University of Virginia Library

ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES IV. AND V.

ARTHUR AND THE SWORD[1]

Once there was a great king in Britain named Uther, and when he died the other kings and princes disputed over the kingdom, each wanting it for himself. But King Uther had a son named Arthur, the rightful heir to the throne, of whom no one knew, for he had been taken away secretly while he was still a baby by a wise old man called Merlin, who had him brought up in the family of a certain Sir Ector, for fear of the malice of wicked knights. Even the boy himself thought Sir Ector was his father, and he loved Sir Ector's son, Sir Kay, with the love of a brother.

When the kings and princes could not be kept in check any longer, and something had to be done to determine who was to be king, Merlin made the Archbishop of Canterbury send for them all to come to London. It was Christmas time, and in the great cathedral a solemn service was held, and prayer was made that some sign should be given, to show who was the rightful king. When the service was

over, there appeared a strange stone in the churchyard, against the high altar. It was a great white stone, like marble, with something sunk in it that looked like a steel anvil; and in the anvil was driven a great glistening sword. The sword had letters of gold written on it, which read: "Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England.''

All wondered at the strange sword and its strange writing; and when the archbishop himself came out and gave permission, many of the knights tried to pull the sword from the stone, hoping to be king. But no one could move it a hair's breadth.

"He is not here,'' said the archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword; but doubt not, God will make him known.''

Then they set a guard of ten knights to keep the stone, and the archbishop appointed a day when all should come together to try at the stone,—kings from far and near. In the meantime, splendid jousts were held, outside London, and both knights and commons were bidden.

Sir Ector came up to the jousts, with others, and with him rode Kay and Arthur. Kay had been made a knight at Allhallowmas, and when he found there was to be so fine a joust he wanted a sword, to join it. But he had left his sword behind, where his father and he had

slept the night before. So he asked young Arthur to ride for it.

"I will well,'' said Arthur, and rode back for it. But when he came to the castle, the lady and all her household were at the jousting, and there was none to let him in.

Thereat Arthur said to himself, "My brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day.'' And he remembered the sword he had seen in the churchyard. "I will to the churchyard,'' he said, "and take that sword with me.'' So he rode into the churchyard, tied his horse to the stile, and went up to the stone. The guards were away to the tourney, and the sword was there, alone.

Going up to the stone, young Arthur took the great sword by the hilt, and lightly and fiercely he drew it out of the anvil.

Then he rode straight to Sir Kay, and gave it to him.

Sir Kay knew instantly that it was the sword of the stone, and he rode off at once to his father and said, "Sir, lo, here is the sword of the stone; I must be king of the land.'' But Sir Ector asked him where he got the sword. And when Sir Kay said, "From my brother,'' he asked Arthur how he got it. When Arthur told him, Sir Ector bowed his head before him. "Now I understand ye must be king of this land,'' he said to Arthur.

"Wherefore I?'' said Arthur.

"For God will have it so,'' said Ector; "never man should have drawn out this sword but he that shall be rightwise king of this land. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword as it was in the stone, and pull it out again.''

Straightway Arthur put the sword back.

Then Sir Ector tried to pull it out, and after him Sir Kay; but neither could stir it. Then Arthur pulled it out. Thereupon, Sir Ector and Sir Kay kneeled upon the ground before him.

"Alas,'' said Arthur, "mine own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to me?''

Sir Ector told him, then, all about his royal birth, and how he had been taken privily away by Merlin. But when Arthur found Sir Ector was not truly his father, he was so sad at heart that he cared not greatly to be king. And he begged his father and brother to love him still. Sir Ector asked that Sir Kay might be seneschal when Arthur was king. Arthur promised with all his heart.

Then they went to the archbishop and told him that the sword had found its master. The archbishop appointed a day for the trial to be made in the sight of all men, and on that day the princes and knights came together, and each tried to draw out the sword, as before. But as before, none could so much as stir it.

Then came Arthur, and pulled it easily from its place.

The knights and kings were terribly angry that a boy from nowhere in particular had beaten them, and they refused to acknowledge him king. They appointed another day, for another great trial.

Three times they did this, and every time the same thing happened.

At last, at the feast of Pentecost, Arthur again pulled out the sword before all the knights and the commons. And then the commons rose up and cried that he should be king, and that they would slay any who denied him.

So Arthur became king of Britain, and all gave him allegiance.

TARPEIA

There was once a girl named Tarpeia, whose father was guard of the outer gate of the citadel of Rome. It was a time of war,—the Sabines were besieging the city. Their camp was close outside the city wall.

Tarpeia used to see the Sabine soldiers when she went to draw water from the public well, for that was outside the gate. And sometimes she stayed about and let the strange men talk with her, because she liked to look at their bright silver ornaments. The Sabine soldiers

wore heavy silver rings and bracelets on their left arms,—some wore as many as four or five.

The soldiers knew she was the daughter of the keeper of the citadel, and they saw that she had greedy eyes for their ornaments. So day by day they talked with her, and showed her their silver rings, and tempted her. And at last Tarpeia made a bargain, to betray her city to them. She said she would unlock the great gate and let them in, if they would give her what they wore on their left arms.

The night came. When it was perfectly dark and still, Tarpeia stole from her bed, took the great key from its place, and silently unlocked the gate which protected the city. Outside, in the dark, stood the soldiers of the enemy, waiting. As she opened the gate, the long shadowy files pressed forward silently, and the Sabines entered the citadel.

As the first man came inside, Tarpeia stretched forth her hand for her price. The soldier lifted high his left arm. "Take thy reward!'' he said, and as he spoke he hurled upon her that which he wore upon it. Down upon her head crashed —not the silver rings of the soldier, but the great brass shield he carried in battle!

She sank beneath it, to the ground.

"Take thy reward,'' said the next; and his shield rang against the first.

"Thy reward,'' said the next—and the next—

and the next—and the next; every man wore his shield on his left arm.

So Tarpeia lay buried beneath the reward she had claimed, and the Sabines marched past her dead body, into the city she had betrayed.

THE BUCKWHEAT[1]

Down by the river were fields of barley and rye and golden oats. Wheat grew there, too, and the heaviest and richest ears bent lowest, in humility. Opposite the corn was a field of buckwheat, but the buckwheat never bent; it held its head proud and stiff on the stem.

The wise old willow-tree by the river looked down on the fields, and thought his thoughts.

One day a dreadful storm came. The field-flowers folded their leaves together, and bowed their heads. But the buckwheat stood straight and proud.

"Bend your head, as we do,'' called the field-flowers.

"I have no need to,'' said the buckwheat.

"Bend your head, as we do!'' warned the golden wheat-ears; "the angel of the storm is coming; he will strike you down.''

"I will not bend my head,'' said the buckwheat.

Then the old willow-tree spoke: "Close your

flowers and bend your leaves. Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even men cannot do that; the sight of heaven would strike them blind. Much less can we who are so inferior to them!''

" `Inferior,' indeed!'' said the buckwheat. "Now I will look!'' And he looked straight up, while the lightning flashed across the sky.

When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the wheat raised their drooping heads, clean and refreshed in the pure, sweet air. The willow-tree shook the gentle drops from its leaves.

But the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, scorched black by the lightning.

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS[1]

The Greek God Pan, the god of the open air, was a great musician. He played on a pipe of reeds. And the sound of his reed-pipe was so sweet that he grew proud, and believed himself greater than the chief musician of the gods, Apollo, the son-god. So he challenged great Apollo to make better music than he.

Apollo consented to the test, for he wished to punish Pan's vanity, and they chose the mountain Tmolus for judge, since no one is so old and wise as the hills.

When Pan and Apollo came before Tmolus, to play, their followers came with them, to hear, and one of those who came with Pan was a mortal named Midas.

First Pan played; he blew on his reed-pipe, and out came a tune so wild and yet so coaxing that the birds hopped from the trees to get near; the squirrels came running from their holes; and the very trees swayed as if they wanted to dance. The fauns laughed aloud for joy as the melody tickled their furry little ears. And Midas thought it the sweetest music in the world.

Then Apollo rose. His hair shook drops of light from its curls; his robes were like the edge of the sunset cloud; in his hands he held a golden lyre. And when he touched the strings of the lyre, such music stole upon the air as never god nor mortal heard before. The wild creatures of the wood crouched still as stone; the trees kept every leaf from rustling; earth and air were silent as a dream. To hear such music cease was like bidding farewell to father and mother.

When the charm was broken, the hearers fell at Apollo's feet and proclaimed the victory his. All but Midas. He alone would not admit that the music was better than Pan's.

"If thine ears are so dull, mortal,'' said Apollo, "they shall take the shape that suits

them.'' And he touched the ears of Midas. And straightway the dull ears grew long, pointed, and furry, and they turned this way and that. They were the ears of an ass!

For a long time Midas managed to hide the tell-tale ears from everyone; but at last a servant discovered the secret. He knew he must not tell, yet he could not bear not to; so one day he went into the meadow, scooped a little hollow in the turf, and whispered the secret into the earth. Then he covered it up again, and went away. But, alas, a bed of reeds sprang up from the spot, and whispered the secret to the grass. The grass told it to the tree-tops, the tree-tops to the little birds, and they cried it all abroad.

And to this day, when the wind sets the reeds nodding together, they whisper, laughing, "Midas has the ears of an ass! Oh, hush, hush!''

WHY THE SEA IS SALT[1]

Once there were two brothers. One was rich, and one was poor; the rich one was

rather mean. When the Poor Brother used to come to ask for things it annoyed him, and finally one day he said, "There, I'll give it to you this time, but the next time you want anything, you can go Below for it!''

Presently the Poor Brother did want something, and he knew it wasn't any use to go to his brother; he must go Below for it. So he went, and he went, and he went, till he came Below.

It was the queerest place! There were red and yellow fires burning all around, and kettles of boiling oil hanging over them, and a queer sort of men standing round, poking the fires. There was a Chief Man; he had a long curly tail that curled up behind, and two ugly little horns just over his ears; and one foot was very queer indeed. And as soon as anyone came in the door, these men would catch him up and put him over one of the fires, and turn him on a spit. And then the Chief Man, who was the worst of all, would come and say, "Eh, how do you feel now? How do you feel now?'' And of course the poor people screamed and screeched and said, "Let us out! Let us out!'' That was just what the Chief Man wanted.

When the Poor Brother came in, they picked him up at once, and put him over one of the hottest fires, and began to turn him round and

round like the rest; and of course the Chief Man came up to him and said, "Eh, how do you feel now? How do you feel now?'' But the Poor Brother did not say, "Let me out! Let me out!'' He said, "Pretty well, thank you.''

The Chief Man grunted and said to the other men, "Make the fire hotter.'' But the next time he asked the Poor Brother how he felt, the Poor Brother smiled and said. "Much better now, thank you.'' The Chief Man did not like this at all, because, of course, the whole object in life of the people Below was to make their victims uncomfortable. So he piled on more fuel and made the fire hotter still. But every time he asked the Poor Brother how he felt, the Poor Brother would say, "Very much better''; and at last he said, "Perfectly comfortable, thank you; couldn't be better.''

You see when the Poor Brother was on earth he had never once had money enough to buy coal enough to keep him warm; so he liked the heat.

At last the Chief Man could stand it no longer.

"Oh, look here,'' he said, "you can go home.''

"Oh no, thank you,'' said the Poor Brother, "I like it here.''

"You must go home,'' said the Chief Man

"But I won't go home,'' said the Poor Brother.

The Chief Man went away and talked with the other men; but no matter what they did they could not make the Poor Brother uncomfortable; so at last the Chief Man came back and said,—

"What'll you take to go home?''

"What have you got?'' said the Poor Brother.

"Well,'' said the Chief Man, "if you'll go home quietly I'll give you the Little Mill that stands behind my door.''

"What's the good of it?'' said the Poor Brother.

"It is the most wonderful mill in the world,'' said the Chief Man. "Anything at all that you want, you have only to name it, and say, `Grind this, Little Mill, and grind quickly,' and the Mill will grind that thing until you say the magic word, to stop it.''

"That sounds nice,'' said the Poor Brother. "I'll take it.'' And he took the Little Mill under his arm, and went up, and up, and up, till he came to his own house.

When he was in front of his little old hut, he put the Little Mill down on the ground and said to it, "Grind a fine house, Little Mill, and grind quickly.'' And the Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground the finest house that

ever was seen. It had fine big chimneys, and gable windows, and broad piazzas; and just as the Little Mill ground the last step of the last flight of steps, the Poor Brother said the magic word, and it stopped.

Then he took it round to where the barn was, and said, "Grind cattle, Little Mill, and grind quickly.'' And the Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground, and out came great fat cows, and little woolly lambs, and fine little pigs; and just as the Little Mill ground the last curl on the tail of the last little pig, the Poor Brother said the magic word, and it stopped.

He did the same thing with crops for his cattle, pretty clothes for his daughters, and everything else they wanted. At last he had everything he wanted, and so he stood the Little Mill behind his door.

All this time the Rich Brother had been getting more and more jealous, and at last he came to ask the Poor Brother how he had grown so rich. The Poor Brother told him all about it. He said, "It all comes from that Little Mill behind my door. All I have to do when I want anything is to name it to the Little Mill, and say, `Grind that, Little Mill, and grind quickly,' and the Little Mill will grind that thing until—''

But the Rich Brother didn't wait to hear any

more. "Will you lend me the Little Mill?'' he said.

"Why, yes,'' said the Poor Brother, "I will.''

So the Rich Brother took the Little Mill under his arm and started across the fields to his house. When he got near home he saw the farm-hands coming in from the fields for their luncheon. Now, you remember, he was rather mean. He thought to himself, "It is a waste of good time for them to come into the house; they shall have their porridge where they are.'' He called all the men to him, and made them bring their porridge-bowls. Then he set the Little Mill down on the ground, and said to it, "Grind oatmeal porridge, Little Mill, and grind quickly!'' The Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground, and out came delicious oatmeal porridge. Each man held his bowl under the spout. When the last bowl was filled, the porridge ran over on the ground.

"That's enough, Little Mill,'' said the Rich Brother. "You may stop, and stop quickly.''

But this was not the magic word, and the Little Mill did not stop. It ground, and ground, and ground, and the porridge ran all round and made a little pool. The Rich Brother said, "No, no, Little Mill, I said, `Stop grinding, and stop quickly.' '' But the Little Mill ground, and ground, faster than ever; and presently there was a regular pond of porridge, almost up to

their knees. The Rich Brother said, "Stop grinding,'' in every kind of way; he called the Little Mill names; but nothing did any good. The Little Mill ground porridge just the same. At last the men said, "Go and get your brother to stop the Little Mill, or we shall be drowned in porridge.''

So the Rich Brother started for his brother's house. He had to swim before he got there, and the porridge went up his sleeves, and down his neck, and it was horrid and sticky. His brother laughed when he heard the story, but he came with him, and they took a boat and rowed across the lake of porridge to where the Little Mill was grinding. And then the Poor Brother whispered the magic word, and the Little Mill stopped.

But the porridge was a long time soaking into the ground, and nothing would ever grow there afterwards except oatmeal.

The Rich Brother didn't seem to care much about the Little Mill after this, so the Poor Brother took it home again and put it behind the door; and there it stayed a long, long while.

Years afterwards a Sea Captain came there on a visit. He told such big stories that the Poor Brother said, "Oh, I daresay you have seen wonderful things, but I don't believe you ever saw anything more wonderful than the Little Mill that stands behind my door.''

"What is wonderful about that?'' said the Sea Captain.

"Why,'' said the Poor Brother, "anything in the world you want,—you have only to name it to the Little Mill and say, `Grind that, Little Mill, and grind quickly,' and it will grind that thing until—''

The Sea Captain didn't wait to hear another word. "Will you lend me that Little Mill?'' he said eagerly.

The Poor Brother smiled a little, but he said, "Yes,'' and the Sea Captain took the Little Mill under his arm, and went on board his ship and sailed away.

They had head-winds and storms, and they were so long at sea that some of the food gave out. Worst of all, the salt gave out. It was dreadful, being without salt. But the Captain happened to remember the Little Mill.

"Bring up the salt box!'' he said to the cook. "We will have salt enough.''

He set the Little Mill on deck, put the salt box under the spout, and said,—

"Grind salt, Little Mill, and grind quickly!''

And the Little Mill ground beautiful, white, powdery salt. When they had enough, the Captain said, "Now you may stop, Little Mill, and stop quickly.'' The Little Mill kept on grinding; and the salt began to pile up in little heaps on the deck. "I said, `Stop,' '' said the

Captain. But the Little Mill ground, and ground, faster than ever, and the salt was soon thick on the deck like snow. The Captain called the Little Mill names and told it to stop, in every language he knew, but the Little Mill went on grinding. The salt covered all the decks and poured down into the hold, and at last the ship began to settle in the water; salt is very heavy. But just before the ship sank to the water-line, the Captain had a bright thought: he threw the Little Mill overboard!

It fell right down to the bottom of the sea. And it has been grinding salt ever since.

BILLY BEG AND HIS BULL[1]

Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen, and they had one son, whose name was Billy. And Billy had a bull he was very fond of, and the bull was just as fond of him. And when the queen came to die, she put it as her last request to the king, that come what might, come what may, he'd not part Billy and the bull. And the king promised that, come what might,

come what may, he would not. Then the good queen died, and was buried.

After a time, the king married again, and the new queen could not abide Billy; no more could she stand the bull, seeing him and Billy so thick. So she asked the king to have the bull killed. But the king said he had promised, come what might, come what may, he'd not part Billy Beg and his bull, so he could not.

Then the queen sent for the Hen-Wife, and asked what she should do. "What will you give me,'' said the Hen-Wife, "and I'll very soon part them?''

"Anything at all,'' said the queen.

"Then do you take to your bed, very sick with a complaint,'' said the Hen-Wife, "and I'll do the rest.''

So the queen took to her bed, very sick with a complaint, and the king came to see what could be done for her. "I shall never be better of this,'' she said, "till I have the medicine the Hen-Wife ordered.''

"What is that?'' said the king.

"A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull.''

"I can't give you that,'' said the king, and went away, sorrowful.

Then the queen got sicker and sicker, and each time the king asked what would cure her she said, "A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull.'' And at last it looked as if she were going

to die. So the king finally set a day for the bull to be killed. At that the queen was so happy that she laid plans to get up and see the grand sight. All the people were to be at the killing, and it was to be a great affair.

When Billy Beg heard all this, he was very sorrowful, and the bull noticed his looks. "What are you doitherin' about?'' said the bull to him. So Billy told him. "Don't fret yourself about me,'' said the bull, "it's not I that'll be killed!''

The day came, when Billy Beg's bull was to be killed; all the people were there, and the queen, and Billy. And the bull was led out, to be seen. When he was led past Billy he bent his head. "Jump on my back, Billy, my boy,'' says he, "till I see what kind of a horseman you are!'' Billy jumped on his back, and with that the bull leaped nine miles high and nine miles broad and came down with Billy sticking between his horns. Then away he rushed, over the head of the queen, killing her dead, where you wouldn't know day by night or night by day, over high hills, low hills, sheep walks and bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox with his bugle horn.

When at last he stopped he said, "Now, Billy, my boy, you and I must undergo great scenery; there's a mighty great bull of the forest I must fight, here, and he'll be hard to fight, but I'll be able for him. But first we must have

dinner. Put your hand in my left ear and pull out the napkin you'll find there, and when you've spread it, it will be covered with eating and drinking fit for a king.''

So Billy put his hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out the napkin, and spread it; and, sure enough, it was spread with all kinds of eating and drinking, fit for a king. And Billy Beg ate well.

But just as he finished he heard a great roar, and out of the forest came a mighty bull, snorting and running.

And the two bulls at it and fought. They knocked the hard ground into soft, the soft into hard, the rocks into spring wells, and the spring wells into rocks. It was a terrible fight. But in the end, Billy Beg's bull was too much for the other bull, and he killed him, and drank his blood.

Then Billy jumped on the bull's back, and the bull off and away, where you wouldn't know day from night or night from day, over high hills, low hills, sheep walks and bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox with his bugle horn. And when he stopped he told Billy to put his hand in his left ear and pull out the napkin, because he'd to fight another great bull of the forest. So Billy pulled out the napkin and spread it, and it was covered with all kinds of eating and drinking, fit for a king.

And, sure enough, just as Billy finished eating, there was a frightful roar, and a mighty great bull, greater than the first, rushed out of the forest. And the two bulls at it and fought. It was a terrible fight! They knocked the hard ground into soft, the soft into hard, the rocks into spring wells, and the spring wells into rocks. But in the end, Billy Beg's bull killed the other bull, and drank his blood.

Then he off and away, with Billy.

But when he came down, he told Billy Beg that he was to fight another bull, the brother of the other two, and that this time the other bull would be too much for him, and would kill him and drink his blood.

"When I am dead, Billy, my boy,'' he said, "put your hand in my left ear and draw out the napkin, and you'll never want for eating or drinking; and put your hand in my right ear, and you'll find a stick there, that will turn into a sword if you wave it three times round your head, and give you the strength of a thousand men beside your own. Keep that; then cut a strip of my hide, for a belt, for when you buckle it on, there's nothing can kill you.''

Billy Beg was very sad to hear that his friend must die. And very soon he heard a more dreadful roar than ever he heard, and a tremendous bull rushed out of the forest. Then came the worst fight of all. In the end, the other

bull was too much for Billy Beg's bull, and he killed him and drank his blood.

Billy Beg sat down and cried for three days and three nights. After that he was hungry; so he put his hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out the napkin, and ate all kinds of eating and drinking. Then he put his hand in the right ear and pulled out the stick which was to turn into a sword if waved round his head three times, and to give him the strength of a thousand men beside his own. And he cut a strip of the hide for a belt, and started off on his adventures.

Presently he came to a fine place; an old gentleman lived there. So Billy went up and knocked, and the old gentleman came to the door.

"Are you wanting a boy?'' says Billy.

"I am wanting a herd-boy,'' says the gentleman, "to take my six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture every morning, and bring them back at night. Maybe you'd do.''

"What are the wages?'' says Billy.

"Oh, well,'' says the gentleman, "it's no use to talk of that now; there's three giants live in the wood by the pasture, and every day they drink up all the milk and kill the boy that looks after the cattle; so we'll wait to talk about wages till we see if you come back alive.''

"All right,'' says Billy, and he entered service with the old gentleman.

The first day, he drove the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture, and sat down by them. About noon he heard a kind of roaring from the wood; and out rushed a giant with two heads, spitting fire out of his two mouths.

"Oh! my fine fellow,'' says he to Billy, "you are too big for one swallow and not big enough for two; how would you like to die, then? By a cut with the sword, a blow with the fist or a swing by the back?''

"That is as may be,'' says Billy, "but I'll fight you.'' And he buckled on his hide belt and swung his stick three times round his head, to give him the strength of a thousand men besides his own, and went for the giant. And at the first grapple Billy Beg lifted the giant up and sunk him in the ground, to his armpits.

"Oh, mercy! mercy! Spare my life!'' cried the giant.

"I think not,'' said Billy; and he cut off his heads.

That night, when the cows and the goats were driven home, they gave so much milk that all the dishes in the house were filled and the milk ran over and made a little brook in the yard.

"This is very queer,'' said the old gentleman; "they never gave any milk before. Did you see nothing in the pasture?''

"Nothing worse than myself,'' said Billy. And next morning he drove the sis cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture again.

Just before noon he heard a terrific roar; and out of the wood came a giant with six heads.

"You killed my brother,'' he roared, fire coming out of his six mouths, "and I'll very soon have your blood! Will you die by a cut of the sword, or a swing by the back?''

"I'll fight you,'' said Billy. And buckling on his belt and swinging his stick three times round his head, he ran in and grappled the giant. At the first hold, he sunk the giant up to the shoulders in the ground.

"Mercy, mercy, kind gentleman!'' cried the giant. "Spare my life!''

"I think not,'' said Billy, and cut off his heads.

That night the cattle gave so much milk that it ran out of the house and made a stream, and turned a mill wheel which had not been turned for seven years!

"It's certainly very queer,'' said the old gentleman; "did you see nothing in the pasture, Billy?''

"Nothing worse than myself,'' said Billy.

And the next morning the gentleman said, "Billy, do you know, I only heard one of the giants roaring in the night, and the night before only two. What can ail them, at all?''

"Oh, maybe they are sick or something,'' says Billy; and with that he drove the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture.

At about ten o'clock there was a roar like a dozen bulls, and the brother of the two giants came out of the wood, with twelve heads on him, and fire spouting from every one of them.

"I'll have you, my fine boy,'' cries he; "how will you die, then?''

"We'll see,'' says Billy; "come on!''

And swinging his stick round his head, he made for the giant, and drove him up to his twelve necks in the ground. All twelve of the heads began begging for mercy, but Billy soon out them short. Then he drove the beasts home.

And that night the milk overflowed the mill-stream and made a lake, nine miles long, nine miles broad, and nine miles deep; and there are salmon and whitefish there to this day.

"You are a fine boy,'' said the gentleman, "and I'll give you wages.''

So Billy was herd.

The next day, his master told him to look after the house while he went up to the king's town, to see a great sight. "What will it be?'' said Billy. "The king's daughter is to be eaten by a fiery dragon,'' said his master, "unless the champion fighter they've been feed-

ing for six weeks on purpose kills the dragon.'' "Oh,'' said Billy.

After he was left alone, there were people passing on horses and afoot, in coaches and chaises, in carriages and in wheelbarrows, all going to see the great sight. And all asked Billy why he was not on his way. But Billy said he didn't care about going.

When the last passer-by was out of sight, Billy ran and dressed himself in his master's best suit of clothes, took the brown mare from the stable, and was off to the king's town.

When he came there, he saw a big round place with great high seats built up around it, and all the people sitting there. Down in the midst was the champion, walking up and down proudly, with two men behind him to carry his heavy sword. And up in the centre of the seats was the princess, with her maidens; she was looking very pretty, but nervous.

The fight was about to begin when Billy got there, and the herald was crying out how the champion would fight the dragon for the princess's sake, when suddenly there was heard a fearsome great roaring, and the people shouted, "Here he is now, the dragon!''

The dragon had more heads than the biggest of the giants, and fire and smoke came from every one of them. And when the champion saw the creature, he never waited even to take

his sword,—he turned and ran; and he never stopped till he came to a deep well, where he jumped in and hid himself, up to the neck.

When the princess saw that her champion was gone, she began wringing her hands, and crying, "Oh, please, kind gentlemen, fight the dragon, some of you, and keep me from being eaten! Will no one fight the dragon for me?'' But no one stepped up, at all. And the dragon made to eat the princess.

Just then, out stepped Billy from the crowd, with his fine suit of clothes and his hide belt on him. "I'll fight the beast,'' he says, and swinging his stick three times round his head, to give him the strength of a thousand men besides his own, he walked up to the dragon, with easy gait. The princess and all the people were looking, you may be sure, and the dragon raged at Billy with all his mouths, and they at it and fought. It was a terrible fight, but in the end Billy Beg had the dragon down, and he cut off his heads with the sword.

There was great shouting, then, and crying that the strange champion must come to the king to be made prince, and to the princess, to be seen. But in the midst of the hullabaloo Billy Begs slips on the brown mare and is off and away before anyone has seen his face. But, quick as he was, he was not so quick but that the princess caught hold of him as he jumped

on his horse, and he got away with one shoe left in her hand. And home he rode, to his master's house, and had his old clothes on and the mare in the stable before his master came back.

When his master came back, he had a great tale for Billy, how the princess's champion had run from the dragon, and a strange knight had come out of the clouds and killed the dragon, and before anyone could stop him had disappeared in the sky. "Wasn't it wonderful?'' said the old gentleman to Billy. "I should say so,'' said Billy to him.

Soon there was proclamation made that the man who killed the dragon was to be found, and to be made son of the king and husband of the princess; for that, everyone should come up to the king's town and try on the shoe which the princess had pulled from off the foot of the strange champion, that he whom it fitted should be known to be the man. On the day set, there was passing of coaches and chaises, of carriages and wheelbarrows, people on horseback and afoot, and Billy's master was the first to go.

While Billy was watching, at last came along a raggedy man.

"Will you change clothes with me, and I'll give you boot?'' said Billy to him.

"Shame to you to mock a poor raggedy man!'' said the raggedy man to Billy.

"It's no mock,'' said Billy, and he changed clothes with the raggedy man, and gave him boot.

When Billy came to the king's town, in his dreadful old clothes, no one knew him for the champion at all, and none would let him come forward to try the shoe. But after all had tried, Billy spoke up that he wanted to try. They laughed at him, and pushed him back, with his rags. But the princess would have it that he should try. "I like his face,'' said she; "let him try, now.''

So up stepped Billy, and put on the shoe, and it fitted him like his own skin.

Then Billy confessed that it was he that killed the dragon. And that he was a king's son. And they put a velvet suit on him, and hung a gold chain round his neck, and everyone said a finer-looking boy they'd never seen.

So Billy married the princess, and was the prince of that place.

THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM[1]

A long way off, across the ocean, there is a little country where the ground is lower than the level of the sea, instead of higher, as it is here. Of course the water would run in and cover the land and houses, if something were

not done to keep it out. But something is done. The people build great, thick walls all round the country, and the walls keep the sea out. You see how much depends on those walls,— the good crops, the houses, and even the safety of the people. Even the small children in that country know that an accident to one of the walls is a terrible thing. These walls are really great banks, as wide as roads, and they are called "dikes.''

Once there was a little boy who lived in that country, whose name was Hans. One day, he took his little brother out to play. They went a long way out of the town, and came to where there were no houses, but ever so many flowers and green fields. By-and-by, Hans climbed up on the dike, and sat down; the little brother was playing about at the foot of the bank.

Suddenly the little brother called out, "Oh, what a funny little hole! It bubbles!''

"Hole? Where?'' said Hans.

"Here in the bank,'' said the little brother; "water's in it.''

"What!'' said Hans, and he slid down as fast as he could to where his brother was playing.

There was the tiniest little hole in the bank. Just an air-hole. A drop of water bubbled slowly through.

"It is a hole in the dike!'' cried Hans. "What shall we do?''

He looked all round; not a person or a house in sight. He looked at the hole; the little drops oozed steadily through; he knew that the water would soon break a great gap, because that tiny hole gave it a chance. The town was so far away—if they ran for help it would be too late; what should he do? Once more he looked; the hole was larger, now, and the water was trickling.

Suddenly a thought came to Hans. He stuck his little forefinger right into the hole, where it fitted tight; and he said to his little brother, "Run, Dieting! Go to the town and tell the men there's a hole in the dike. Tell them I will keep it stopped till they get here.''

The little brother knew by Hans' face that something very serious was the matter, and he started for the town, as fast as his legs could run. Hans, kneeling with his finger in the hole, watched him grow smaller and smaller as he got farther away.

Soon he was as small as a chicken; then he was only a speck; then he was out of sight. Hans was alone, his finger tight in the bank.

He could hear the water, slap, slap, slap, on the stones; and deep down under the slapping was a gurgling, rumbling sound. It seemed very near.

By-and-by, his hand began to feel numb. He rubbed it with the other hand; but it got colder

and more numb, colder and more numb, every minute. He looked to see if the men were coming; the road was bare as far as he could see. Then the cold began creeping, creeping, up his arm; first his wrist, then his arm to the elbow, then his arm to the shoulder; how cold it was! And soon it began to ache. Ugly little cramp-pains streamed up his finger, up his palm, up his arm, till they reached into his shoulder, and down the back of his neck. It seemed hours since the little brother went away. He felt very lonely, and the hurt in his arm grew and grew. He watched the road with all his eyes, but no one came in sight. Then he leaned his head against the dike, to rest his shoulder.

As his ear touched the dike, he heard the voice of the great sea, murmuring. The sound seemed to say,—

"I am the great sea. No one can stand against me. What are you, a little child, that you try to keep me out? Beware! Beware!''

Hans' heart beat in heavy knocks. Would they never come? He was frightened.

And the water went on beating at the wall, and murmuring, "I will come through, I will come through, I will get you, I will get you, run—run—before I come through!''

Hans started to pull out his finger; he was so frightened that he felt as if he must run for ever.

But that minute he remembered how much depended on him; if he pulled out his finger, the water would surely make the hole bigger, and at last break down the dike, and the sea would come in on all the land and houses. He set his teeth, and stuck his finger tighter than ever.

"You shall not come through!'' he whispered, "I will not run!''

At that moment, he heard a far-off shout. Far in the distance he saw a black something on the road, and dust. The men were coming! At last, they were coming. They came nearer, fast, and he could make out his own father, and the neighbours. They had pickaxes and shovels, and they were running. And as they ran they shouted, "We're coming; take heart, we're coming!''

The next minute, it seemed, they were there. And when they saw Hans, with his pale face, and his hand tight in the dike, they gave a great cheer,—just as people do for soldiers back from war; and they lifted him up and rubbed his aching arm with tender hands, and they told him that he was a real hero and that he had saved the town.

When the men had mended the dike, they marched home like an army, and Hans was carried high on their shoulders, because he was a hero. And to this day the people of Haarlem tell the story of how a little boy saved the dike.

THE LAST LESSON[1]

Little Franz didn't want to go to school, that morning. He would much rather have played truant. The air was so warm and still,—you could hear the blackbird singing at the edge of the wood, and the sound of the Prussians drilling, down in the meadow behind the old sawmill. He would so much rather have played truant! Besides, this was the day for the lesson in the rule of participles; and the rule of participles in French is very, very long, and very hard, and it has more exceptions than rule. Little Franz did not know it at all. He did not want to go to school.

But, somehow, he went. His legs carried him reluctantly into the village and along the street. As he passed the official bulletin-board before the town hall, he noticed a little crowd round it, looking at it. That was the place where the news of lost battles, the requisition for more troops, the demands for new taxes were posted. Small as he was, little Franz had seen enough to make him think, "What now, I wonder?'' But he could not stop to see; he was afraid of being late.

When he came to the school-yard his heart beat very fast; he was afraid he was late, after all, for the windows were all open, and yet he

heard no noise,—the schoolroom was perfectly quiet. He had been counting on the noise and confusion before school,—the slamming of desk covers, the banging of books, the tapping of the master's cane and his "A little less noise, please,'' —to let him slip quietly into his seat unnoticed. But no; he had to open the door and walk up the long aisle, in the midst of a silent room, with the master looking straight at him. Oh, how hot his cheeks felt, and how hard his heart beat! But to his great surprise the master didn't scold at all. All he said was, "Come quickly to your place, my little Franz; we were just going to begin without you!''

Little Franz could hardly believe his ears; that wasn't at all the way the master was accustomed to speak. It was very strange! Somehow— everything was very strange. The room looked queer. Everybody was sitting so still, so straight—as if it were an exhibition day, or something very particular. And the master— he looked strange, too; why, he had on his fine lace jabot and his best coat, that he wore only on holidays, and his gold snuff-box in his hand. Certainly it was very odd. Little Franz looked all round, wondering. And there in the back of the room was the oddest thing of all. There, on a bench, sat visitors. Visitors! He could not make it out; people never came except on great occasions,—examination days and such. And it

was not a holiday. Yet there were the agent, the old blacksmith, the farmer, sitting quiet and still. It was very, very strange.

Just then the master stood up and opened school. He said, "My children, this is the last time I shall ever teach you. The order has come from Berlin that henceforth nothing but German shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. This is your last lesson in French. I beg you, be very attentive.''

His last lesson in French! Little Franz could not believe his ears; his last lesson—ah, that was what was on the bulletin-board! It flashed across him in an instant. That was it! His last lesson in French—and he scarcely knew how to read and write—why, then, he should never know how! He looked down at his books, all battered and torn at the corners; and suddenly his books seemed quite different to him, they seemed—somehow—like friends. He looked at the master, and he seemed different, too,—like a very good friend. Little Franz began to feel strange himself. Just as he was thinking about it, he heard his name called, and he stood up to recite.

It was the rule of participles.

Oh, what wouldn't he have given to be able to say it of from beginning to end, exceptions and all, without a blunder! But he could only stand and hang his head; he did not know a

word of it. Then through the hot pounding in his ears he heard the master's voice; it was quite gentle; not at all the scolding voice he expected. And it said, "I'm not going to punish you, little Franz. Perhaps you are punished enough. And you are not alone in your fault. We all do the same thing,—we all put off our tasks till to-morrow. And—sometimes—to-morrow never comes. That is what it has been with us. We Alsatians have been always putting off our education till the morrow; and now they have a right, those people down there, to say to us, `What! You call yourselves French, and cannot even read and write the French language? Learn German, then!' ''

And then the master spoke to them of the French language. He told them how beautiful it was, how clear and musical and reasonable, and he said that no people could be hopelessly conquered so long as it kept its language, for the language was the key to its prison-house. And then he said he was going to tell them a little about that beautiful language, and he explained the rule of participles.

And do you know, it was just as simple as A B C! Little Franz understood every word. It was just the same with the rest of the grammar lesson. I don't know whether little Franz listened harder, or whether the master explained better; but it was all quite clear, and simple.

But as they went on with it, and little Franz listened and looked, it seemed to him that the master was trying to put the whole French language into their heads in that one hour. It seemed as if he wanted to teach them all he knew, before he went,—to give them all he had, —in this last lesson.

From the grammar he went on to the writing lesson. And for this, quite new copies had been prepared. They were written on clean, new slips of paper, and they were:—

All up and down the aisles they hung out from the desks like little banners, waving—

And everybody worked with all his might,— not a sound could you hear but the scratching of pens on the "France: Alsace.''

Even the little ones bent over their up and down strokes with their tongues stuck out to help them work.

After the writing came the reading lesson, and the little ones sang their ba, be, bi, bo, bu.

Right in the midst of it, Franz heard a curious sound, a big deep voice mingling with the children's voices. He turned round, and there, on the bench in the back of the room, the old

blacksmith sat with a big A B C book open on his knees. It was his voice Franz had heard. He was saying the sounds with the little children,—ba, be, bi, bo, bu. His voice sounded so odd, with the little voices,—so very odd,—it made little Franz feel queer. It seemed so funny that he thought he would laugh; then he thought he wouldn't laugh, he felt—he felt very queer.

So it went on with the lessons; they had them all. And then, suddenly, the town clock struck noon. And at the same time they heard the tramp of the Prussians' feet, coming back from drill.

It was time to close school.

The master stood up. He was very pale. Little Franz had never seen him look so tall. He said: "My children—my children''—but something choked him; he could not go on. Instead he turned and went to the blackboard and took up a piece of chalk. And then he wrote, high up, in big white letters, "Vive la France!''

And he made a little sign to them with his head, "That is all; go away.''

THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS

There was once a nation which was very powerful, very fortunate, and very proud. Its

lands were fruitful; its armies were victorious in battle; and it had strong kings, wise lawgivers, and great poets. But after a great many years, everything changed. The nation had no more strong kings, no more wise lawgivers; its armies were beaten in battle, and neighbouring tribes conquered the country and took the fruitful lands; there were no more poets except a few who made songs of lamentation. The people had become a captive and humiliated people; and the bitterest part of all its sadness was the memory of past greatness.

But in all the years of failure and humiliation, there was one thing which kept this people from despair; one hope lived in their hearts and kept them from utter misery. It was a hope which came from something one of the great poets of the past had said, in prophecy. This prophecy was whispered in the homes of the poor, taught in the churches, repeated from father to son among the rich; it was like a deep, hidden well of comfort in a desert of suffering. The prophecy said that some time a deliverer should be born for the nation, a new king even stronger than the old ones, mighty enough to conquer its enemies, set it free, and bring back the splendid days of old. This was the hope and expectation all the people looked for; they waited through the years for the prophecy to come true.

In this nation, in a little country town, lived

a man and a woman whose names were Joseph and Mary. And it happened, one year, that they had to take a little journey up to the town which was the nearest tax-centre, to have their names put on the census list; because that was the custom in that country.

But when they got to the town, so many others were there for the same thing, and it was such a small town, that every place was crowded. There was no room for them at the inn. Finally the innkeeper said they might sleep in the stable on the straw. So they went there for the night.

And while they were there, in the stable, their first child was born to them, a little son. And because there was no cradle to put Him in, the mother made a little warm nest of the hay in the big wooden manger where the oxen had eaten, and wrapped the baby in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in the manger, for a bed!

That same night, on the hills outside the town, there were shepherds, keeping their flocks through the darkness. They were tired with watching over the sheep, and they stood or sat about, drowsily, talking and watching the stars. And as they watched, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared unto them! And the glory of the Lord shone round about them! And they were sore afraid. But the angel said

unto them, "Fear not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born, this day, in the city of David, a saviour,—which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.''

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.''

When the angels were gone up from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.'' And they came, with haste, and they found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they saw Him in the manger, they knew that the wonderful thing the angel said had really happened, and that the great deliverer was born at last.