"Oh! we are glad to be here! We are glad to be here!"

The little children sang, too, and the gray-haired farmers said: "The birds must always stay in Killingworth."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Adapted]

THE MYTH OF PAN

In a very far-away country, a long time ago, there lived a man who loved music and little children and the birds and flowers. And the little children loved Pan--for that was his name--because he told them such beautiful stories and played on a set of pipes which he had made from the reeds which grew by the river. Every evening, when it was time for the sun to go to sleep and all the little stars to wake up, Pan would take his pipes, go down to the river side, and play all the songs he knew. Everybody could hear Pan's music for miles and miles, but many of them did not like his music, and wished that he would not play. Once some of these people gathered together and planned how they could stop Pan from playing his pipes, and while they were talking, some beetles near by heard their plans. Now, one of these beetles had hurt his wing at one time and had fallen down in the dust on the road, and could go no farther. It was a very hot day, and the poor little beetle was almost dead from the heat. Soon Pan came walking along and saw the beetle, and, picking it up very carefully, he carried it on some green leaves to a shady place, where he left it to rest and get well. The beetle had never forgotten Pan's kindness, and when he heard the plans these bad people had made he said: "Come, friends, and go with me, for we must hurry and tell Pan what the wicked people have planned, so that he will not be there when they go to push him into the river."

The beetles had only one day in which to reach Pan, for the evil people were going to carry out their plans the next night, so they spread their wings and flew as fast as they could fly. They could not travel far at a time, because their wings grew very tired and their bodies were so heavy. When they could fly no longer they would walk, and when they were tired walking they would fly again. In this way they hurried on and on, for the day was growing into night, and they could hear Pan playing his beautiful songs way down by the river bank. They had almost reached him when they heard what seemed to be a crowd of people running through the bushes and among the trees, and it seemed that they were going toward the river. Next there was a big splash and many voices talking loudly, and after that--silence. When the beetles reached the place where Pan always sat they could not find him; but there in the river were his pipes, which he loved so well.

The people had reached Pan before the beetles, and had pushed him into the river, and his pipes fell in, too, but Pan did not wait to get them.

He climbed out and ran as fast as his feet would carry him. The people ran after him, but he leaped and bounded over the bushes and flowers, and ran on and on. Sometimes they were almost upon him, but he always out-ran them. He wished to hide, but could find no place. He could not climb the trees, for the people could climb trees, too, and he could not hide in the gra.s.s or under the bushes, for they would be sure to find him there.

At last, along the river bank, he spied the little violets that had closed their eyes, but were still gazing at the stars. One little violet seemed to say to him, "I will hide you," and it folded its little petals around him. Pan was safe now, and from his hiding place he could hear the people searching for him. They looked for a long time, but they did not find him. He was happy and thankful, and, as he was very tired and the soft petals of the violets made a pleasant resting place, he was soon fast asleep.

Away back on the river bank, where Pan always sat, were the beetles.

They were very sorry that they had not reached him in time to tell him that the people were coming, and that they could not get his pipes out of the water, where they had fallen. And, though they never saw him again, they always remembered him and the beautiful music he used to play.

One day some little children were picking violets by the river, and they found one little violet that had eyes just like Pan's eyes. They took it home and named it Pan's Eye, in memory of their old friend, but, as that was rather a hard name for the little children to say, they called it Pansy.

THE BELL OF ATRI

In the little town of Atri, which was nestled on the side of a wooded hill, there was a strange custom.

The king had one day brought to the town a great bell, which he hung in the market place beneath a shed, protected from the sun and rain. Then he went forth with all his knightly train through the streets of Atri and proclaimed to all the people that whenever a wrong was done to any one, he should go to the market place and ring the great bell, and immediately the king would see that the wrong was righted.

Many years had gone by. Many times the great bell had rung in the little town of Atri, and, as the king had said, the wrongs of which it told, were always righted.

In time, however, the great rope by which the bell was rung, unraveled at the end and was unwound, thread by thread. For a long time it remained this way, while the great bell hung silent. But close by, a grape-vine grew, and, reaching upward, finally entwined its tendrils around the ragged end of the bell rope, making it strong and firm again as it grew around it, up toward the great bell itself.

Now, in the town of Atri there lived a knight, who, in his younger days, had loved to ride and hunt; but as he grew old he cared no more for these things. He sold his lands, his horses and hounds, for he now loved only the gold which the sale of them brought to him. This he h.o.a.rded and saved, living poorly, that he might save the more.

Only one thing he kept--his favorite horse, who had served him faithfully all his life. But even this faithful friend he kept in a poor old stable, often allowing him to go cold and hungry.

Finally the old man said: "Why should I keep this beast now? He is old and lazy, and no longer of any use to me. Besides, his food costs me much that I might save for myself. I will turn him out and let him find food where he can."

So the faithful old horse, who had served his master all his days, was turned out without a home. He wandered through the streets of the town, trying to find something to eat. Often the dogs barked at him, and the cold winds made him shiver as he wandered about, hungry and homeless, with no one to care for him.

One summer afternoon, when all the drowsy little town seemed sleeping, the tones of the great bell rang out, loud and clear, waking the people from their naps and calling them forth to see who was ringing the bell of justice.

The judge, with a great crowd following, hurried to the market place, but when they came near, they stopped in surprise. No man was near, who might have rung the bell; no one but a thin old horse, who stood quietly munching the vine which grew around the bell rope. He had spied the green leaves growing there, and, being hungry, had reached for them, thus ringing the great bell of Atri, and calling forth the judge and all the people.

"'Tis the old knight's horse," the people cried. Then many told the tale of how the old horse had been turned out to starve, while his master h.o.a.rded and saved his gold.

"The horse has rung the bell for justice, and justice he shall have,"

said the judge. "Go, bring the old knight to me."

The knight was hurried to the place, where, before all the people, the judge censured him for his cruel treatment of his faithful old horse, and asked him to give a reason for it.

"The old beast is useless," said his master. "He is mine, and I have a right to do with him as I wish."

"Not so," said the judge. "He has served you faithfully all his life. He can not speak to tell of his wrongs, so we must speak for him. Go, now; take him home. Build a new stable and care for him well."

The old knight walked slowly home, while the horse was led behind by the crowd.

So the Great Bell of Atri had righted one more wrong, for it was even as the judge had commanded. The faithful old horse lived in comfort all the rest of his life, for his master, in caring for him, learned to love him again, and treated him as only a faithful friend should be treated.

When the king heard the story he said:

"Surely, never will the bell ring in a better cause than in speaking for a suffering dumb creature who can not speak for himself."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Adapted]

THE ANXIOUS LEAF

Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said: "What is the matter, little leaf?" And the leaf said: "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!"

The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf: "Do not be afraid. Hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to."

And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long, till October.

And when the bright days of autumn came the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors. Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said: "All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colors because of joy."

Then the little leaf began to want to go, too, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color it saw that the branches of the tree had no bright color in them, and so the leaf said: "O branches! why are you lead-color and we golden?"

"We must keep on our work-clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over," said the branches.

Just then a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go, without thinking of it, and the wind took it up and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air, and then it dropped gently down under the edge of the fence, among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream, and it never waked up to tell what it dreamed about.

COMING AND GOING