating herself upon it, took herlittle daughter within the circle of her arm; whereupon Marjoriecommenced complaining of the injustice of these "homely" people beinggiven the advantage over her pretty self. 

"Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie!" whispered her mother, "what a very foolishlittle girl you are! I think it would take a miracle to make you seearight. Don't you know that that dear baby is very, very sick, andthat probably its sad little mother has brought it here to have itspicture taken, so that if it should be called away from her, she mighthave something to gaze at that looked like her precious little one?And that poor crippled boy! He has a lovely face, with its large, patient eyes and sensitive mouth. How much better he is to look atthan that young woman you admire so much, whose beauty does not comefrom her soul at all, and will disappear as soon as her rosy cheeksfade and her hair grows gray! Now, that sweet old lady over there isjust a picture of goodness; and her dear old eyes have a look of lovein them that is more beautiful than any shimmer or shine you could showme in those of your friend Miss Peacock. "

"Why do you call her 'Miss Peacock'? You don't know her, do you?"queried Marjorie. 

"No, I don't know her in one sense, but in another I do. She is vainand proud, and the reason I called her Miss Peacock was because of theway in which she struts back and forth before that pier-glass, --justlike the silly bird itself. But I should not have called her names. It was not a kind thing to do, even though she _is_ so foolish; and Ibeg her pardon and yours, little daughter. "

Marjorie did not ask why her mother apologized to her. She had a dimsort of an idea that it was because she had set her an example that shewould be sorry to have her follow. Instead, she inquired suddenly, --

"How do they take pictures, Mamma? I mean, what does the man do, whenhe goes behind that queer machine thing and sticks his head under thecloth, and then after a while claps in something that looks like mytracing-slate and then pops it out again? What makes the picture?"

"The sun makes the picture. It is so strong and clear that though itis such a long distance away it shines down upon the object that is tobe photographed and reflects its image through a lens in the cameraupon a plate which is _sensitized_ (that is, coated with a sort ofgelatine that is so sensitive that it holds the impression cast upon ituntil by the aid of certain acids and processes it can be madepermanent, that is, lasting). I am afraid I have not succeeded inexplaining so you understand very clearly; have I, Sweetheart?"

Marjorie nodded her head. "Ye-es, " she replied listlessly. "I guess Iknow now. You said--the sun--did--it; the sun took our pictures. It'svery strange--to think--the sun--does--it. "

"Come, Marjorie! Want to go travelling?" asked a voice. 

"No, thank you; not just now, " replied Marjorie, slowly. "I am goingto have my photograph taken in a little while, --just as soon as allthese stupid folks get theirs done. I should n't have time to goanywhere hardly; and besides it 'd tire me, and I want to look allfresh and neat, so the picture will be pretty. "

"But suppose we promised, honor bright--"

"Begging your pardon, " broke in another voice, "that's understood inany case, --a foregone conclusion, you know. Our honor would _have_ tobe bright. "

"Suppose we promised faithfully, " continued the first voice, pretendingnot to notice the interruption, "to bring you back in time to go inwhen your turn comes, would n't you rather take a journey with us andsee any number of wonderful things than just to sit here leaningagainst your mother's arm and watching these people that you think so'stupid'?"

"Of course, " assented Marjorie, at once. "It 's awful tiresome, --this;it makes me feel just as sleepy as can be. But what 's the use oftalking? I can't leave here or I 'd lose my chance, and besides Mammanever lets me go out with strangers. "

"We 're not strangers, " asserted the voice, calmly; "we are as familiarto you as your shadow, --in fact, more so, come to think of it. Youhave always known us, and so has your mother. She 'd trust you to us, never fear! Will you come?"

Marjorie considered a moment, and then said: "Well, if you're perfectlysure you 'll take care of me, and that you 'll bring me back in time, Iguess I will. "

No sooner had she spoken than she felt herself raised from her placeand borne away out of the crowded room in which she was, --out, out intothe world, as free as the air itself, and being carried along as thoughshe were a piece of light thistle-down on the back of a summer breeze. 

That she was travelling very fast, she could see by the way in whichshe out-stripped the clouds hurrying noiselessly across the sky. Onething she knew, --whatever progress she was making was due, not toherself (for she was making absolutely no effort at all, seeming to bemerely reclining at ease), but was the result of some other exertionthan her own. She was not frightened in the least, but, as she grewaccustomed to the peculiar mode of locomotion, became more and morecurious to discover the source of it. 

She looked about her, but nothing was visible save the azure sky aboveher and the green earth beneath. She seemed to be quite alone. Thesense of her solitude began to fill her with a deep awe, and she grewstrangely uneasy: as she thought of herself, a frail little girl, amidthe vastness of the big world. 

How weak and helpless she was, --scarcely more important than one of thewild-flowers she had used to tread on when she was n't being hurriedthrough space by the means of--she knew not what. To be sure, she waspretty; but then they had been pretty too, and she had stepped on them, and they had died, and she had gone away and no one had ever known. 

"Oh, dear!" she thought, "it would be the easiest thing in the worldfor me to be killed (even if I _am_ pretty), and no one would know itat all. I wonder what is going to happen? I wish I had n't come. "

"Don't be afraid!" said the familiar voice, suddenly. "We promised totake care of you. We are truth itself. Don't be afraid!"

"But I _am_ afraid, " insisted Marjorie, in a petulant way, "and I 'mgetting afraider every minute. I don't know where I 'm going, nor howI 'm being taken there, and I don't like it one bit. Who are you, anyway?"

For a moment she received no reply; but then the voice said: "Hush!don't speak so irreverently. You are talking to the emissaries of agreat sovereign, --his Majesty the Sun. "

"Is _he_ carrying me along?" inquired Marjorie presently, with deeprespect. 

"Oh, dear, no, " responded the voice; "we are doing that. We are hisvassals, --you call us beams. He never condescends to leave hisplace, --he could not; if he were to desert his throne for the smallestfraction of a second, one could not imagine the amount of disaster thatwould ensue. But we do his bidding, and hasten north and south andeast and west, just as he commands. It is a very magnificent thing tobe a king--"

"Of course, " interrupted Marjorie; "one can wear such elegant clothes, that shine and sparkle like everything with gold and jewels, and havelots of servants and--"

"No, no, " corrected the beam, warmly. "Where did you get such a wrongidea of things? That is not at all where the splendor of being a kingexists. It does not lie in the mere fact of one 's being born to atitle and able to command. That would be very little if that were all. It is not in the gold and jewels and precious stuffs that go to adorn aking that his grandeur lies, but in the things which these thingsrepresent. We give a king the rarest and the most costly, because itis fitting that the king should have the best, --that he is worthy ofthe best; that only the best will serve one who is so great andglorious. They mean nothing in themselves; they only describe hisgreatness. The things that one sees are not of importance; it is thethings that they are put there to represent. Do you understand? Idon't believe you do. I 'll try to make it more clear to you, like atrue sunbeam. Look at one of your earth-kings, for instance. He isnothing but a man just like the rest of you; but what makes him greatis that he is supposed to have more truth, more wisdom, more justiceand power. If he has not these things, then he would better never havebeen a king; for that only places him where every one can see howunworthy he is, --makes his lacks only more conspicuous. Your word_king_ comes from another word, _könning_; which comes from stillanother word, _canning_, that means _ableman_. If he is not really anableman, it were better he had never worn ermine. And there, too;ermine is only a fur, you know. It is nothing in itself but fur; butyou have come to think of it as an emblem of royalty because kings useit. So you see, Marjorie, a thing is not of any worth really except asit represents something that is great and noble, something _true_. "

Marjorie was very silent for a little; she was trying to understandwhat the sunbeam meant, and found it rather difficult. After a whileshe gave it up and said, --

"Will you tell me how you are carrying me, and where we are going, andall about it?"

"Certainly, " replied the beam, brightly. "You are in a sort ofhammock made out of threads of sunshine. We sunbeams can weave one inless than no time, and it is no trouble at all to swing a little mortallike you way out into the clearness and the light, so that a bit of itcan make its way into your dark little soul, and make you not quite soblind as you were. "

"Why, I 'm not blind at all, " said Marjorie, with a surprised pout. "Ican see as well as anything. Did you think I couldn't?"

"I _know_ you can't, " replied the beam, calmly. "That is, you can'tsee any farther than the outside part of things, and that is almostworse than seeing none of them at all. But here we are nearing thecourt of the king. Now don't expect to see _him_, for that isimpossible. He is altogether too radiant for you; your eyes could notbear so much glory. It would be just as if you took one of your ownlittle moles or bats (creatures that are used to the dark) and put themin the full glare of a noonday sun. The sun would be there, but theycould not see it, because their eyes would be too weak and dim. Evenyourself, --have n't you often tried to look the sun full in the face?Yes; and you have had to give it up and turn your face away because ithurt your eyes. Well, his Majesty only lets the world have a glimpseof his glory. But here we are at our journey's end. "

With these words Marjorie felt herself brought to a gentle halt, andfound herself in a place most wondrously clear and light and high, fromwhich she could look off, --far, far across and over and down to wheresomething that looked like a dim ball was whirling rapidly. 

"That is your earth, " whispered the sunbeam in her ear, --"the earththat you have just left. "

Marjorie was so astounded that for a time she was unable to say a word. Then she managed to falter out: "But it always looked so big andbright, and now it is nothing but a horrid dark speck--"

"That is just it, Marjorie, --just what I said. When you look at theworld simply as a planet, it is small and dark enough, not nearly solarge as some of the others you see about you; but when you look at itas a place on which God has put his people to be good and noble, towork out a beautiful purpose, then-- But wait a moment. "

Marjorie felt a strange thrill pass through her; across her eyes sweptsomething that felt like a caressing hand, and when she looked againeverything was changed, and she seemed gazing at a wonderful sort ofpanorama that shifted and changed every moment, showing more lovelyimpressions each instant. 

"What is it?" she gasped, scarcely able to speak for delight andbreathless with amazement. 

"Only pictures of your world as it really is. Pictures taken by hisHighness the Sun, who does not stop at the mere outer form of things, but reveals the true inwardness of them, --what they are actually. Hedoes not stop with the likeness of the surface of things; he makesportraits of their hearts as well, and he always gets exactlikenesses, --he never fails. "

Marjorie felt a sudden fear steal over her at these words; she did notprecisely know why, but she had a dim sort of feeling that if the suntook photographs of more than the outside of things (of the hearts aswell), some of the pictures he got might not be so pretty, perhaps. But she said nothing, and watched the scroll as it unrolled before herwith a great thrill of wonderment. 

With her new vision the world was more beautiful than anything she hadever imagined. She could see everything upon its surface, even to thetiniest flower; but nothing was as it had seemed to her when she hadbeen one of its inhabitants herself. Each blade of grass, each treeand rock and brook, was something more than a mere blade or tree orrock or brook, --something so much more strange and beautiful that italmost made her tremble with ecstasy to see. 

"Now you can see, " said the voice; "before you were blind. Now youunderstand what I meant when I said the objects one sees are ofthemselves nothing; it is what they represent that is grand andglorious and beautiful. A flower is lovely, but it is not half solovely as the thing it suggests--but I can't expect you to understand_that_. Even when you were blind you used to love the ocean. Now thatyou can see, do you know why? It is because it is an emblem of God'slove, deep and mighty and strong and beautiful beyond words. And sowith the mountains, and so with the smallest weed that grows. But wemust look at other things before you go back--"

"Oh, dear!" faltered Marjorie, "when I go back shall I be blind again?How does one see clear when one goes back?"

"Through truth, " answered the beam, briefly. 

But just then Marjorie found herself looking at some new sights. "Whatare these?" she whispered tremblingly. 

"The _proofs_ of some pictures you will remember to have half seen, "replied the beam. 

And sure enough! with a start of amaze and wonder she saw before hereyes the people who had sat in the crowded gallery with her before shehad left it to journey here with her sunbeam guide; but, oh! with sucha difference. 

The baby she had thought so ugly was in reality a white-winged angel, mild-eyed and pitying; while the hump-backed boy represented a patienceso tender that it beautified everything upon which it shone. Shethought she recognized in one of the pictures a frock of filmy lacethat she remembered to have seen before; but the form it encased wasstrange to her, so ill-shapen and unlovely it looked; while the facewas so repulsive that she shrank from it with horror. 

"Is that what I thought was the pretty girl?" she murmured tremulously. 

"Yes, " replied the beam, simply. 

The next portrait was that of the silver-haired old lady whom Marjoriehad thought so crooked and bowed. She saw now why her shoulders werebent. It was because of the mass of memories she carried, --memoriesgathered through a long and useful life. Her silver hair made a haloabout her head. 

"The next is yours, " breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will youlook?"

Marjorie gave a quick start, and her voice quivered sadly as shecried, --

"Oh, blessed sunbeam, don't force me to see it! Let me go back and tryto be better before I see my likeness. I am afraid now. The outsideprettiness is n't anything, unless one's spirit is lovely too; and I--Icould not look, for I know--I know how hateful mine would be. I havelearned about it now, and it's like a book; if the story the book tellsis not beautiful, the pictures won't be good to see. I have learnedabout it now, and I know better than I did. May I--oh, may I tryagain?"

She waited in an agony of suspense for the answer; and when it came, and the voice said gently, "It is your turn next, " she cried aloud, --

"Not yet, oh, not yet! Let me wait. Let me try again. "

And there she was, with her cheeks all flushed and tear-stained, herhair in loose, damp curls about her temples, and her frock all rumpledand crushed in her mother's arms; and her mother was saying, --

"Bad dreams, sweetheart? You have had a fine, long nap; but it is yourturn next, and I have had to wake you. Come, dear! Now we must see ifwe cannot get a good likeness of you, --just as you really are. "

WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL. 

It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If theywere to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that theywould not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinarythings in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As itis-- But to go back. 

The beggar had stood before the area-gate for a long time, and no onehad paid the slightest attention to him. He was an old man with longgray hair, and a faded, ragged coat, whose tatters fluttered madly toand fro every time the wind blew. He was very tall and gaunt, and hisback was bent. On his head was a big slouched hat, whose brim fellforward over his eyes and almost hid them entirely in its shadow. Hecarried a basket upon one arm, and a cane with a crook for a handlehung upon the other. He seemed very patient, for he was waiting, unmurmuringly, for some one to come in answer to the ring he had giventhe area-bell some fifteen minutes before. No one came, and heappeared to be considering whether to ring again or go away, whenLionel skipped nimbly from his chair by the drawing-room window, slipped noiselessly down the basement stairs, and opened the area-doorjust in time to prevent the beggar from taking his departure. 

"What do you want, sir?" inquired Lionel, politely, through the talliron gate. 

The beggar turned around at the sound of the child's voice, and replied:

"I have come to beg--"

"Oh, yes, I know, " cried Lionel, hurriedly (he was afraid some onemight come, and then he would be snatched unceremoniously away from theopen door, and the beggar sent smartly about his business by one of thepert-tongued maids); "but is it for cold victuals or money?"

The beggar looked down at the little lad, and a smile, half of pity, half of amusement, lit up his grave features for a moment. "I havecome to beg, " he said slowly, "that you will receive from me, not thatyou will give to me. "

Lionel's eyes widened with amazement. "That I will receive from you?"he repeated slowly. "Then you are n't a beggar at all?"

"Most assuredly I am, " responded the old man, promptly. "Do I not begof you? What is a beggar? 'One who begs or entreats earnestly or withhumility; a petitioner. ' That is how your dictionary has it. It doesn't say for what he begs or entreats. Where I come from things are sodifferent, --there it is a mark of distinction, I can assure you, to bea beggar. One must have lived such a long life of poverty andself-sacrifice before one is permitted to beg--to beg others to receiveone's benefits. Ah, yes, there it is so different!"

"Yes, it must be, " assented Lionel. "Here beggars are just persons whogo about and ask for cold bits or pennies; and we don't think much ofthem at all. "

"That is because they are not the right kind of almsfolk, nor you theright kind of almoners, " responded the beggar; and then he repeated:"Ah, yes, there it is so different!"

"Where?" inquired Lionel. "Won't you tell me about it?"

"Dear child, " replied the beggar, gently, "it can't be described. Itmust be seen to be appreciated. If you once entered into that estate, you would never wish to return to this. "

"Is it as nice as all that?" questioned Lionel, eagerly. "Guess I 'llgo, then. Will you take me ?" he asked. 

The beggar smiled down at him kindly. "I can't take you, dear boy, " hesaid. "I have to travel on. But I can set you on the road, and youwill reach there in safety if you follow my directions. "

Lionel waited breathlessly for the beggar to continue; but the manalmost seemed to have forgotten his existence, for he was gazingdreamily over his head into the darkness of the hallway, apparentlyseeing nothing but what was in his own mind's eye. 

"Well?" asked Lionel, a little impatiently. "You were going to give methe directions, you know. "

"Oh, yes!" returned the beggar, with a slight start. "Well, thedirections are: _Always turn to the right_!"

Lionel considered a moment, and then he said: "But if I always turn tothe right I should n't get anywhere at all. I 'd be only going roundand round. "

"No, no!" replied the beggar, hastily; "you must always go _square_, you know. And you 'll find you 'll get along beautifully if you alwayskeep to the right. "

"But s'pose, " suggested Lionel, "I come to a place where the road is tothe left, --some of the roads might be not to the right, --some might goquite the other way. "

"Yes, " assented the beggar, wistfully. "They _all_ go the otherway, --that is, they _seem_ to go the other way. But when they seem togo to the wrong and you don't see any that go to the right, just keepas near to the right as you can, and by and by you 'll see one and itwill be lovely. But if you turn down to the wrong, you run a chance oflosing your way entirely. It is always so much harder to go back. "

"But are those all the directions you are going to give me?" inquiredLionel, with a doubtful glance. 

"They are sufficient, " replied the beggar. "You 'll find themsufficient;" and before Lionel could say another word the beggar hadvanished from before his very eyes. He had not slipped away, nor slunkaway, nor walked away, nor sped away, --he had simply vanished; andLionel was left alone behind the grated door of the area-way gazing outupon a vacant space of pavement where, an instant before, the beggarhad stood. The little boy rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, thebeggar was gone, in very truth, and had left not so much as a ragbehind him. But, look! what was that? Something lay upon the stonestep just outside the gate, and it gleamed brightly from out its duskycorner. Lionel reached up and unlatched the heavy fastening. Thegreat gate swung slowly in, and Lionel stepped briskly out. He bentdown and grasped the shining object; it proved to be a little rule, andit was made of solid gold. He clasped it to his bosom. 

"How beautiful!" he murmured. "Now I can measure things and carve themwith my jack-knife, and they 'll be just exactly right. Before theyhave n't been quite straight, and when I 'd try to put the partstogether they wouldn't fit; but now--"

And then suddenly the thought flashed across his mind: "Perhaps itbelongs to the beggar and he might want it;" and without a moment'sthought to his bare head, he passed quickly through the gateway and outinto the street. 

"It's such a beautiful rule, " he thought, as he flew along. "I neversaw such a darling. If it were mine, how I should hate to lose it! Imust certainly find him and give it back to him; for I know he mustfeel just as I should if it were mine. "

It never entered into his head to keep the thing; his one idea seemedto be to find the beggar and return to him his property. But beforevery long his breath began to come in gasps, and he found himselfpanting painfully and unable to run any farther. He paused and leanedagainst the huge newel-post at the foot of some one's outer steps. Hischeeks were aglow, his eyes flashing, his thick curls rough andtumbled, and his bang in fine disorder. The deep embroidered cuffs andcollar upon his blouse were crushed and rumpled; his little Zouavejacket was wind-blown and dusty, and his pumps splashed with mud fromthe gutter-puddles through which he had run. At home they would havesaid he "looked like distress;" but here, leaning wearily against thepost, he was a most picturesque little figure. 

Suddenly he felt a light touch upon his head, and then his bang wasbrushed back from his temples as though by the stroke of some kindlyhand. He looked up, and there beside him stood the oddest-lookingfigure he had ever seen. 

The stranger was clad from head to foot in a suit of silver gray. Uponhis head he wore a peaked cap, upon his feet were the longest and mostpointed of buskins; his doublet and hose were silver gray, and over hisshoulders hung a mantle about which was a jagged border made after themost fantastic design, which shone and glittered like ice in sunlight. About his hips was a narrow girdle from which hung a sheathed daggerwhose hilt was richly studded with clear, white crystals that looked toLionel like the purest of diamonds. 

Lionel felt that when he spoke it would probably be after someold-century fashion which he could scarcely understand; but there hewas mistaken, for when the stranger addressed him, it was in the mostmodern manner and with great kindliness. 

"Well, my son, " he said cheerily, "tired out? I saw you run. You havea fine pair of heels. They have good speed in them. "

"I wanted to catch up with someone, --an old beggar-man who lostsomething in our area-way. I wanted to return it to him, " explainedLionel, breathlessly. 

The stranger gazed down at him more kindly than ever. "So? But onecan't expect to catch up with folks when one gets _winded_ and has tostop every now and then for breath. Better try my mode. "

"Please, sir, what is your mode?" inquired Lionel, with his politestmanner. 

"To begin with, " explained his companion, "I have to accomplish themost astonishing feats in the manner of speed. Literally I have totravel so fast that I am in two places at once. You will the betterbelieve me when I tell you who I am, --Jack Frost, at your service, sir. Now, by what means do you think I manage it ?"

"I 'm sure I don't know. I should like immensely to find out, " Lionelreturned. 

"How do you get to places yourself?" inquired Jack Frost. "Do youalways run?"

"Oh, no, indeed. I almost always ride on my bicycle. Then I can _go_like anything, 'specially down _coasts_. Upgrades are kind of hardsometimes, but not so very. Oh, I can go quick enough when I have mybicycle. "

"Now then, " broke in Jack Frost, "you use a bicycle, --that is, amachine having two wheels. Now _I_ use a something having but onewheel; consequently it goes twice as fast, --oh! much more than twice asfast. "

"One wheel?" repeated Lionel, thoughtfully; "seems to me I neverheard of that kind of an one. "

"Suppose you guess, " proposed Jack Frost. "I 'll put it in the form ofa conundrum: If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, whatwould a thing having but one be called?"

"Oh, that's an old one. I 've heard that before, and the answer is, awheelbarrow, you know. "

Jack Frost shook his head, "I see I shall have to tell you, " he said. "If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, a thing having butone would naturally be an _i_cicle. Of course you might have known Ishould use an icicle. "

"But oh, Mr. Frost, " objected Lionel, "I never saw an icicle with awheel in my life, and I never saw one go either. "

"That's because you have n't seen me on one; and even if you had seenme on one, you wouldn't have known it, --we travel so fast. Did youever notice that when things are going at the very rapidest ratepossible, they seem to be standing perfectly still? That's the waywith icicles. They have tremendous speed in them. They go so fast youcan't realize it, and then when they are slowing up they don't do itwith a clumsy jerk as bicycles do; they just gradually melt out ofsight. "

"Yes, I 've seen them do that. I 've seen them go that way, " admittedLionel. "But will you take me to the beggar? I'm 'fraid I sha'n't beable to give him his rule if I don't hurry up. "

"But do you know in what direction he went?" asked Jack Frost. "If onewants to catch up with any one, one needs to have _some_ idea of thedirection he took. It's quite a _desideratum_, --when you get home, look that up. "

Then Lionel felt deeply mortified. "What a silly I was!" he said. "Perhaps I was going just the opposite way from the one he went. Oh, dear! how can I ever give him back his rule? It is such a beauty. Ifit had been mine, I 'd just hate to lose it. "

"Let us examine it, " suggested Jack Frost, "and see if there is anysign upon it that would help to discover its owner;" and without amoment's doubt or hesitation Lionel drew it from his pocket and held itup for Jack Frost to see. 

Then for a little space they both gazed at it carefully; Jack Frostbending down his tall head to get a nearer view of it, and Lionelstanding upon the tips of his toes to accomplish the same purpose. 

"Oh, see, see!" cried the boy, joyously. "It says, 'LIONEL, --HIS RULEFOR LIFE. ' That means I can keep it for always, does n't it? Forever'n' ever. "

"It means, " explained Jack Frosty gravely, "that you can keep it, --yes. But it means you are to measure your life with it. You are always touse it in everything you do. Then you 'll be _true_, and whatever youdo will be _straight_ and _square_. "

"Why, that's what he said himself. He said I must always 'go square. 'That was when he was giving me directions how to reach the beautifulplace he came from. He called it an estate; and he said if I ever gotthere I 'd never want to come away. As long as I 'm on the way I guessI 'll try to find that place. Will you take me?"

"I 'm afraid, " replied Jack Frost, with a very kindly seriousness, --"I'm afraid one must depend on one's self in order to reach that place. But I 'll tell you what I will do; I 'll stay with you for a bit, and, perhaps, having company will hearten you, so if you happen to comeacross any specially bad places just at first, you won't bediscouraged. And I want to tell you that if you are ever in doubt asto the way and no one is there to give you advice, just set yourself towork and use your rule and you 'll come out right. Now don't forget!"and with these words he vanished. 

"Why, I thought he was going to stay with me, " murmured Lionel, despondently. "He was so jolly, and I liked him so much. He said hewouldn't leave me just yet--"

"Nor have I, " rejoined the hearty voice close by his ear. "But I can'tneglect my business, you know; and at this moment I 'm here and 'wayoff in Alaska too. Stiff work, is n't it?"

But in spite of this Lionel heard him whistling cheerily beside him. 

The boy trudged on, and every once in a while he and his invisiblecomrade would converse together in the most friendly manner possible, and Lionel did indeed feel encouraged by the knowledge of Jack Frost'scompanionship. But by and by, after quite a long time, Lionel noticedthat when he addressed his unseen fellow-traveller the voice that cameto him in reply seemed rather far away and distant, and later becamelost to him altogether. 

Then he knew that Jack Frost had left him for a season, and he feltquite lonely and deserted and was about to drop a tear or two ofregret, when all at once, at his very feet, opened a new way which hehad not noticed before. It looked bright and inviting, and wound alongin the most picturesque fashion, instead of lying straight and levelbefore him, as did the road from which it branched. 

He was just about to turn down this fascinating side-path, and was inthe very act of complaining about his loneliness and bemoaning italoud, when he happened to notice that the sky looked a littleovercast; the air had grown heavy and still, and a strange, sad hushbrooded over everything; while the bare branches upon the treesappeared to droop, and the one or two birds that had perched upon themuttered low, plaintive little sounds that were disheartening to hear. 

Lionel was struck with so great an awe that he entirely forgot himselfand his sorrow; and in that one moment the skies seemed to brighten, the air to lighten, and the trees and birds had grown songful again. 

"What does it mean?" he asked himself anxiously; and then, all at once, he bethought himself of Jack Frost's advice in case he ever was indoubt as to the course he was to take, and in a twinkling had whippedout his rule and was down on his knees applying it in good earnest. Then how glad he was that he had not turned into the inviting by-path, for his little rule showed how crooked and wrong it was, --whole yardsand yards away from the right; and he knew he must have met with somemishap, or at the very least have wasted any amount of precious timetrying to retrace his steps and regain the place upon which he nowstood. 

He was so relieved to think he had been saved from making such a sadmistake that he began to whistle merrily, and in an instant the wholeworld about him was bright of hue and joyous again, and looking, hesaw, to his amazement, that the bare branches were abud. 

"It's spring, " he cried happily, and leaped along his way toward theright. In a flash the tempting little by-path had curled up like ascroll and disappeared from view; and then Lionel knew that it had notbeen real at all, but only imaginary, and he was more grateful thanever that he had not followed its lead. 

"Now, you good little rule, " said he, addressing the shining object inhis hand, "I 'll put you in my breast-pocket and keep you safe and warmnext to my heart. Then you 'll be ready if I want you again. " And hewas just about to thrust it in his bosom, when his eyes were caught bysomething unusual upon its surface, and on examining it very closely hesaw, in exquisitely chased characters, the words, --

 Nor sigh nor weep o'er thine own ills; Such plaining earth with mourning fills. Forget thyself, and thou shalt see Thyself remembered blessedly. 

For some time after he had read the lines he was plunged in thought. They seemed to teach him a lesson that it took him some little time tolearn. 

"I don't know why it should make the world sad if one complains, " hemused. "But I s'pose it does. I s'pose one has n't any right to makethings unpleasant for other people by crying about things. One oughtto be brave and not bother folks with one's troubles. Well, I 'll trynot to do so any more, because if it's going to make things sounpleasant it can't be right. "

And this last word seemed to link in his mind his escape from thecomplaint of his loneliness and the by-path down which he did not turn;and he was so long trying to unravel the mystery of the connection thatbefore he knew it he had almost stumbled into quite a bog, and there, in front of him, sat a wee child, --just where two roads met, --and hehad well-nigh run over her in his carelessness. 

"Oh, bother!" said he, --for he was irritated at the thought of havingonly so narrowly escaped doing himself serious damage, --"what do youget in a fellow's way for? You--" But the poor little mite gazed upat him so sadly, and wept so piteously at his hasty words that hepaused suddenly and did not go on. 

He looked down the two paths. The one was wide and curving, the othernarrow and straight; the one was bordered with rich foliage, the otherwas bare and sandy. He might have run lightly along the one, he wouldhave to toil wearisomely along the other. What wonder that his footwas turning in the direction of the first! But a queer pricking in hisbosom and the child's cry stopped him. 

He slowly drew forth his rule and began to measure, while the littleone sobbed, --

"I 'm so told I tan't walt any more. My foots are all tired out, and Iwant sumpin to eat;" and there he found himself just on the verge ofmaking a fearful blunder. He got up from his knees and turning to thetiny maid, said kindly, --

"There, there! don't cry, dear! We 'll fix you all right;" and hestripped off his jacket and wrapped it about her, taking her in hisarms, and trudging on with his burden along the more difficult way. But it was the right one, and he knew it; and so his heart was light, and he did not have time to think of his own weariness; for all thetime he was trying to comfort his forlorn little companion. And sowell he succeeded that in no time at all she was asleep on hisshoulder. Then he sat down by the roadside, and holding her still inhis arms, began to think. 

"There I was a little while ago complaining--no, not quite complaining, but _almost_--because I hadn't anybody to keep me company. Now I 'vegot somebody with a vengeance. She's awful heavy. But, oh, dear! whata narrow escape I had! I might have run into that bog, and that wouldhave been a 'pretty how d 'ye do, ' as Sarah says. I was so busythinking I forgot everything, and ran almost over little Sissy; andthat shows, I s'pose, how without meaning it one can hurt somebody ifone does n't look out. "

And then, very carefully, so as not to wake his sleeping charge, heslipped his hand into his pocket and drew out his rule again. 

"What a good friend you are!" he said to it. "I really think you 'rebetter than any sword or poniard a body could have. You 've saved mefrom danger twice now, and--" But here he stared at it in dumbsurprise, for even as he looked he saw appear upon its polished surfacethe words, --

 Deep is the bog in which they sink Who ne'er on others' sorrow think; Deeper the joy in which they rest Who 've served the weary and distressed. 

And, sure enough, he felt so happy he could have sung aloud in spite ofhis weariness and fatigue. 

But I could not begin to tell you of all his experiences, nor howunfailingly his little rule helped him to meet them successfully. 

He thought a great deal about it and its magical power; but once ortwice he did get to wondering why it should point to the straight pathwhen the winding one was so much the prettier to see. 

"Are the right ways always the ones we should n't take if we had ourown way?" he thought. "Why is it that the right one always seems notso pretty as the other? Seems to me some one told me once that thecurved lines were 'the lines of beauty. '" But before he had timefairly to consider the subject, his rule, which he happened to beholding in his hand, showed him this little verse, --

 "Straight is the line of duty, Curved is the line of beauty; Follow th' one and thou shalt see The other ever following thee. "

And this was always the way. Whenever Lionel was puzzled aboutanything, his rule always made it clear to him. And by and by, afterhe had met with all sorts of adventures, he began to wonder whether hewas ever going to see the beggar again or reach his wonderful estate. 

It was on a very beautiful day that he wondered this, and he was morethan a little happy because he had just been applying his rule tounusually good effect, when, lo! there beside him stood the subject ofhis thoughts. But oh! how changed he was!

Every rag upon him glowed and shimmered with a wondrous lustre, and thestaff he carried blazed with light, while the basket upon his armoverflowed with the most beautiful blessings. 

"I thought, " said the new-comer, "that I might risk giving you thisencouragement. It will not make you content to go no farther on _now_. It will make you long to strive for greater good ahead. You will notreach it until you have travelled a lifetime; but you will not despair, for you are being so blessed. I have been permitted to give you agreat gift. It is for that I was begging you that day. See, what aprivilege it is to be able to beg so--"

"Oh, yes, " cried Lionel; "you were going to beg me to accept the littlerule, were n't you? And you left it for me when you disappeared, andit is a beauty, and it is gold, and it does strange, wonderful thingsfor me, and--and--" In his enthusiasm he drew it from his breast andheld it up, when, lo! it curved about his hand until it formed aperfect, beautiful circle. From its shining rim shot up points ofradiance, and it was no more a simple little rule, but a golden crownfit for a king to wear. 

Lionel gazed at it in mute wonderment, and the beggar put out his handand touched it lovingly. 

"When your journey is done you shall wear it, lad, " he said; and thenLionel closed his eyes for very ecstasy, and then--

But when extraordinary things are just on the point of getting _too_extraordinary, they are sure to meet with some sort of an interruption, and after that they are quite ordinary and every-day again. So whenLionel opened his eyes there he was curled up in the chair by thedrawing-room window, and it had grown very dark and must have beenlate, for one of the maids was tripping softly about the room, lightingthe lamps and singing as she did it. 

MARIE AND THE MEADOW-BROOK. 

A little maid sat sadly weeping while the sunbeams played merrily athide-and-seek with the shadows that the great oak branches cast on theground; while the warm summer wind sang softly to itself as it passed, and the blue sky had not even a white cloud with which to hide the sadsight from its eyes. 

"Why do you weep?" asked the oak-tree; but Marie did not hear it, andher tears tell faster than ever. 

"Why are you so sad?" questioned the sunbeams; and they came to hergently and tried to peep into her eyes. 

But she only got up and sat farther away in the shadow, and they coulddo nothing to comfort her. So they danced awhile on the door-step; andthen the sun called them away, for it was growing late. 

And still the little maid sat weeping; and if she had not fallen asleepfrom very weariness, who knows what the sad consequences might not havebeen?

"How warm it is!" murmured the dandelions in the meadow. "Our headsare quite heavy, and our feet are hot. If it was not our duty to standup, we would like nothing better than to sink down in the shade and goto sleep; but we must attend to our task and keep awake. "

"What can you have, you wee things, to keep you busy?" asked the tallmilkweed that grew near the fence-rails; and the mullein-stalk besideit echoed, --

"What, indeed?"

"Now, one can understand one so tall as I having to stand upright anddo my duty; but you, --why, you are no taller than one of my green podsthat I am filling with floss--"

"And not half so tall as one of my leaves that I must line withvelvet, " interrupted the mullein-stalk again. 

The dandelions looked grieved for a moment, but answered brightly:"Why, don't you know? It must be because you live so far away--thereby the fence--that you don't know we are here to pin the grass downuntil it grows old enough to know it must not wander off like thecrickets, or to blow away like the floss in your own pods. Young grassis very foolish, --I think I heard the farmer call it green the otherday, but we don't like the expression ourselves, --and it would be aptto do flighty things if we did n't pin it down where it belongs. Whenwe have taught it its lesson, we can go to sleep. We always stay untilthe last minute, and then we slip on our white nightcaps, --so fluffyand light and soft they are, --and lo! some day we are gone, no oneknows where but the wind; and he carries us off in his arms, for we aretoo tired to walk; and then we rest until the next year, when we arebright and early at our task again. "

Then the milkweed and the mullein-stalk bowed very gravely andrespectfully to the little dandelions, and said, --

"Yes, we see. Even such wee things as you have your duties, and we aresorry you are so weary. "

So the milkweed whispered to the breeze that the dandelions were toowarm, and begged it to help them; but the breeze murmured very gently, --

"I don't know what is the matter with me, dear milkweed, but I am sofaint, so faint, I think I shall die. "

And sure enough, the next day the little breeze had died, and then theyknew how they missed him, even though he had been so weak for the lastfew days; for the sun glared down fiercely, and the meadow thought itwas angry, and was so frightened it grew feverish and parched with verydread. 

"We wish our parasols were larger, " sighed the toadstools; "but theyare so small that, try as we may, we cannot get them to cast a largeshadow, and now the breeze has died we have no messenger. If only oneknew how to get word to the clouds!"

But the clouds had done such steady duty through the spring that theythought they were entitled to a holiday, and had gone to themountain-tops, where they were resting calmly, feeling very grand amongsuch an assembly of crowned heads. 

Meanwhile the meadow grew browner and browner, and its pretty dress wasbeing scorched so that by and by no one would have recognized it forthe gay thing it had been a week ago. And still the sun glared angrilydown, and the little breeze was dead. 

Then the grasses laid down their tiny spears, and the dandelions benttheir heads, and the locusts and the crickets and the grasshopperscalled feebly, --

"Oh, little brook, cannot you get out of your bed and come this way?"

"Our hearts are broken, " cried the daisies. 

"We shall die, " wailed the ragged-sailors. Then they all waited forthe brook to reply; but she was silent, and call as they would theycould get no answer. 

"Hush!" whispered the springs. "Her bed is empty. Have n't younoticed how little she sang lately? The weeds must have fallen asleepand she has run away. You know they always hindered her. "

They did not tell that they were too weak to feed the brook; so it haddried away. And still the sun glared down, and the little breeze wasdead, and the brook had disappeared; while there on the door-step satMarie weeping big tears, --for the little maid was always sad, and comewhen you would, there was Marie with her dark eyes filled and brimmingover with the shining drops. 

The beeches beckoned her from the garden; she saw them do it. Theirlong branches waved to her to come, like inviting arms; and stillweeping, she stole quietly away. 

"Come, " whispered the gnarled apple-trees down in the orchard; and shethreaded her way sadly among the trunks, while her tears fell splash, splash, on her white pinafore. 

"Here!" gasped the meadow-grass; and she followed on, sobbing softly toherself, as she sat down where, days ago, the brook had merrily sung. 

"Why do you grieve?" asked the pebbles; and she heard them andanswered, --

"Because I am so sad. Things are never as I want them, and so I cry. I am made to obey, and then, when the stars come out and I wish to stayup, I am sent to bed; and the next morning, when I am so sleepy I canhardly open my eyes, I am made to get up. Oh, this is a very sadworld!" And she wept afresh. 

Then the flowers and the grasses and the pebbles, seeing her tears, allsaid at once: "Would you like to stay here with us? Then you couldstay awake all night and gaze at the stars, and in the morning you neednot get up. You may lie in the brook's empty bed, and you need neverobey your parents any more. "

Marie was silent a moment, and then a hundred small voices said, "Do, oh, do!" And her tears fell faster and more fast, and larger andlarger, for she felt more abused than ever now the meadow had shown hersympathy, as she thought. She kept dropping tears so quickly that byand by even her sobbing could scarcely be heard for the splash, splash, of the many drops that were falling on the white pebbles in the brook'sbed. 

How they fell! The brown eyes grew dim, and Marie could not see. Shefelt tiny hands pulling her down--down; and in a moment she had ceasedto be a little girl and had become a brook, while her weeping was themurmur of little waves as they plashed against the stones. 

Yes, it was true!

She need never go to sleep when the stars came out; she need never getout of her bed in the morning, --how could she when the strong weedshindered her, --and how could a brook obey when people spoke?

And meanwhile the meadow grew gay again, for the brook cooled itsfever; and by and by the dandelions tied on their large, fluffynightcaps and disappeared, and the sun ceased to glare--for Marie wasgone from the door-step with her weeping, and he need not look down onthe ungrateful little maid who ought to have been so happy. The cloudscame back; and when they heard how the meadow had suffered they weptfor sympathy, and the underground springs grew strong, until one daythere was a great commotion in the meadow. 

A little bird had told the whole story of Marie's woe to the breeze, and he rose and sighed aloud; the trees tossed their arms about, because it was so wicked in a little girl to be ungrateful. Thecrickets said, "Tut, tut!" in a very snappy way; and at last the greatwind rose, and whipped the poor brook until it grew quite white withfoam and fear. 

Then Marie knew how naughty she had been, and she made no complaint ather punishment. In fact, she bore it so meekly that after the wind hadquieted down and the stormy flurry was over, she began to sing herquiet little song again, although she was very tired of it by thistime, and was so meek and patient that all the meadow whispered:

"Good little thing now, --good little thing!" and then they told her howeverything in the world, no matter how small it is, has a duty toperform, and should do its task cheerfully and gladly, and not weep andcomplain when it thinks matters are not going in the right way, but tryto keep on with its task and relief will come. 

Marie listened like an obedient little brook as she was, and was justgoing to float another merry little bubble to the little reeds belowwhen she heard a voice say, "Give me my bed; I want it, " and lo! therewas the real brook come back. She pushed Marie aside and hurt her, though she seemed so gentle. 

Marie tried to rise, but it was difficult; her limbs were stiff lyingall this time in the meadow, her eyes were weary gazing at the sky, andher voice hoarse with the song she had been forced to sing. 

She tried again, and this time she succeeded; and behold! there she wason the door-step, and the sun was going down. 

NINA'S CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 

Hark! What was that?

Nina stood still in the wintry blast and listened. The wind rushedupon her wildly, and dragged her tattered skirt this way and that, andfleered at her, and whistled at her; and when she paid not theslightest attention to his cruel treatment of her, fled tumultuouslydown the street. 

It was a wretched, shivering little figure that he left behind him, --asmall girl, with coal-black hair escaping from the folds of a brightkerchief that was tied about it; with immense dark eyes, that seemed tolight up her poor, pinched face and make it beautiful; with tattereddress and torn shoes, and with something clutched tightly beneath herarm, --something that she tried unsuccessfully to shield from theweather beneath her wretched rag of a shawl, that was so insufficientto shield even her. She was listening intently to the sounds of anorgan that came pealing forth into the dusk from within the enormouschurch before whose doors she was standing. 

Louder, fuller swelled the majestic cords, and then--Nina strained herears to listen--and then the sweetest, tenderest voice imaginableseemed to be singing to her of all the most beautiful things of whichshe had ever dreamed. It drew her toward it by the influence of itsplaintiveness; and first one step and then another she took in itsdirection until she was within the huge doors, and found herselfstanding upon a white marble floor, with wonderful paintings on thelofty ceiling above her head, and a sense of delicious warmth all abouther. But, alas! where was the singer? The thrilling notes were stillfalling upon her ear with caressing sweetness; but they seemed to comefrom beyond, --from far beyond. 

Before her she saw more doors. Perhaps if she slipped through theseshe might come in sight of the owner of the voice. 

"It is the Santa Maria, " murmured Nina to her heart. "And she issinging to the Bambinetto, --to the Santissimo Bambino. Ah, yes, itmust be the Santa Maria, for who else could have a voice like that, --sosweet and soft, yet so heavenly clear and pure?"

No one she had ever heard could sing like that. Not Luisa who sang forpennies on the street, nor Guilia, nor Edwiga, nor yet Filomenaherself, who was so proud of her voice and who carolled lustily all daylong. No, no, it must be the Santa Maria. 

Telemacho (Telemacho was a neighbor who played upon the harp andsometimes let Nina go with him on his tramps, to sing and play upon herfiddle, but oftener forced her to go alone, --they earned more so, hesaid) had often told her about the Santa Maria and the Gesù Bambino. Oh, it was a beautiful story, and--ah! ah! _of course_ it was the SantaMaria. Was not this the Festa del Gesù Bambino? To be sure, it was, and she had forgotten. No wonder the Santa Maria was singing to theBambinetto. To-morrow would be his birthday, his _festa_. 

She would go to the blessed _Madre_ and say, --

"Ah, _Madre mia_, I heard thee singing to the Bambino, and it was sosweet, _so_ sweet, I could not help but follow, I _love_ it so. "

She stepped softly to the heavy doors, and with her whole weightbracing against one, pushed it softly open and passed through. Ah! butit was beautiful here. 

Far, far above her head shone out dimly a hundred sparks of light liketwinkling stars. And everywhere hung garlands of green, sweet-smellinggarlands of green, that filled the place with their spicy fragrance. And no one need grow weary here for lack of resting-place. Why, it wasquite filled with seats, soft-cushioned and comfortable. Nina stoleinto one of the pews and sat down. She was very tired, --very, verytired. 

From her dim corner she peeped forth timidly, scarcely daring to raiseher eyes lest the vision of the radiant Madonna should burst upon herview all too suddenly. But when at last she really gazed aloft to thepoint from which the tremulous voice sprung, no glorified figure mether view. She still heard the melting, thrilling tones, but, alas! theblessed singer--the Santa Maria--was invisible. All she coulddistinguish in the half-gloom of the place was the form of a man seatedin the lofty gallery overhead. He was sitting before some kind ofinstrument, and his fingers slipping over the keys were bringing forththe most wonderful sounds. Ah, yes! Nina knew what music one couldmake with one's fingers. Did not Telemacho play upon the harp? Didnot she herself accompany her own singing upon her fiddle, --her darlingfiddle, which she clasped lovingly beneath her arm and bravely tried toshield from the weather? But surely, surely he could not be _playing_that voice! Oh, no! it was the Santa Maria, and she was up in heavenout of sight. It was only the sound of her singing that had come toearth. Poor little Nina! She was so often disappointed that it wasnot very hard to miss another joy. She must comfort herself by findinga reason for it. If there was a reason, it was not so hard. Nina hadto think of a great many reasons. But nevertheless she could notcontrol one little sigh of regret. She would so much have liked to seethe Santa Maria. If she _had_ seen her, she thought she would haveasked her to give her a Christmas gift, --something she could alwayskeep, something that no one could take from her and that would neverspoil nor break. One had need of just such an indestructiblepossession if one lived in the "Italian Quarter. " Things got sadlybroken there. And--and--there were so few, so very few gifts. But itwas warm and dim and sweet in here, --a right good place in which torest when one was tired. She bent her head and leaned it against thewooden back of the seat, and her eyes wandered first to one interestingobject and then to another, --to the tall windows, each of which was amost beautiful picture, and all made of wonderfully colored glass; tothe frescoed walls garlanded with green and at last to the organ-loftitself, in which was the solitary figure of the musician, seated beforethat strange, many-keyed instrument of his, practising his Christmasmusic. 

He had lit the gas-jets at either side of the key-board, and they threwquite a light upon him as he played, and upon the huge organ-pipesabove his head. Nina thought she had never seen anything as beautifulas were their illuminated surfaces. She did not know what they were, but that did not matter. She thought they looked very much likeexceedingly pointed slippers set upright upon their toes. She fanciedthey were slippers belonging to the glorious angels who, Telemachosaid, always came to earth at Christmas-tide to sing heavenly anthemsfor the Festa del Gesù Bambino, and to distribute blessings to thosewho were worthy. 

Perhaps they had trod upon the ice outside, and had wet the soles oftheir slippers, so that they had been forced to set them up on end todry. She had no doubt they would be gone in the morning. 

The tremulous voice had ceased some time ago, and now the organ wassending forth deep, heavy chords that made the air thrill and vibrate. The pew in which Nina sat quite shook with the sounds, and she shrankaway from the wooden back, and cuddled down upon the cushion in theseat, feeling very mysterious and awestruck, but withal quite warm andhappily expectant. 

"Ah, ah!" she thought, "they are coming, --the angels are coming. Thatis why the seat trembles so. There are so many of them that thoughthey step very lightly it shakes the ground. He, up there, is playingtheir march music for them. Oh, I know! I know! I have seen thesoldiers in the streets; and when they came one could feel the groundtremble, and they had music, too, --they kept step to it. I 'll lievery still and not move, and maybe I can even get a glimpse of the GesùBambino himself, and if I should--ah! _if_ I should, then I know I 'dnever be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more. "

Nina started suddenly to her feet. The place was filled with a soft, white radiance. Faintly, as though from a distance, came the sounds ofdelicious music, and a rare fragrance was in all the air. What was it?Oh, what was it? She felt her heart beat louder and faster, and shethought she must cry out for very pain of its throbbing. But she madeno sound, only waited and watched in breathless wonder and anticipation. 

The light about her grew clearer and more lustrous; the faint strainsof melody more glorious, and the perfumed air sweeter still; and lo!the whole place was thronged with white-winged spirits, clad all ingarments so pure and spotless that they glistered at every turn. Eachseemed to have in charge some precious treasure which she claspedlovingly to her breast, and all were so beautiful and tender-eyed thatNina could not be afraid. The dazzling forms flitted to and fro likefilmy clouds; and as one passed very near her, Nina stretched out herhand to grasp her floating robe. But though she scarcely touched it, it was enough to make the delicate fabric sag and droop as if somestrange weight had suddenly been attached to it. Its wearer paused inher flight, and glanced down at her garment anxiously, and then for aninstant appeared to be trying to remember something. In her eyes theregrew a troubled look, but she shook her head and murmured, --

"Alas! What have I done? What can I have done? I can think of no wayin which I have let the world touch me, and yet I must have, for myrobe is weighted, and--" But here she suddenly espied Nina. 

"Ah!" she cried, her deep eyes clearing, "it was you, then, littlemortal. For a moment I was struck with fear. You see if a bit of theworld attaches to our garments it makes them heavy and weighs themdown, and it is a long time ere they regain their lightness. Such amishap seldom occurs, for generally we are only too glad to keep ourminds on perfect things. But once in a long, long while we may give athought to earth, and then it always hangs upon us like a clog; and ifwe did not immediately try to shake it off, we should soon be quiteunable to rid ourselves of it, and it would grow and grow, and by andby we should have lost the power to rise above the earth, and shouldhave to be poor worldlings like the rest; and, on the other hand, ifthe worldlings would only throw off all the earth-thoughts that weighthem down, they would become lighter and more spotless, and at last beone of us. But if it was you who touched my robe and if I can helpyou, I am not afraid. What do you wish, little one?"

For a moment Nina could find no voice in which to reply; but by and byshe gained courage to falter out, --

"I came in here because I heard most beautiful music, and I thought itmight be the Santa Maria singing to the Bambinetto, since it is hisbirthday--or will be to-morrow; and I thought--I did not mean to dowrong, but I thought maybe if I could see the Gesù Santissimo once, only once, I should never be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more. They say on the Festa del Gesù Bambino one gets most beautiful gifts. I have never got any gifts; but perhaps he might give me one if Ipromised to be very good and to take most excellent care of it andnever to lose it. "

By this time the whole company of spirits, seeing their sister inconversation with a little mortal, had crowded eagerly about; and asNina finished her sentence they all cried out in the sweetest, mostmusical chorus imaginable, --

"She wants a gift, --the earth-child wants a gift; and she promises tobe very good, and to take excellent care of it and never lose it. Thelittle one shall have a gift. "

But most gently they were silenced by a nod from the spirit to whomNina had first spoken. 

"Dear child, " she said, "we are the Christmas spirits, --Peace, Love, Hope, Good-will, and all the rest. We come from above, and we areladen with good gifts for mankind. To whomever is willing to receivewe give; but, alas! so few care for what we bring. They misuse it orlose it; and that makes us very sad, for each gift we carry is mostgood and perfect. "

"Oh! how can they?" cried Nina. "I would be so careful of mine, dearspirits. I would lock it away, and--"

But here the spirit interrupted her with a pitying smile and thewords, --

"But you should never do that, dear one. If one shuts away one's giftsand does not let others profit by them, that is ill too. One must makethe best of them, share them with the world always, and remember whencethey come. "

"Will you show me some of your gifts?" asked Nina, timidly. 

The spirit drew nearer and took from her bosom a glittering gem. Itwas clear and flawless, and though it was white a thousand sparks offlame broke from its heart, and flashed their different hues to everyside. As Nina looked, wrapped in admiration, she felt her heart growbig, and she felt a great longing to do some one a kindness, --to dogood to some one, no matter to whom. 

The spirits gazed at her kindling eyes. 

"There!" they cried in joyous unison, "Love has already given you hergift. The way you must use it is always to put in everything you do. It will never grow less, but will always grow more if you do as we say. And it is the same with Hope and Peace and Good-will and all the rest. If all to whom we give our gifts should use them aright, the worldwould hold a festival all the year. "

And at this all the blessed throng closed about her, and loaded herdown with their offerings, until she was quite overcome with gratitudeand emotion. 

"All we ask is that you use them well, " they repeated with one accord. "Let nothing injure them, for some day you will be called to accountfor them all, you know. And now you are to have a special gift, --oneby which you can gain world-praise and world-glory. And oh! be carefulof it, dear; it will gain for you great good if you do not abuse it, and you need never be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more--"

"But I have no place to keep all these things, " cried Nina. "I have nohome. I live anywhere. I am only a poor little Italian singing-girl. I--"

"Keep them in your heart, " answered the spirits, softly; and then oneof them bent over and kissed her upon the lips. 

"Ah, _gracia_, _gracia_, --thanks, thanks!" she cried; but even as shespoke she sank back in dismay, for everything about her was dark andstill, and for a moment she did not know where she was. Then gropingblindly about in the shadow, she felt the wooden back of the pew inwhich she sat, and then she remembered. 

But the gifts, --the spirits' Christmas gifts to her. Where were they?For a long time she searched, stretching out her hand and passing itover cushion, bench, and floor; but all in vain. No heavenly objectmet her grasp, and at last she gave a poor little moan ofdisappointment and sorrow, --

"It was only a dream after all, --only a dream. "

But now through the tall windows stole a faint streak of light. Itgrew ever stronger, and by its aid Nina made her way to the doors, inorder to escape from the church in which she had slept away the night. But alas! they were closed and fastened tight. She could not get out. She wandered to and fro through the silent aisles, growing quitefamiliar with the dusky place and feeling not at all afraid. Shethought over her dream, and recalled the fact that it was ChristmasDay, --the Festa del Gesù Bambino. 

"It was a dream, " she mused; "but it was a beautiful one! Perhaps thespirits gave it to me for my Christmas gift. Perhaps the Gesù badethem give it me for my Christmas gift;" and just as a glorious burst ofsunshine struck through the illuminated windows, she took up her littlefiddle, raised her bow and her voice at the same time, and sang out inworshipful gratitude, --

 "Mira, cuor mio durissimo, Il bel Bambin Gesù, Che in quel presepe asprissimo, Or lo fai nascer tu!"

She did not hear a distant door open, nor did she see through it theman who had unconsciously lured her into the church the evening beforeby the power of his playing. No; she was conscious of nothing but hersinging and the sweet, long notes she was drawing with her bow from thestrings of her beloved violin. 

But she did hear, after she had finished, a low exclamation, and thenshe did see that same man hastening toward her with outstretched hands. 

"Child, child, " he cried, "how came you here! And such a voice! _such_a voice! Why, it is a gift from Heaven!"

And amid all the excitement that followed, --the excitement of tellingwho she was and hearing that she was to be taken care of and given ahome and trained to sing, --that, in fact, she was never to be tired norcold nor sad-hearted any more, --she had time to think, --

"Ah! _now_ I know. It was not a dream; it was the truth. I have allmy gifts in my heart for safe keeping. And my voice--hear! theplayer-man says it is a gift from Heaven. And oh, I will always use itwith love and good-will, as the spirits bade me. They said it everyone did so it would be a _festa_ all the year. "