The Ontario Readers Part 12

Mary Elizabeth looked frightened.

"It's yours," said the young man. "Now come to supper. But see! this gentleman who gave you the five-cent piece shall take care of the money for you. You can trust him. He's got a wife, too. But we'll come to supper now."

So the young man took her by the hand, and the gentleman whose wife knew all about what to do with orphans took her by the other hand, and one or two more gentlemen followed, and they all went into the dining-room, and put Mary Elizabeth in a chair at a clean white table, and asked her what she wanted for her supper.

Mary Elizabeth said that a little dry toast and a cup of milk would do nicely. So all the gentlemen laughed. And she wondered why.

And the young man with the brown curls laughed, too, and began to look quite happy. But he ordered chicken and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and celery and rolls and b.u.t.ter and tomatoes and an ice cream and a cup of tea and nuts and raisins and cake and custard and apples and grapes.

And Mary Elizabeth sat in her pink dress and red shawl and ate the whole; and why it didn't kill her n.o.body knows; but it didn't.

The young man with the face that might have been beautiful--that might be yet, one would have thought who had seen him then--stood watching the little girl.

"She's preached me the best sermon," he said below his breath, "I ever heard. May G.o.d bless her! I wish there were a thousand like her in this selfish world!"

And when I heard about it I wished so, too.

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD

Oh, there is nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child.

d.i.c.kENS

THE FROST

The Frost looked forth, one still clear night, And whispered: "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way: I will not go on like that bl.u.s.tering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads--and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things:--there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees: There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen.

But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- "Now just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the gla.s.s of water they've left for me Shall 'Tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

H. F. GOULD

CORN-FIELDS

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down,-- Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest-hill!

What joy in dreaming ease to lie Amid a field new shorn; And see all round, on sunlit slopes, The piled-up shocks of corn; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

I feel the day; I see the field; The quivering of the leaves; And good old Jacob, and his house,-- Binding the yellow sheaves!

And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream!

I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one Bending unto their sickles' stroke, And Boaz looking on; And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, Among the gleaners stooping there!

Again, I see a little child, His mother's sole delight,-- G.o.d's living gift of love unto The kind, good Shunammite; To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field.

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, The fields of Galilee, That eighteen hundred years ago Were full of corn, I see; And the dear Saviour take his way 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.

Oh, golden fields of bending corn, How beautiful they seem!

The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, To me are like a dream; The sunshine, and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there!

MARY HOWITT

SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQ.

Treasure Valley belonged to three brothers--Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck.

The two elder brothers were rich, cruel, quarrelsome men who never gave anything in charity. The youngest brother, Gluck, was twelve years old, and kind to everyone. He had to act as cook and servant to his brothers.

One cold, wet day the brothers went out, telling Gluck to roast a leg of mutton on the spit, let n.o.body into the house, and let nothing out.

After a time some one knocked at the door. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman. He had a very large nose, slightly bra.s.s-coloured; very round and very red cheeks; merry eyes, long hair, and moustaches that curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth. He was four feet six inches high, and wore a pointed cap as long as himself. It was decorated with a black feather about three feet long. Around his body was folded an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak much too long for him. As he knocked again he caught sight of Gluck.

"Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door; I'm wet, let me in."

To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the ends of his moustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir,--I can't, indeed; my brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly, "I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with n.o.body to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm myself."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savoury smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. "He does look _very_ wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, through the house came a gust of wind that made the old chimneys totter.

"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me."