In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his hammer or his needle.
Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was—so rich that he could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had, and if it were quite safe.
Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that wakened him this time—it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.
The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man, and told him of a plan.
Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the cobbler’s door.
“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”
But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give, not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a present of a hundred crowns.”
“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do you give me this money?”
“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”
“And you’ll never ask it back?”
“Never.”
“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”
“No, no. Why should I?”
“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”
When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.
Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never done in his life.
Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.
Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.
On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room. When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag, and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”
Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are not so happy.
—From the French of Jean de la Fontaine.
By special permission.
All day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed, for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had given it to him. Then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and look across at another hill that rose some miles away. On this far hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds. They shone and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them; but after a while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then it looked like any common farm-house. The boy supposed they did this because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and have his supper of bread and milk and so to bed.
One day the boy’s father called him and said: “You have been a good boy, and have earned a holiday. Take this day for your own; but remember that God gave it, and try to learn some good thing.”
The boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece of bread in his pocket, and set out to find the house with the golden windows.
It was pleasant walking. His bare feet made marks in the white dust, and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and making company for him. His shadow, too, kept beside him, and would dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful. By and by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear water. Then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had taught him to do, and went on his way.
After a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows. He came up to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.
A woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him what he wanted.
“I saw the golden windows from our hilltop,” he said, “and I came to see them, but now they are only glass.”
The woman shook her head and laughed.
“We are poor farming people,” she said, “and are not likely to have gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through.”
She told the boy to sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the two, and went back to her work.
The little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her eyes were blue like the sky at noon. She led the boy about the farm, and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with four white feet. Then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows. The little girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the house.
“You have come quite the wrong way!” she said. “Come with me, and I shall show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see for yourself.”
They went to a knoll that rose behind the farm-house, and as they went the little girl told him that the golden windows could be seen only at a certain hour, about sunset.
“Yes, I know that!” said the boy.
When they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed; and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamond, just as he had seen them. And when they looked again, the boy saw that it was his own home.
Then he told the little girl that he must go. He promised to come again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and watched him.
The way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his father’s house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.
“Have you had a good day?” asked his mother.
Yes, the boy had had a very good day.
“And have you learned anything?” asked his father.
“Yes,” said the boy. “I have learned that our house has windows of gold and diamond.”
—Laura E. Richards.
From “The Golden Windows,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company.
By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston.
There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that he would gladly have given his life for him.
This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town, not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.
He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe, far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.
All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests, became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long time.
But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.
At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost treasure.
His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness for the now desolate man. But he would have nothing to do with any of them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any interest in life.
One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark. This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.
When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold, hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.
Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.
That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a deep, fatherly tenderness.
He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl; and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.
Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly replaced by the golden-haired child.
—Grace H. Kupfer.
From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the American Book Company.
By permission of the publishers.
In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy. The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the large and beautiful garden flowers.
The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom. She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted her face towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened to the lark singing high in the air.
One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday, and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem, was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!” said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!” But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.
The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I can live near them.”
Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her: “Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up into the blue air above.
The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a prisoner in a cage that hung by the open window. He sang of the happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.
Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and placed it in the lark’s cage.
“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.
“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”
“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill the air with perfume.
The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him, and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.
The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.
—Hans Christian Andersen.
On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire, in the United States, there once lived a boy whose name was Daniel Webster. He was a tiny fellow for one of his age. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were so dark and wonderful that nobody who once saw them could ever forget them. He was not strong enough to help much on the farm; and so he spent much of his time in playing in the woods and fields. He loved the trees and flowers and the harmless wild creatures that made their homes among them.
But he did not play all the time. Long before he was old enough to go to school, he learned to read; and he read so well that everybody liked to hear him. The neighbors, when driving past his father’s house, would stop their horses and call for the boy to come out and read to them.
It happened one summer that a woodchuck made its burrow in the side of a hill near Mr. Webster’s house. On warm, dark nights it would come down into the garden and eat the tender leaves of the cabbages and other plants that were growing there. Nobody knew how much harm it might do in the end. Daniel and his elder brother Ezekiel made up their minds to catch the little thief. They tried this thing and that, but for a long time he was too cunning for them. Then they built a strong trap where the woodchuck would be sure to walk into it; and the next morning, there he was.
“We have him at last!” cried Ezekiel. “Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you’ve done mischief enough, and I’m going to kill you.” But Daniel pitied the little animal. “No, don’t hurt him,” he said. “Let us carry him over the hills, far into the woods, and let him go.” Ezekiel, however, would not agree to this. His heart was not so tender as his little brother’s. He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed at the thought of letting it go.
“Let us ask father about it,” said Daniel.
“All right,” said Ezekiel; “I know what he will decide.”
They carried the trap, with the woodchuck in it, to their father, and asked what they should do.
“Well, boys,” said Mr. Webster, “we shall settle the question in this way. We shall hold a court here. I shall be the judge, and you shall be the lawyers. You shall each plead your case, for or against the prisoner, and I shall decide what his punishment shall be.”
Ezekiel, as the prosecutor, made the first speech. He told about the mischief that had been done. He showed that all woodchucks are bad and cannot be trusted. He spoke of the time and labor that had been spent in trying to catch the thief, and declared that if they should now set him free he would be a worse thief than before.
“A woodchuck’s skin,” he said, “may perhaps be sold for ten cents. Small as that sum is, it will go a little way towards paying for the cabbages he has eaten. But, if we set him free, how shall we ever recover even a penny of what we have lost? Clearly, he is of more value dead than alive, and therefore he ought to be put out of the way at once.”
Ezekiel’s speech was a good one, and it pleased Mr. Webster very much. What he said was true and to the point, and it would be hard for Daniel to make any answer to it.
Daniel began by pleading for the poor animal’s life. He looked up into his father’s face, and said:—
“God made the woodchuck. He made him to live in the bright sunlight and the pure air. He made him to enjoy the free fields and the green woods. The woodchuck has a right to his life, for God gave it to him.
“God gives us our food. He gives us all that we have. And shall we refuse to share a little of it with this poor dumb creature who has as much right to God’s gifts as we have?
“The woodchuck is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. He lives in quiet and peace. A hole in the side of a hill, and a little food, is all he wants. He has harmed nothing but a few plants, which he ate to keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food, to liberty; and we have no right to say he shall not have them.
“Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble with fear. He cannot speak for himself, and this is the only way in which he can plead for the life that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so cruel as to kill him? Shall we be so selfish as to take from him the life that God gave him?”
The father’s eyes were filled with tears as he listened. His heart was stirred. He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech, but sprang to his feet, and as he wiped the tears from his eyes, he cried out, “Ezekiel, let the woodchuck go!”
—Selected.
I was very late that morning on my way to school, and was afraid of being scolded, as the master had told us he should question us on the verbs, and I did not know the first word, for I had not studied my lesson. For a moment I thought of playing truant. The air was so warm and bright, and I could hear the blackbirds whistling in the edge of the woods, and the Prussians who were drilling in the meadow behind the sawmill. I liked this much better than learning the rules for verbs, but I did not dare to stop, so I ran quickly towards school.
As I passed the mayor’s office, I saw people standing before the little bulletin-board. For two years it was there that we received all the news of battles, of victories, and defeats. “What is it now?” I thought, without stopping to look at the bulletin. Then, as I ran along, the blacksmith, who was there reading the bill, cried out to me, “Not so fast, little one, you shall reach your school soon enough.” I thought he was laughing at me and ran faster than ever, reaching the school yard quite out of breath.
Usually, at the beginning of school, a loud noise could be heard from the street. Desks were being opened and closed, and lessons repeated at the top of the voice. Occasionally the heavy ruler of the master beat the table, as he cried, “Silence, please, silence!” I hoped to be able to take my seat in all this noise without being seen; but that morning the room was quiet and orderly. Through the open window I saw my schoolmates already in their places. The master was walking up and down the room with the iron ruler under his arm and a book in his hand. As I entered he looked at me kindly, and said, without scolding, “Go quickly to your place, little Franz; we were just going to begin without you. You should have been here five minutes ago.”
I climbed over my bench and sat down at once at my desk. Just then I noticed, for the first time, that our master wore his fine green coat with the ruffled frills, and his black silk embroidered cap. But what surprised me more was to see some of the village people seated on the benches at the end of the room. One of them was holding an old spelling-book on his knee; and they all looked sadly at the master.
While I was wondering at this, our schoolmaster took his place, and in the same kind tone in which he had received me, he said: “My children, this is the last time that I shall give you a lesson. An order has come from Berlin that no language but German may be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. A new master will come to-morrow who shall teach you in German. To-day is your last lesson in French. I beg of you to pay good attention.”
These words frightened me. This is what they had posted on the bulletin-board, then! This is what the blacksmith was reading. My last lesson in French! I hardly knew how to write, and I never should learn now. How I longed for lost time, for hours wasted in the woods and fields, for days when I had played and should have studied. My books that a short time ago had seemed so tiresome, so heavy to carry, now seemed to me like old friends. I was thinking of this when I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say the rules without a mistake? But I could not say a word and stood at my bench without daring to lift my head. Then I heard the master speaking to me.
“I shall not scold you, little Franz. You are punished enough now. Every day you have said to yourself: ‘I have plenty of time. I shall learn my lesson to-morrow.’ Now you see what has happened.”
Then he began to talk to us about the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful tongue in the world, and that we must keep it among us and never forget it. Finally he took the grammar and read us the lesson. I was surprised to see how I understood. Everything seemed easy. I believe, too, that I never listened so well; and it seemed almost as if the good man were trying to teach us all he knew in this last lesson.