Part 8

Once upon a time a humble willow tree with gnarled and twisted branches grew near a tall and stately companion called the bamboo tree. Many people who passed by stopped to admire the shapely bamboo, but no one seemed to notice the old willow tree.

One morning when the sun shone brightly after a soft rain a timid little plant with a delicate stem sprang up between the two trees, and looked pleadingly toward the straight, strong trunk of the bamboo. But the bamboo tossed her plumy foliage and said haughtily, “Do not look to me for help. I shall not let you cling around my trunk.”

“Let me take hold of you until I grow a little stronger,” begged the little plant. But the bamboo drew away and said, “Keep away. I can not allow you to cling to my beautiful branches.”

Then the kind old willow tree whispered through her leaves, “Do not be discouraged, little one. The sun is shining, and the soft rain will come to refresh you. Come to me if you like, and grip your little green fingers into my bark. Do not be afraid. In the shade of my branches you shall be protected. Come.”

The tiny plant still looked longingly toward the handsome bamboo. But at last she crept over the grass to the old willow, and began to twine around the sheltering branches. Up, up, the slender vine climbed to the very top of the tree. There it tossed out so many lovely green shoots that the people who passed stopped to enjoy its beauty. And when the early fall days came large buds appeared on the vine.

The bamboo looked at the swelling buds and said, “I wonder what those ugly knobs on the vine mean. Perhaps she has brought some disease which may affect all the trees of the country.”

The willow made no answer to the bamboo, but in her kindly way she whispered to the vine, “Do not feel hurt, I know what the swelling buds mean.”

There was a gentle rain at night, and in the morning the sun shone radiantly in a clear sky. The green buds which covered the vine burst forth into beautiful, sweet-scented blossoms. From crown to foot the old willow tree stood bedecked with glorious colour. The owner of the land called his friends to see the wonder. They looked in amazement at the richly coloured blossoms. Then the master called his labourers, and told them to clear a space about the willow tree.

“Cut down the bamboo tree that we may see the beauty of the vine.”

“It is a very fine bamboo tree, master,” said the head servant.

“Yes, it is, indeed,” declared the master, “but there are many other bamboo trees equally fine, whereas no one has ever seen a vine with such a wealth of lovely blossoms.”

So the labourers cut down the haughty bamboo tree, and left the willow and the flowering vine to be admired by many, many people.

AUTUMN FASHIONS

The Maple owned that she was tired of always wearing green, She knew that she had grown, of late, too shabby to be seen!

The Oak and Beech and Chestnut then deplored their shabbiness, And all, except the Hemlock sad, were wild to change their dress.

“For fashion-plate we’ll take the flowers,” the rustling Maple said, “And like the Tulip I’ll be clothed in splendid gold and red!”

“The cheerful Sunflower suits me best,” the lightsome Beech replied; “The Marigold my choice shall be,” the Chestnut spoke with pride.

The sturdy Oak took time to think--“I hate such glaring hues; The Gillyflower, so dark and rich, I for my model choose.”

So every tree in all the grove, except the Hemlock sad, According to its wish ere long in brilliant dress was clad.

And here they stayed through all the soft and bright October days; They wished to be like flowers--indeed, they look like huge bouquets! EDITH M. THOMAS.

POMONA’S BEST GIFT

Here stands a good old apple tree Stand fast at root, Bear well, at top; Every little twig Bear an apple big; Every little bough Bear an apple now; Hats full, caps full; Threescore sacks full! Hullo, boys, hullo! --_Old English Song._

POMONA

In the far-off days, when the children of sunny Italy saw the hillside vineyards rich with purple grapes, and the branches of the orchards bending with the weight of luscious fruit, they clapped their hands and cried gleefully, “See Pomona’s Gifts.” They offered grateful thanks to the wood nymph whose thoughtful care brought the precious fruit to a bountiful harvest.

Carrying a curved knife in her right hand, the faithful Pomona glided swiftly up the hillside, and primed the low-bending vines of all rank shoots. By cutting away all withered branches, she kept her orchards green and trim, and thus helped the trees to bring forth richest fruit.

So happy was this nymph in her work that she gave no attention to the numerous suitors who hoped to win her. Many a time a madcap satyr desiring to attract Pomona’s attention danced in vain near her orchards. Pan played entrancingly on his reed pipes, but the nymph gave no heed to his music.

Among the many admirers of Pomona was a youth named Vertumnus, who presided over gardens and the changing seasons. How often he patiently planned to meet this charming nymph while she was tending her fruit and vines, but his advances were always met with a coy indifference which puzzled him. At last he determined to appear in various disguises in order to see if he could attract her attention, and discover if she cared for him. One day he took the form of a plowman, whip in hand, as if he had come from unyoking the tired oxen in a neighboring field. At another time he assumed the guise of a woodman carrying a pruning knife and ladder, then again he appeared in the garb of a hardy reaper carrying a basket filled with golden grain. But no matter what disguise he took--plowman, woodman, reaper, fruit-gatherer, soldier, fisherman--he failed to win any attention from the nymph, whose interest was centered on the precious orchards and vineyards.

One day when Pomona was carefully examining the ripening fruit an old woman leaning on a staff appeared before her and said, “Thy patient care will earn a precious harvest. Never have I seen such marvelous fruit. Tell me, fair nymph, does some strong youth help thee attend to the orchards and vineyards?”

The maiden shook her head and replied, “There is no youth who is constant enough to love the orchards and vineyards as dearly as Pomona.”

But the old woman drew near to her and said, “There is one youth whose constancy can not be questioned, but thou hast scorned his advances. Many times has he told thee how gladly he would be thy helpmate, for nothing in nature delights him so much as the golden harvest of luscious fruit.”

“Thou meanest Vertumnus,” said the nymph. Then she added, “He is, indeed, worthy of thy praise.”

Suddenly the old woman straightened her bent figure and threw off her disguise. There before Pomona stood the handsome form of Vertumnus, who no longer felt any doubt about the nymph’s love.

In the autumn sunshine under the trees, whose boughs were bending with the ripening fruit, Pomona and Vertumnus plighted their troth, and agreed to share in the labour of bringing to perfection the gifts of orchards and vineyards.

IN THE ORCHARD

O the apples rosy-red, O the gnarled trunks grey and brown, Heavy branchéd overhead; O the apples rosy-red, O the merry laughter sped, As the fruit is showered down! O the apples rosy-red, O the gnarled trunks grey and brown. GEORGE WEATHERBY.

JOHNNY APPLESEED

JOSEPHINE SCRIBNER GATES

Once there was a man who was very, very poor. He had been a farmer, and no one raised such fine crops as he did. By and by, in some way, he lost his farm, and was left all alone.

He had always wanted to do some grand thing, something that would make many people happy, but what could he do? He had no money. All he had was a small boat.

As he trudged along one day, he saw some old sacks lying under a tree. As he looked at them he had a splendid thought. A thought that seemed to have wings, and came flying from far away. Oh, it was a beautiful thought, and seemed to be singing a little song in his heart, as he picked up the sacks and placed them in his boat, jumped in himself and floated away.

As he rowed down the stream, the man watched the shore with keen eyes. When he saw an apple orchard he rowed to land, tied his boat, hastened to the homes near the orchards and asked for work.

He cut wood, carried water, and did all sorts of odd chores. In payment for this work he asked for food, and what else do you suppose?

The people were so surprised at what he asked for they could hardly believe him. He asked that he might have the seeds from the apples on the ground under the trees--only the seeds.

Of course they gladly gave him such a simple thing, and as he cut the fruit the neighbour children swarmed about him.

From one place to another he went, always adding to his store of seeds.

Some generous farmers gave him also cuttings of peach, pear, and plum trees, and grape vines.

Day after day, day after day, he cut up the fruit, while the children sat at his feet, and listened to thrilling tales of what he had seen in his travels. Of the Indians with their gay blankets and feathers, of their camps where they lived in the forests.

Of their dances and war paint; their many-coloured, beaded necklaces and jingling, silver chains and bracelets. Of their beady-eyed babies strapped to boards.

Of the wolves which came out at night to watch him as he sat by his fire; of the beautiful deer who ran across his patch.

He sang funny songs for the children, and taught them all sorts of games.

When it came time to go on, they begged him to stay. Never before had they been so amused, but on he went, and when his bags were full, and he had a goodly store of food, he started on to carry out the splendid thought. Oh, it was a grand thing he was going to do.

The little boat went on and on, till houses were no more to be seen. Splendid forests lined the banks here and there. Then he paused, for this was what he was seeking--a place where no one lived.

He landed and went about with a bag of seeds, and when he reached an open place in a forest, he planted seeds and cuttings of the trees and vines; then wove a brush fence about them to keep the deer away. He then hastened back to his boat and drifted on.

In many, many places he landed and planted seeds, and all the orchards of the Ohio and Mississippi Valley we owe to this man.

Years after when settlers came looking for a place to live, they chose these spots where, to their great surprise, they found all sorts of trees loaded with fruit.

This man’s name was John Chapman, but he was nicknamed Johnny Appleseed.

RED APPLE

The big Sky-man that makes the Moons, Stuck one into our Apple tree; I saw it when I went to Bed; The Tree was black; the Moon was red, And round as round could be.

To-day I went to get that Moon, For I can climb the Apple-tree; The Moon was gone. But in its stead I found an Apple round and red, And nice as nice could be. HAMISH HENDRY.

THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price by the bushel if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of nowadays! But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit on a single tree in the wide world. Not so much as a seed of these apples exists any longer.

And, even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen any. Children, nevertheless, used to listen openmouthed to stories of the golden apple-tree, and resolved to discover it when they should be big enough. Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit. Many of them returned no more: none of them brought back the apples. No wonder that they found it impossible to gather them! It is said that there was a dragon beneath the tree with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on the watch while the other fifty slept.

It was quite a common thing with young persons, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the garden of the Hesperides. And once the adventure was undertaken by a hero, who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the world. At the time of which I am going to speak he was wandering through the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand, and a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He was wrapt in the skin of the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind and generous and noble, there was a good deal of the lion’s fierceness in his heart. As he went on his way he continually inquired whether that were the right road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the question if the stranger had not carried so very big a club.

So he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until at last he came to the brink of a river, where some beautiful young women sat twining wreaths of flowers.

“Can you tell me, pretty maidens,” asked the stranger, “whether this is the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?”

On hearing the stranger’s question, they dropped all their flowers on the grass, and gazed at him with astonishment.

“The garden of the Hesperides!” cried one. “We thought mortals had been weary of seeking it after so many disappointments. And pray, adventurous traveler, what do you want there?”

“A certain king, who is my cousin,” replied he, “has ordered me to get him three of the golden apples.”

“And do you know,” asked the damsel who had first spoken, “that a terrible dragon with a hundred heads keeps watch under the golden apple-tree?”

“I know it well,” answered the stranger calmly. “But from my cradle upward it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with serpents and dragons.”

The young women looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion’s skin which he wore, and, likewise, at his heroic limbs and figure, and they whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who might reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of others.

“Go back!” cried they all; “go back to your own home! Your mother, beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she do more should you win ever so great a victory? No matter for the golden apples! No matter for the king, your cruel cousin! We do not wish the dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up.”

The stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances. He carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay half-buried in the earth near by. With the force of that idle blow the great rock was shattered all to pieces.

“Do you not believe,” said he, looking at the damsels with a smile, “that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon’s hundred heads?”

“But the dragon of the Hesperides, you know,” observed one of the damsels, “has a hundred heads!”

“Nevertheless,” replied the stranger, “I would rather fight two such dragons than a single hydra.”

The traveler proceeded to tell how he chased a very swift stag for a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at last caught it by the antlers and carried it home alive. And he had fought with a very odd race of people, half-horses and half-men, and had put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly figures might never be seen any more.

“Do you call that a wonderful exploit?” asked one of the young maidens, with a smile. “Any clown in the country has done as much.”

“Perhaps you may have heard of me before,” said he modestly. “My name is Hercules.”

“We have already guessed it,” replied the maidens, “for your wonderful deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange any longer that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the Hesperides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!”

Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty shoulders, so that the lion’s skin was almost entirely covered with roses. They took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms that not a finger’s breadth of its oaken substance could be seen. Lastly, they joined hands and danced around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own accord, and grew into a choral song in honor of the illustrious Hercules.

“Dear maidens,” said he, when they paused to take breath, “now that you know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of the Hesperides?”

“We will give you the best directions we can,” replied the damsels. “You must go to the seashore and find out the Old One, and compel him to inform you where the golden apples are to be found.”

“The Old One!” repeated Hercules, laughing at this odd name. “And pray, who may the Old One be?”

“Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure,” answered one of the damsels. “You must talk with this Old Man of the Sea. He is a seafaring person, and knows all about the garden of Hesperides, for it is situated in an island, which he is often in the habit of visiting.”

Hercules then asked whereabouts the Old One was most likely to be met with. When the damsels had informed him he thanked them for all their kindness.

But before he was out of hearing one of the maidens called after him.

“Keep fast hold of the Old One when you catch him!” cried she.

“Do not be astonished at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast, and he will tell you what you wish to know.”

Hercules again thanked her, and pursued his way.

“We will crown him with the loveliest of our garlands,” said they, “when he returns hither with the three golden apples after slaying the dragon with a hundred heads.”

Hercules traveled constantly onward over hill and dale, and through the solitary woods.

Hastening forward without ever pausing or looking behind, he, by and by, heard the sea roaring at a distance. At this sound he increased his speed, and soon came to a beach where the great surf-waves tumbled themselves upon the hard sand in a long line of snowy foam. At one end of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot where some green shrubbery clambered up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and beautiful. A carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules espy there but an old man fast asleep.

But was it really and truly an old man? Certainly, at first sight, it looked very like one, but on closer inspection it rather seemed to be some kind of a creature that lived in the sea. For on his legs and arms there were scales such as fishes have; he was web-footed and web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, being of a greenish tinge, had more the appearance of a turf of seaweed than of an ordinary beard. Hercules, the instant he set eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it could be no other than the Old One who was to direct him on his way.

Thanking his stars for the lucky accident of finding the old fellow asleep, Hercules stole on tiptoe toward him, and caught him by the arm and leg.

“Tell me,” cried he, before the Old One was well awake, “which is the way to the garden of the Hesperides?”

The Old Man of the Sea awoke in a fright But his astonishment could hardly have been greater than that of Hercules the next moment. For, all of a sudden, the Old One seemed to disappear out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the fore and hind leg! But still he kept fast hold. Then the stag disappeared, and in its stead there was a seabird, fluttering and screaming, while Hercules clutched it by the wing and claw. But the bird could not get away. Immediately afterward there was an ugly three-headed dog, which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped fiercely at the hands by which he held him! But Hercules would not let him go. In another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should appear but Geryones, the six-legged man-monster, kicking at Hercules with five of his legs in order to get the remaining one at liberty! But Hercules held on. By and by no Geryones was there, but a huge snake like one of those which Hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a hundred times as big. But Hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain.

You must understand that the Old Man of the Sea, though he generally looked so like the wave-beaten figurehead of a vessel, had the power of assuming any shape he pleased. When he found himself so roughly seized by Hercules, he had been in hopes of putting him into such surprise and terror by these magical transformations that the hero would be glad to let him go. If Hercules had relaxed his grasp, the Old One would certainly have plunged down to the very bottom of the sea.

But as Hercules held on so stubbornly, and only squeezed the Old One so much the tighter at every change of shape, and really put him to no small torture, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure.

“Pray what do you want with me?” cried the Old One as soon as he could take breath.

“My name is Hercules!” roared the mighty stranger, “and you will never get out of my clutch until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of the Hesperides.”