Part 5

“I have never seen a Sunbeam,” said the Moonbeam, wistfully. “I should like to see one so much;” and all night long she sat close beside the Nightingale, with her head leaning on his breast whilst he sang to her of the Sunbeam; and his song was so loud and clear that it awoke the Bullfinch, who flew into a rage, and declared that if it went on any longer she would speak to the Owl about it, and have it stopped. For the Owl was chief judge, and always ate the little birds when they did not behave themselves.

But the Nightingale never ceased, and the Moonbeam listened till the tears rose in her eyes and her lips quivered.

“To-night, then, I shall see him,” whispered the Moonbeam, as she kissed the Nightingale, and bid him adieu.

“And to-night he will see you,” said the Nightingale, as he settled to rest among the leaves.

All that next day was cloudy, and the Sun did not shine, but towards evening the clouds passed away and the Sun came forth, and no sooner had it appeared than the Nightingale saw our Sunbeam’s ladder placed close to his nest, and in an instant the Sunbeam was beside him.

“Dear, dear Nightingale,” he said, “you are right. She is more lovely than the dawn. I have thought of her all night and all day. Tell me, will she come again to-night? I will wait to see her.”

“Yes, she will come, and you may speak to her, but you must not touch her,” said the Nightingale; and then they were silent and waited.

Underneath the oak-tree lay a large white Stone, a common white Stone, neither beautiful nor useful, for it lay there where it had fallen, and bitterly lamented that it had no object in life. It never spoke to the birds, who scarcely knew it could speak; but sometimes, if the Nightingale lighted upon it, and touched it with his soft breast, or the Moonbeam shone upon it, it felt as if it would break with grief that it should be so stupid and useless. It watched the Sunbeams and Moonbeams come down on their ladders, and wondered that none of the birds but the Nightingale thought the Moonbeam beautiful. That evening, as the Sunbeam sat waiting, the Stone watched it eagerly, and when the Moonbeam placed her tiny ladder among the leaves, and slid down it, it listened to all that was said.

At first the Moonbeam did not speak, for she did not see the Sunbeam, but she came close to the Nightingale, and kissed it as usual.

“Have you seen him again?” she asked. And, on hearing this, the Sunbeam shot out from among the green leaves, and stood before her.

For a few minutes she was silent; then she began to shiver and sob, and drew nearer to the Nightingale, and if the Sunbeam tried to approach her, she climbed up her ladder, and went farther still.

“Do not be frightened, dearest Moonbeam,” cried he piteously; “I would not, indeed, do you any harm, you are so very lovely, and I love you so much.”

The Moonbeam turned away, sobbing.

“I do not want you to leave me,” she said, “for if you touch me I shall die. It would have been much better for you not to have seen me; and now I cannot go back and be happy in the Moon, for I shall be always thinking of you.”

“I do not care if I die or not, now that I have seen you; and see,” said the Sunbeam sadly, “my end is sure, for the Sun is fast sinking, and I shall not return to it, I shall stay with you.”

“Go, while you have time,” cried the Moonbeam. But even as she spoke the Sun sank beneath the horizon, and the tiny gold ladder of the Sunbeam broke with a snap, and the two sides fell to earth and melted away.

“See,” said the Sunbeam, “I cannot return now, neither do I wish it. I will remain here with you till I die.”

“No, no,” cried the Moonbeam. “Oh, I shall have killed you! What shall I do? And look, there are clouds drifting near the Moon; if one of them floats across my ladder it will break it. But I cannot go and leave you here;” and she leaned across the leaves to where the Sunbeam sat, and looked into his eyes. But the Nightingale saw that a tiny white cloud was sailing close by the Moon--a little cloud no bigger than a spot of white wool, but quite big and strong enough to break the Moonbeam’s little ladder.

“Go, go at once. See! your ladder will break,” he sang to her; but she did not notice him, but sat watching the Sunbeam sadly. For a moment the moon’s light was obscured, as the tiny cloud sailed past it; then the little silver ladder fell to earth, broken in two and shrunk away, but the Moonbeam did not heed it.

“It does not matter,” she said, “for I should never have gone back and left you here, now that I have seen you.”

So all night long they sat together in the oak tree, and the Nightingale sang to them, and the other birds grumbled that he kept them awake. But the two were very happy, though the Sunbeam knew he was growing paler every moment, for he could not live twenty-four hours away from the Sun.

When the dawn began to appear, the Moonbeam shivered and trembled.

“The strong Sun,” she said, “would kill me, but I fear something even worse than the Sun. See how heavy the clouds are! Surely it is going to rain, and rain would kill us both at once. Oh, where can we look for shelter before it comes?”

The Sunbeam looked up, and saw that the rain was coming.

“Come,” he said, “let us go;” and they wandered out into the forest, and sought for a sheltering place, but every moment they grew weaker.

When they were gone, the Stone looked up at the Nightingale, and said:

“Oh, why did they go? I like to hear them talk, and they are so pretty; they can find no shelter out there, and they will die at once. See! in my side there is a large hole where it is quite dark, and into which no rain can come. Fly after them and tell them to come, that I will shelter them.” So the Nightingale spread his wings, and flew, singing:

“Come back, come back! The Stone will shelter you. Come back at once before the rain falls.”

They had wandered out into an open field, but when she heard the Nightingale, the Moonbeam turned her head and said:

“Surely that is the Nightingale singing. See! he is calling us.”

“Follow me,” sang the bird. “Back at once to shelter in the Stone.” But the Moonbeam tottered and fell.

“I am grown so weak and pale,” she said, “I can no longer move.”

Then the Nightingale flew to earth. “Climb upon my back,” he said, “and I will take you both back to the Stone.” So they both sat upon his back, and he flew with them to the large Stone beneath the tree.

“Go in,” he said, stopping in front of the hole; and both passed into the hole, and nestled in the darkness within the Stone.

Then the rain began. All day long it rained, and the Nightingale sat in his nest half asleep. But when the Moon rose, after the sun had set, the clouds cleared away, and the air was again full of tiny silver ladders, down which the Moonbeams came, but the Nightingale looked in vain for his own particular Moonbeam. He knew she could not shine on him again, therefore he mourned, and sang a sorrowful song. Then he flew down to the Stone, and sang a song at the mouth of the hole, but there came no answer. So he looked down the hole, into the Stone, but there was no trace of the Sunbeam or the Moonbeam--only one shining spot of light, where they had rested. Then the Nightingale knew that they had faded away and died.

“They could not live away from the Sun and Moon,” he said. “Still, I wish I had never told the Sunbeam of her beauty; then she would be here now.”

When the Bullfinch heard of it she was quite pleased. “Now, at least,” she said, “we shall hear the end of the Moonbeam. I am heartily glad, for I was sick of her.”

“How much they must have loved each other!” said the Dove. “I am glad at least that they died together,” and she cooed sadly.

But through the Stone wherein the beams had sheltered, shot up bright, beautiful rays of light, silver and gold. They coloured it all over with every colour of the rainbow, and when the Sun or Moon warmed it with their light it became quite brilliant. So that the Stone, from being the ugliest thing in the whole forest, became the most beautiful.

Men found it and called it the Opal. But the Nightingale knew that it was the Sunbeam and Moonbeam who, in dying, had suffused the Stone with their mingled colours and light; and the Nightingale will never forget them, for every night he sings their story, and that is why his song is so sad.

In sapphire, emerald, amethyst, Sparkles the sea by the morning kissed; And the mist from the far-off valleys lie Gleaming like pearl in the tender sky; Soft shapes of cloud that melt and drift, With tints of opal that glow and shift. CELIA THAXTER.

LOST: THE SUMMER

Where has the summer gone? She was here just a minute ago, With roses and daisies To whisper her praises---- And every one loved her so!

Has any one seen her about? She must have gone off in the night! And she took the best flowers And the happiest hours, And asked no one’s leave for her flight.

Have you noticed her steps in the grass? The garden looks red where she went; By the side of the hedge There’s a golden-rod edge, And the rose vines are withered and bent.

Do you think she will ever come back? I shall watch every day at the gate For the robins and clover, Saying over and over: “I know she will come, if I wait.” RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN.

BY THE WAYSIDE

On the hill the golden-rod, And the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, In autumn beauty stood. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE KING’S CANDLES

Once upon a time there lived a good king who was driven from his throne by an enemy. A few faithful knights and servants fled with his majesty to a forest where they found shelter in deep, rocky caves.

The flight from the king’s palace had been so hasty that the knights and servants could bring only a few things for their king’s comfort. It was in the early autumn and his majesty feared it would be necessary to live in secret during the coming winter. You may be sure the king was well pleased to find his knights had brought a few warm blankets and robes. After he had praised his followers for their thoughtfulness in providing for the winter, a young page stepped forward and said, “Your Majesty, I did not bring clothing, but I brought as many candles as I could carry.”

“Candles,” laughed the king, “now pray tell me, lad, why you brought candles. You served me well in the palace by seeing that my throne was properly lighted, but in our forest exile we shall have little use for candles, I fear.”

“Sire,” replied the page, “I thought that your majesty would wish to hold council in the evenings, and that I could light your throne seat with candles as was the custom in the palace.”

“I fear my throne seat, as you call it, will be nothing more than a rocky ledge for some time,” said the king. “See, there is one in the inner cave which will serve. So long as the candles last, my faithful lad, your king will not be obliged to hold council in darkness.”

“So long as the candles last,” repeated the king’s page to himself. “I hope our king’s soldiers, who are seeking help, will be able to drive the usurper away before winter comes.”

The king and his followers soon adapted themselves to life in exile. During the daytime they hunted game which lurked in the thickets; in the evening they gathered together in the deep cave and held council. Then it was that the king sat on his rude throne lit by two candles.

The king’s page with sinking heart saw the candles grow fewer and fewer until there were but two left. Then at last came an evening when the lights were missing from the king’s throne. In a dark corner of the cave the little page sat grieving because he could not see his king’s face.

It happened one morning that the lad wandered to the edge of the woodland where the highway separated the richly coloured forest trees from a stretch of meadowland where the white mist was slowly lifting. On the roadside was an old woman carrying a large sack on her bent shoulders. When she reached the place where the king’s page was standing she set her sack on the ground and looked wistfully at the meadow, then at the deep ditch which separated the field from the highway.

“Shall I help you across the ditch?” asked the king’s page.

“Thank you, my lad,” said the old woman. “Perhaps I’d better not go across. It would be hard for me to reach the highway again. But I should like a few of those tall mullein spikes. I’ve none in my bag so fine as those growing in the meadow.”

“I’ll gather some for you” said the king’s page.

He leaped across the ditch, and soon filled his hands with the tall mullein spikes.

The old woman was delighted. She tucked them into her bag and said, “They make such fine winter candles. Thank you, my lad.”

“Winter candles!” exclaimed the king’s page.

“Aye,” nodded the old woman. “Dip them in tallow, a thin coat will do--and you have candles fit for a king. Thank you kindly.”

“We are in sore need of candles where I live, but----” the page stopped.

“Use mullein spikes. They make candles fit for a king, I say,” and the old woman picked up her sack.

“But we have no tallow,” said the lad.

“I can spare you a lump of tallow, my boy. Come along with me to my cottage,” said the old woman.

So the king’s page carried the sack of mullein spikes to the old woman’s cottage and she gave him a large lump of tallow. On his way back he leaped across the ditch again and filled his arms with tall mullein spikes. He hurried back to the cave, melted the tallow, and dipped the weeds into the liquid fat.

When the king and his party returned that evening to the cave, two tall candles were standing on the rude throne.

“See,” cried the king’s page, “we have a fresh supply of candles.”

“Tell us where you got them,” said the surprised king.

“They are made from spikes of the mullein weed,” explained the king’s page. Then he told his majesty about the afternoon’s adventure.

“The mullein weed shall have a new name,” declared the king. “It shall be called the King’s Candles.”

A few days later the king called his followers around his throne seat and said, “A message has come to me declaring that the usurper has been driven out of my country. Tomorrow we’ll hold a feast in the palace, and the table shall be lighted by ‘King’s Candles.’”

Every year since that far-off time when the reigning king holds an autumn festival, the banquet table is lighted with mullein spikes dipped in tallow, and they are called the “King’s Candles.”

“The mullein’s yellow candles burn Over the heads of dry, sweet fern.”

A LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN-ROD

FRANCES WELD DANIELSON

(From “Story-Telling Time.” Used by permission of Pilgrims Press.)

Once there were a great many weeds in a field. They were very ugly-looking weeds, and they didn’t seem to be the least bit of use in the world. The cows would not eat them, the children would not pick them, and even the bugs did not seem to like them very well.

“I don’t see what we’re here for,” said one of the weeds. “We are not any good.”

“No good at all,” growled a dozen little weeds, “only to catch dust.”

“Well, if that’s what we’re here for,” cried a very tall weed, “then I say let’s catch dust! I suppose somebody’s got to do it. We can’t all bear blueberries or blossom into hollyhocks.”

“But it isn’t pleasant work at all,” whined a tiny bit of a weed.

“No whining allowed in this field,” laughed a funny little fat weed, with a hump in his stalk. “We’re all going to catch dust, so let’s see which one can catch the most. What do you say to a race?”

The little fat weed spoke in such a jolly voice that the weeds all cheered up at once, and before long they were as busy as bees, and as happy as Johnnie-jump-ups. They worked so well stretching their stalks and spreading out their fingers that before the summer was half over they were able to take every bit of dust that flew up from the road. In the field beyond, where the clover grew and the cows fed, there was not any to be seen.

One morning, toward the end of summer, the weeds were surprised to see a number of people standing by the fence looking at them. Pretty soon some children came and gazed at them. Then the weeds noticed that people driving by called each other’s attention to them. They were much surprised at this, but they were still more surprised when one day some children climbed the fence and commenced to pick them.

“See,” cried a little girl, “how all the dust has been changed to gold!”

The weeds looked at each other, and, sure enough, they were all covered with gold-dust.

“A fairy has done it,” they whispered one to the other.

But the fairies were there on the spot, and declared they had had nothing to do with it.

“You did it yourselves,” cried the queen of the fairies. “You were happy in your work, and a cheerful spirit always changes dust into gold. Didn’t you know it?”

“You’re not weeds any more, you’re flowers,” sang the fairies.

“Golden-rod, golden-rod!” shouted the children.

GOLDEN-ROD

Pretty, slender golden-rod, Like a flame of light, On the quiet, lonely way, Glows your torch so bright.

With your glorious golden staff, Gay in autumn hours, Now you lead to wintry rest, All the lovely flowers.

Cheering with a joyous face, All that pass you by, How you light the meadows round, With your head so high. ANNA E. SKINNER.

THE LITTLE WEED

“You’re nothing but a weed,” said the children in the fall. The little weed hung its head in sorrow. No one seemed to think that a weed was of any use.

By and by the snow came and the cold winds blew. There were many hungry little birds hunting for food.

“Twit! Twit Twee! See! See! See!”

sang a merry little bird one cold morning.

“Here is a lovely weed full of nice brown seeds!” And he made a good meal from those seeds that morning. Then three other little birds came to share the feast.

The little weed was so happy that she held her head up straight and tall again.

“That is what I was meant for,” she said. “I am good for something. Four hungry little birds had as many seeds as they wished for their breakfast. Next year I’ll grow as many seeds as I can to feed many more hungry little birds. Good-bye, little birds,” she called out to the little feathery friends. “Come again next year. I’ll have another dinner for you.”

“Good-bye, little weed,” sang the birds. “We have had a fine meal and we thank you very much. You’ll see us again next year. It is so hard to get enough to eat during the cold weather, and we are grateful to you for holding your seeds for us.”

“It’s nice to find that one is of some use after all, isn’t it?” called out the little weed to her neighbour in the next field.

--_Selected._

GOLDEN-ROD AND PURPLE ASTER

FLORA J. COOKE

Once upon a time a strange, wise woman lived in a little hut which stood on the top of a hill. She looked so grim and severe that people were afraid to go near her. It was said that she could change people into anything she wished.

One day two little girls who lived at the foot of the hill were playing together. One was named Golden Hair and the other Blue Eyes. After a while they sat down on the grassy hillside to rest.

“I should like to do something to make everybody happy,” said Blue Eyes.

“So should I,” said Golden Hair. “Let us ask the woman who lives on the hilltop about it. She is very wise and can surely tell us just what to do.”

“Oh, yes,” said Blue Eyes, and away they started at once.

It was a long, long walk to the top of the hill. Many times the little girls stopped to rest under the oak trees which shaded their pathway.

They could find no flowers, but they made a basket of oak leaves and filled it with berries for the wise woman.

The birds were singing in the treetops, and the squirrels were frisking about in the branches. Golden Hair and Blue Eyes stopped to laugh and talk with them.

The little girls walked on and on up the rocky pathway. After a while the sun went down, the birds stopped their singing, and the squirrels went to bed. The evening wind was resting. How still and cool it was on the hillside!

Presently the moon and stars came out. Then the frogs and toads awoke, beetles and fireflies flew about and the night music began.

Golden Hair and Blue Eyes were growing very tired, but on and on they climbed until at last they reached the hut on the hilltop where the strange, wise woman lived.

“See, she is standing at the gate,” said Golden Hair. “How stern she looks.”

The little girls clung close together, and when they reached the gate Golden Hair said bravely, “We know you are very wise and we came to see if you would tell us how to make everyone happy.”

“Please let us stay together,” said timid Blue Eyes.

As she opened the gate for the children, the wise woman was seen to smile in the moonlight. Golden Hair and Blue Eyes were never seen again at the foot of the hill. The next morning beautiful, waving golden-rod and purple asters grew all over the hillside.

Some people say that these two bright flowers, which grow side by side, could tell the secret if they would, of what became of the two little girls on that moonlight night.

(Adapted.)

WILD ASTERS

CHILD

White and purple asters, watching by the brook, Tell me where you got your starry eyes.

ASTERS

Dearie, in their play the baby angels took Blossoms from the garden of the skies.