One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad of twelve years, he was sent out to do an errand which he disliked very much. As he walked slowly along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts; and he murmured because others no better than himself were living in ease and pleasure, while for him there was little but labor and pain. Thinking upon these things, he came after a while to a place where two roads met; and he stopped, not certain which one to take.

The road on his right was hilly and rough, and there was no beauty in it or about it; but he saw that it led straight towards the blue mountains in the far distance. The road on his left was broad and smooth, with shade trees on either side, where sang thousands of beautiful birds; and it went winding in and out, through groves and green meadows, where bloomed countless flowers; but it ended in fog and mist long before reaching the wonderful mountains of blue.

While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he should go, he saw two women coming towards him, each by a different road. The one who came down the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw that she was beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, her voice was like the music of morning.

“O noble youth,” she said, “this is the road which you should choose. It will lead you into pleasant ways where there is neither toil, nor hard study, nor drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with things beautiful and gay; and you need do nothing but play and enjoy the hours as they pass.”

By this time the other fair woman had drawn near, and she now spoke to the lad.

“If you take my road,” said she, “you will find that it is rocky and rough, and that it climbs many a hill and descends into many a valley and quagmire. The views which you will sometimes get from the hilltops are grand and glorious, while the deep valleys are dark and the uphill ways are toilsome; but the road leads to the blue mountains of endless fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, far away. They cannot be reached without labor; there is nothing worth having but must be won through toil. If you would have fruits and flowers, you must plant and care for them; if you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you must love them and suffer for them; if you would be a man, you must make yourself strong by the doing of manly deeds.”

Then the boy saw that this woman, although her face seemed at first very plain, was as beautiful as the dawn, or as the flowery fields after a summer rain.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Some call me Labor,” she answered; “but others know me as Truth.”

“And what is your name?” he asked, turning to the first lady.

“Some call me Pleasure,” said she, with a smile; “but I choose to be known as the Joyous One.”

“And what can you promise me at the end if I go with you?”

“I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I give at the beginning.”

“Labor,” said Hercules, “I shall follow your road. I want to be strong and manly and worthy of the love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever reach the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward of knowing that my journey has not been without some worthy aim.”

—James Baldwin.

Long, long ago, before the white man came across the Sea of Peace to Japan, before the screaming engines frightened the white heron from the rice fields, and before the sparrows perched on telegraph wires, there lived two frogs, one in a well at Kioto, the other in a pond at Ozaka.

In the land of Japan there is a proverb that “the frog in the well knows not the great ocean.” The Kioto frog had heard this said many times by the maids who came to draw water, and one day he became vexed at their laughter.

“I shall stay here no longer,” he said to himself. “I shall go at once to see this great ocean of which they talk. I do not believe it is half as wide or as deep as my well, where I can see the stars even in the daytime, but I shall at least know what it looks like.”

Then Mr. Frog told his family that he was going on a journey, going out to Ozaka to see the great ocean. So Mrs. Frog gave him a package of boiled rice and snails, and tying it round his neck, he set off on his journey. When he came out of the well, he saw that the other animals did not leap, but walked upright on their legs. He thought he must walk in the same way, so he stood up on his hind legs and waddled off slowly across the fields.

On this very same day the frog who lived in the pond decided to see more of the world.

“Good-by,” he said to Mrs. Frog, as he jumped from a lily-pad into the grass, “I am tired of sitting here in the sun thinking and blinking, so I am going to Kioto.”

It so happened that the Kioto frog and the frog from Ozaka met on a hill halfway between the two cities.

“Good morning,” said one, bowing his head to the ground three times.

“Good morning,” said the other, also bowing respectfully.

Then they sank down in a shady spot, for they were very tired and lame from trying to walk on their hind feet.

“Where are you going?” asked the Ozaka frog. “This is a fine day for a journey.”

“I set out to see the great ocean at Ozaka, of which I have heard so often,” replied the frog who lived in the well, “but I am so tired that I think I shall be satisfied with looking at it from the top of this hill.”

“I am going to Kioto,” said the other frog.

“It is a long journey, my friend,” said the Kioto frog. “Why do you not look at it from this hill and save yourself the trouble of walking all the way?”

“That is a good plan, friend,” said the frog from Ozaka.

Then the two frogs climbed to the top of a flat rock, and stood up on their hind legs, the Kioto frog facing the great ocean at Ozaka, and the other facing the city of Kioto. A frog’s eyes, as you know very well, are so placed that when he sits comfortably at home on his lily-pad, he looks before him. But when he stands on his hind legs with his head in the air, he sees only what is behind him. Standing in this way, on top of the rock, the frogs looked long and steadily at the landscape. At last, being very tired, they sat down again.

“Ozaka looks exactly like my home,” said the Kioto frog; “and as for the ocean, I saw nothing larger than the brook I swam across this morning.”

“You are right,” said the other. “Kioto looks just like Ozaka. They are as much alike as two grains of rice. I am glad that I met you, for you have saved me much trouble. I shall return to my pond at once. Good-by, my friend.”

Then the two frogs jumped to the ground and hurried off, leaping as a frog should do, and thus reaching home in a short time. That night they told their friends about their adventures, and still the frog in the pond thinks he has seen the great world, and “the frog in the well knows not the great ocean.”—William Elliot Griffis.

A good action is never thrown away.

One day an Indian came back from a trip to his traps, and noticed, when he reached his wigwam, that a deer that had hung inside had been stolen. He at once set to work to find the thief.

Following the trail left by the evil-doer, the Indian soon met a party of white men. He asked if they had seen a little old man, lame and white, who had a short gun. The Indian added that the man he was seeking was followed by a small bobtailed dog, and that he carried a deer. Such a man, he said, had stolen the deer from his wigwam.

“Why did you not seize the thief when you saw him?” said they.

“I did not see him,” answered the Indian.

“How, then, do you know that he is little, and old, and lame, and white, and has a short gun, and is followed by a little bobtailed dog?” asked they.

“I know that he is short,” replied the Indian, “because he piled up stones to stand on when he took down the meat. He must be old, because his steps are short, as is shown by his tracks. His gun, I know, is short, for I found the place where he had leaned it against a sapling while he was taking down the deer, and the muzzle left a scratch on the bark near the ground. The dog, sitting down in the sand, left the print of a stumpy tail. I knew the man was white by the tracks of his boots, for Indians wear moccasins, and do not turn out their toes when walking; and I knew that he was lame, because the steps of the left foot were shorter than those of the right, as was shown by the footprints.”

And the Indian passed on in pursuit of the one who had robbed him.—Selected.

By special permission.

At the blacksmith’s shop the bay mare Betty is being fitted to new shoes. Already the fore feet are nicely shod and the blacksmith now has the near hind foot in hand. The other occupants of the place are a small donkey and the bloodhound Laura.

Betty is a sensible horse and enjoys the shoeing process. When the time comes around for her regular visit to the forge, she walks off voluntarily and unattended to the familiar spot. No halter is necessary to keep her standing; in fact, she would not tolerate such an indignity. She takes her place by the window as if perfectly at home.

Blacksmith and horse are old friends who understand each other well. The man has won the animal’s confidence by the care he has taken to fit the shoes comfortably. Though a plain, rough fellow, he is of a kindly nature and knows his business thoroughly. The shop is a quaint little place such as one finds in English villages. The thick masonry of the walls shows how old the building is; the floor is paved with large blocks of stone. Between the anvil and the forge there is only space enough for the horse to stand.

Two hundred years ago the great country lying between Lake Superior and the Rocky Mountains was unknown to the people who lived in the little stockaded forts, where Quebec, Montreal, and Three Rivers now stand. Great explorers had followed Columbus to America, and had sailed down the mighty St. Lawrence and its tributaries. They all longed to find the Great Western Sea, which Columbus had hoped would lead to Asia; but over two hundred years had passed since his voyage, and no one had yet reached the great water of the West.

When Pierre de la Vérendrye was a boy, living at Three Rivers, he heard many wonderful stories of adventure told by fur traders and explorers as they returned from expeditions to the North and West, and he longed for the time to come when he would be old enough to join such a party. When he was twenty-seven years old, he had charge of a trading-post on Lake Nepigon, and heard from the neighboring Indians of great lakes and rivers, and immense tracts of treeless country where herds of cattle roamed. He had not forgotten the dream of his boyhood, and when these tales of a land far west reached him, he made up his mind that he would be the one to explore the country and find a way to the Western Sea.

Years passed by, and it was not until 1731 that his dream was realized. He had spent years in preparing for the expedition. The governor at Quebec had given him a license to trade with the Indians, and Montreal merchants promised to supply him with money and goods. On the eighth day of June the company set out from Montreal. It consisted of Vérendrye, his three tall sons, Jean, Pierre and François, and fifty followers. There were the priests, the hardy voyageurs, the wood runners, and the Indian interpreters. They embarked in birch canoes measuring from eighty to ninety feet in length. In the bottom of the canoes were strongly wrapped packages of merchandise which were to be exchanged on the way for furs.

In seventy-eight days they reached Kaministiquia, a fur post on Lake Superior, where Fort William now stands. This was the last Western post. All the country beyond this would be new to the eager voyageurs. Sailing down the Pigeon River, they entered Rainy Lake and built Fort St. Pierre on its left bank. Winter was approaching and their supply of provisions was getting low, so it was necessary for some of the party to return to the nearest trading-post to obtain provisions and goods in exchange for valuable furs. The Cree Indians who inhabited this district had gazed in wonder at the presents of ammunition offered to them by the white men, and had gladly given generous supplies of furs in exchange for these new possessions.

When spring came, the voyageurs accepted the friendly offer of the Indians to guide them west to the Lake of the Woods. It was several months before the next long stop was made. They had reached the head of the lake when it was again necessary to stop and build a fort for their winter stay. This fort, built of logs, chinked up with clay and moss, and roofed with branches of trees, was called St. Charles.

The next year they reached Lake Winnipeg by way of the Winnipeg River, and near its mouth they built Fort Maurepas, now known as Fort Alexander. In 1738, after travelling over many miles of the surrounding country, Vérendrye left this fort, crossed the southern end of Lake Winnipeg, and entered the Red River, which he followed until he came to its junction with the Assiniboine, and to the place where the city of Winnipeg now stands. The land around the river was dotted with the tepees of the Assiniboine Indians, who probably now looked upon a white man for the first time. A rude fort called Fort Rouge was built, and leaving his sons to trade with the Indians, Vérendrye pushed on up the Assiniboine and in one week came to the “Portage of the Prairie.” This was called by the explorer, Fort De La Reine.

Vérendrye had now spent seven years in his search for the Western Sea. He had suffered many hardships. His men had often mutinied and deserted him. Winter had overtaken him when supplies were low, and in these times of famine he and his men had lived on roots and bark, coarse parchment, and often on the flesh of the sleigh dogs. His eldest son, Jean, had been cruelly murdered by the Indians, while he was journeying to one of the eastern forts for supplies. Still the brave explorer’s courage did not fail, and he pressed on hoping to find some sign, or hear some word that would tell him his quest had not been in vain.

The merchants at Montreal upon whom Vérendrye depended for aid were not interested in his work of exploration, but cared only for the loads of valuable furs which he sent to them. Fur traders were jealous of his success, and charged him with trading for his own profit, and deceiving his partners. Leaving his sons to continue their explorations, he returned to Quebec in 1746 to defend himself against these false charges.

Nothing could be proved against him, but this was small comfort to the worn-out traveller. His life had been one of suffering and disappointment, and his countrymen did not realize the noble work he had done, yet he was eager to return to his sons and continue the work he had begun. In 1749 he was preparing for the journey back to the West, when he was taken ill, and died suddenly at Montreal. Though his work was not appreciated during his lifetime, he is now honored as the pioneer explorer of the Great West.

—Helen Palk.

Many years ago in an English village there lived a boy whose name was Dick Whittington. His father and mother died when he was so young that he did not remember them at all. He had no home, and was a ragged little fellow running about the streets of the little village.

Now the place where Dick lived was not very far from London, and the people liked to talk about the great city. None of them had ever been to London, but they seemed to know all about the wonderful things that were to be seen there. Dick listened to their stories and longed to see for himself. One day a large wagon drawn by eight fine horses with bells on their heads was driven into the little town. When Dick saw this wagon he thought that it must be going to the city, and he asked the driver to let him go with him. When the driver learned that Dick was very poor, and that he had neither father nor mother, he told the lad that he might walk by the side of the wagon if he wished.

It was a long walk for the little fellow, but at last they came to London. Dick was in a great hurry to see the wonderful sights of the city. He thanked the driver of the wagon and ran from one street to another. At last it began to grow dark, and in every street there was only dirt instead of gold. Nowhere could he find the golden pavements that he had heard so much about. He sat down in a dark corner and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning he woke up very hungry, but there was not even a crust of bread for him to eat. He thought now only of food, and asked every one he met to give him a penny to buy something to eat. Nobody stopped to speak to him, and the poor boy grew weak for want of food. At last he grew so faint and tired that he could go no farther. He sat down on the steps of a fine house to rest, and wished that he were back again in the little village where he was born.

Just at that time the owner of the house came home to dinner, and saw the ragged little fellow asleep on the steps.

“My lad, what are you doing here? Wake up, my boy. Why don’t you go to work?”

“I should like to work if I could find anything to do,” said Dick, “but I don’t know where to look for work. I have not had anything to eat for a long time.”

“Poor little fellow! Come with me, and I shall see what I can do for you.” The kind merchant took Dick into the house, where he was given a good dinner, and put to work in the kitchen.

Dick would have lived very happily in this new home if the old cook had not been so cross. She found fault with him, and scolded him from morning till night. But at last little Alice, his master’s daughter, heard how the poor little kitchen boy was treated, and she asked the cook to be kind to the lad.

From this time Dick was not treated so unkindly, and he would have been quite happy if it had not been for another trouble. His bed was in a garret at the top of the house, far away from other people. The floor was full of holes, and every night rats and mice kept him awake by running over his face. They tormented him so much that he tried to think of some way to get rid of them.

One day a gentleman gave him a penny for cleaning his shoes. Dick thought a long time about the best way to spend it. At last he made up his mind that he would buy a cat with the money. The very next day he went out into the street and saw a girl carrying a cat in her arms.

“I will give you a penny for your cat,” said Dick. “Will you take it?”

“Yes,” said the girl, “you may have her for a penny. She is worth more than that, for she knows how to catch rats and mice.”

So Dick bought the cat, and took her to the garret. Every day he carried a part of his dinner to her, and it was not long before she had driven all the rats and mice away. Then the little fellow could sleep soundly every night.

Soon after this a ship belonging to Dick’s master was about to start on a voyage across the sea. It was loaded with goods which were to be sold in other lands far away. The master called his servants together and asked if they had anything they would like to send out in the ship for trade. He wanted to give his servants a chance for a good fortune, too. Every one had something to send out in the ship—every one but Dick. As he had neither money nor goods, he did not meet with the others.

But Alice, the merchant’s daughter, guessed why Dick did not come in with the rest of the servants, and sent for him. When the boy came into the room the merchant said, “Well, Dick, what are you going to send out on the ship?”

“I have nothing in the world,” Dick answered, “but a cat which I bought some time ago for a penny. But I should not like to part with her.”

“Go, and get your cat, my lad. We shall send her out on the ship. She may bring you some profit,—who knows?”

With tears in his eyes poor Dick carried puss down to the ship and gave her to the captain. Everybody laughed at the boy for sending off a cat to be sold. But little Alice felt sorry for him and gave him some money to buy another cat.

After this the old cook used him more cruelly than ever. She was always either scolding him, or making fun of him for sending his cat to sea. At last Dick could not bear her abuse any longer, and made up his mind to go back to his old home. So he packed up his few possessions and very early one morning started off. After walking some distance he sat down on a stone which to this day is called “Whittington’s Stone.” While he sat there, wondering what it was best for him to do, the church bells began to ring. As he listened they seemed to say to him:—