THE
PEARL STORY BOOK
Stories and Legends of Winter, Christmas, and New Year’s Day

COMPILED BY
ADA M. SKINNER
AND
ELEANOR L. SKINNER

Editors of “The Emerald Story Book,” “The Topaz Story Book,”
“The Turquoise Story Book,” “Children’s Plays,” Etc.

NEW YORK
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
1919

Copyright 1910 by
DUFFIELD & COMPANY

Drawn by Maxfield Parrish

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The editors’ thanks are due to the following authors and publishers for the use of valuable material in this book:

To T. C. and E. C. Jack of Edinburgh for permission to use “Holly” and the legend of the “Yew” from “Shown to the Children Series”; to Frederick A. Stokes Company for “The Voice of the Pine Trees,” from “Myths and Legends of Japan”; to the Wessels Company for “The First Winter” by W. W. Canfield; to Julia Dodge for permission to use two poems by Mary Mapes Dodge; to the Christian Herald for a poem by Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.; to Lothrop, Lee and Shepherd for “The Pine and the Flax” by Albrekt Segerstedt; to the Outlook Company for a story by Mine Morishima; to the Independent for the poem “Who Loves the Trees Best?”; to Laura E. Richards for her story “Christmas Gifts”; to George Putnam and Sons for “Silver Bells” by Hamish Hendry, and “The Happy Prince” by Oscar Wilde; to the Churchman for a story by John P. Peters; to Dodd, Mead and Company for the story “Holly” from the “Story Hour”; and “Prince Winter” from “The Four Seasons” by Carl Ewald; to George Jacobs for “A Legend of St. Nicholas” from “In God’s Garden” by Amy Steedman; to A. Flanagan Company for “The New Year’s Bell” from “Christ-Child Tales” by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot; to Jay T. Stocking and the Pilgrims Press for “The Snowball That Didn’t Melt” from “The Golden Goblet”; to the New York State Museum for permission to use two stories contained in Bulletin 125, by Mrs. H. M. Converse; to Small, Maynard and Company for “A Song of the Snow,” from “Complete Works of Madison Cawein.”

The selections from James Russell Lowell, Edna Dean Proctor, Celia Thaxter, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edith M. Thomas, Margaret Deland, John Townsend Trowbridge, and Frank Dempster Sherman are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of their works.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

“Once upon a time,” in the winter season suggests happy, young faces grouped about a blazing fire. A heavy snowstorm promises plenty of sport for tomorrow, but at present the cosiness indoors is very attractive, especially now that the evening story hour is at hand. And while the story-teller is slowly choosing his subjects he hears the children’s impatient whispers of “The Snow Man,” “Prince Winter,” “The Legend of Holly,” “The Animals’ Christmas Tree.”

Silence! The story-teller turns his eyes from the glowing fire to the faces of his eager audience. He is ready to begin.

Each season of the year opens a treasury of suggestion for stories. In the beauty and wonder of nature are excellent themes for tales which quicken children’s interest in the promise of joyous springtime, in the rich pageantry of ripening summer, in the blessings of generous autumn, and in the merry cheer of grim old winter.

The Pearl Story Book is the fourth volume in a series of nature books each of which emphasizes the interest and beauty characteristic of a particular season. The central theme of this volume is winter, “snow-wrapped and holly-decked.”

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WINTER STORIES AND LEGENDS

WINTER

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;
On open wold and hill-top bleak
It had gathered all the cold,
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer’s cheek.
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
’Neath which he could house him winter-proof;
All night by the white stars’ frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars:
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight.
James Russell Lowell.

THE ICE KING

(Indian Legend)

Once upon a time there was an Indian village built on the bank of a wide river. During the spring, summer, and autumn the people were very happy. There was plenty of fuel and game in the deep woods; the river afforded excellent fish. But the Indians dreaded the months when the Ice King reigned.

One winter the weather was terribly cold and the people suffered severely. The Ice King called forth the keen wind from the northern sky, and piled the snowdrifts so high in the forests that it was most difficult to supply the wigwams with game. He covered the river with ice so thick that the Indians feared it would never melt.

“When will the Ice King leave us?” they asked each other. “We shall all perish if he continues his cruel reign.”

At last signs of spring encouraged the stricken people. The great snowdrifts in the forests disappeared and the ice on the river broke into large pieces. All of these floated downstream except one huge cake which lodged on the bank very near the village. And when the Indians saw that the spring sunshine did not melt this great mass of ice they were puzzled and anxious.

“It is the roof of the Ice King’s lodge,” they said. “We shall never enjoy warm weather while he dwells near us. Have we no brave who is willing to do battle with this winter tyrant?”

At last, a courageous young hunter armed himself with a huge club and went forth to see if he could shatter the glittering frozen mass and rid the village of the giant who dwelt beneath it. With all his strength he struck the ice roof blow upon blow, crying out, “Begone, O cruel Ice King! Your time is past! Begone!”

Finally, there was a deafening noise like the crashing of forest trees when the lightning strikes, and the huge ice cake split into several pieces.

“Begone!” cried the young brave, as he struggled with each great lump of ice until he pushed it from the bank and tumbled it into the river below.

And when the mighty task was finished the white figure of the Ice King stood before the Indian brave.

“You have ruined my lodge,” said the giant.

“The winter season is past,” answered the brave. “Begone!”

“After several moons I shall return to stay,” threatened the Ice King. Then he stalked away toward the North.

The people were very happy when they knew that the young brave had conquered the giant; but their joy was somewhat dampened when they heard about the threatened return of the Ice King.

“I shall prepare for his return and do battle with him again,” declared the Indian conqueror.

This promise comforted the people somewhat, but still they thought of the coming winter with dread.

During the autumn the hunter built near the river a strong wigwam and stored therein abundant fuel and dried game. He filled many bags made of skin, with oil, which he procured from the animals he killed. Also, he was well supplied with fur rugs, blankets, and warm clothes.

At last the winter season came. The cold north wind blew unceasingly, the snow piled high around the wigwams; ice several feet thick covered the river.

“The Ice King has come,” said the Indians. “If he keeps his threat to stay among us we shall surely perish.”

One bitter cold day the young Indian who had prepared well for the severe weather sat in his wigwam near a blazing fire. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind tore aside the bear skin which protected the doorway and into the lodge stalked the Ice King. His freezing breath filled the place and dampened the fire. He took a seat opposite the Indian brave who said, “Welcome, Ice King.”

“I’ve come to stay,” answered the giant.

The Indian shivered with cold at the sudden change of temperature in his wigwam, but he rose and brought more logs to the fire. Also, he opened one of his bags of oil and poured the contents on the great pieces of wood. The flames soon caught the oil-soaked logs and a roaring fire crackled and blazed in the wigwam. More and more fuel the young brave piled on his fire until finally the frosty cold air was changed to summer heat.

The Ice King shifted his seat away from the glowing fire. Farther and farther away he pushed until he sat with his back against the wall of the wigwam. As he moved he seemed to grow smaller and weaker. The icy feathers of his headgear drooped about his forehead and great drops of sweat covered his face. But still the Indian brave piled fuel on the blazing fire.

“Spare me, O hunter,” cried the Ice King.

But to the words of the giant the young Indian was deaf. He opened another bag of oil and poured it on the logs.

“Have mercy, I beg you!” pleaded the Ice King. He rose and staggered toward the door.

“You have conquered me,” he said in a weak voice. “I will depart. Twice you have won a victory over me. I give up my hope of reigning continually among your people. My season shall last during three moons, only.”

He staggered out of the wigwam and stalked wearily away. Since that day the giant Ice King has not tried to reign throughout the year.

A SONG OF THE SNOW

Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn,
When the air is still and the clouds are gone,
And the snow lies deep on hill and lawn,
And the old clock ticks, “’Tis time! ’Tis time!”
And the household rises with many a yawn
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn!
Sing, Ho!

Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky
When the last star closes its icy eye
And deep in the road the snow-drifts lie,
And the old clock ticks, “’Tis late! ’Tis late!”
And the flame on the hearth leaps red—leaps high
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky!
Sing, Ho!

Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn
When the snow makes ghostly the wayside thorn,
And hills of pearl are the shocks of corn,
And the old clock ticks, “Tick-tock; tick-tock;”
And the goodman bustles about the barn
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn!
Sing, Ho!

Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day,
When ermine capped are the stocks of hay,
And the wood-smoke pillars the air with gray,
And the old clock ticks, “To work! To work!”
And the goodwife sings as she churns away
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day!
Sing, Ho!
Madison Cawein.

KING FROST AND KING WINTER

Margaret T. Canby

King Winter lives in a very strong palace near the cold North Pole; it is built of great blocks of thick ice, and all around it stand high, pointed icebergs, and cross, white bears keep guard at the gate. He has many little fairy servants to do his bidding and they are like their master, cross and spiteful, and seldom do any kind actions, so that few are found who love them. King Winter is rich and powerful, but he keeps all his wealth so tightly locked up that it does no one any good; and what is worse, he often tries to get the treasures of other persons, to add to the store in his money chests.

One day when this selfish old king was walking through the woods he saw the leaves thickly covered with gold and precious stones, which had been spread upon them by King Frost, to make the trees more beautiful and give pleasure to all who saw them. But looking at them did not satisfy King Winter; he wanted to have the gold for his own, and he made up his mind to get it, somehow. Back he went to his palace to call his servants home to do this new work. As soon as he reached the gate, he blew a loud, shrill note on his horn and in a few minutes his odd little fairies came flying in at the windows and doors and stood before him quietly waiting their commands. The king ordered some to go out into the forest, at nightfall, armed with canes and clubs, and beat off all the gold and ruby leaves; and he told others to take strong bags, and gather up all the treasure, and bring it to him.

“If that silly King Frost does not think any more of gold and precious stones than to waste them on trees I shall teach him better,” said the old king.

The fairies promised to obey him, and as soon as night came, off they rushed to the forest, and a terrible noise they made, flying from one beautiful tree to another, banging and beating the leaves off. Branches were cracking and falling on all sides, and leaves were flying about, while the sound of shouting and laughing and screaming told all who heard it that the spiteful winter fairies were at some mischief. The other fairies followed, and gathered up the poor shattered leaves, cramming them into the great bags they had brought, and taking them to King Winter’s palace as fast as they were filled.

This work was kept up nearly all night and when morning came, the magic forest of many-colored leaves was changed into a dreary place. Bare trees stretched their long brown branches around and seemed to shiver in the cold wind and to sigh for the beautiful dress of shining leaves so rudely torn from them.

King Winter was very much pleased, as one great sack after another was tugged in by the fairies and when morning came he called his servants together and said, “You have all worked well, my fairies, and have saved much treasure from being wasted; I will now open these bags and show you the gold. Each of you shall have a share.”

The king took up the sack nearest to him, their surprise, when out rushed a great heap of brown leaves, which flew all over the floor and half choked them with dust! When the king saw this he growled with rage and looked at the fairies with a dark frown on his face. They begged him to look at the next sack, but when he did so, it, too, was full of brown leaves, instead of gold and precious stones. This was too much for King Winter’s patience. He tossed the bags one by one out of the palace window, and would have tossed the unlucky fairies after them, had not some of the bravest ones knelt down and asked for mercy, telling him they had obeyed his orders, and, if King Frost had taken back his treasure, they were not to blame.

This turned their master’s anger against King Frost, and very angry and fierce he was. He gnashed his great teeth with rage and rushed up and down in his palace, until it shook again. At last he made up his mind to go out that night, break down King Frost’s beautiful palace, and take away all his riches.

When night came, he started out with all his fairies. Some were armed with the clubs they had beaten off the leaves with, and others had lumps of ice to throw at their enemy; but the king had been so angry all day that he had not told them what to do; also, he had left their sharp spears locked up. He wrapped himself in his great white cloak of swan’s down in order that he might look very grand, and so they went on their way.

King Frost lived on the other side of the wood, and he had heard all the noise made by the winter fairies in spoiling the trees and had seen the next morning the mischief they had done. It made him very sorry to find the beautiful leaves all knocked off and taken away, and he determined to punish King Winter by going to attack his palace that night. He spent the day making ready and dressing himself and his servants in shining coats of ice-armour and giving each one several spears and darts of ice tipped with sharp diamond points. They looked like brave little soldiers.

The two groups of fairies met in the midst of the great wood. After some words between the kings, their servants fell to blows and a great battle they had. The winter fairies fought with their clubs and threw lumps of ice at the frost fairies; but their clubs were weak from being used so roughly the night before and soon broke; and when their ice-balls were all thrown away they could find no more. But King Frost had armed his servants well, and they threw their icy darts among the winter fairies. The trees, too, seemed to fight on the Frost King’s side. The bare twigs pulled their hair and the branches ripped their ice clothes wherever they could. So the winter fairies had the worst of it and at last started off at full speed and rushed through the woods, never stopping till they reached the palace, and shut themselves in—leaving their king, who was too proud to run, all alone with King Frost and his fairies. You may be sure they were not very merciful to him. They began to pull his cloak, calling out, “Give us your cloak to keep our trees warm. You stole their pretty leaves; you must give us your cloak.”

Now this was a magic cloak and had been given to King Winter by the Queen of the fairies, so when he felt them pulling at it, he wrapped it tightly about him, and began to run. After him flew the frost fairies, pulling and plucking at his great white cloak, snatching out a bit here and a bit there and laughing and shouting while King Winter howled and roared and rushed along, not knowing where he went. On they flew up and down the wood in and out among the trees,—their way marked by the scattered bits of white down from King Winter’s cloak. When day began King Winter found himself near his own palace. He dashed his tattered cloak to the ground and rushed through the gate, shaking his fist at King Frost.

He and his fairies took the cloak. As they went home through the woods they hung beautiful wreaths of white down on all the trees and also trimmed the branches with their broken spears and darts, which shone like silver in the sunlight, and made the woods look as bright almost, as before it had been robbed of its golden and ruby leaves. Even the ground was covered with shining darts and white feathers. Every one thought it very beautiful, and no one could tell how it happened. (Adapted.)

THE SNOWSTORM

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, and river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end,
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come, see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Mauger the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone—
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.

THE FIRST WINTER

(Iroquois Legend)

There was a time when the days were always of the same length, and it was always summer. The red men lived continually in the smile of the Great Spirit and were happy. But there arose a chief who was so powerful that he at last declared himself mightier than the Great Spirit, and taught his brothers to go forth to the plain and mock him. They would call upon the Great Spirit to come and fight with them or would challenge him to take away the crop of growing corn or drive the game from the woods. They would say he was an unkind father to keep himself and their dead brothers in the Happy Hunting Grounds, where the red men could hunt forever without weariness.

They laughed at their old men who had feared for so many moons to reproach the Great Spirit for his unfair treatment of the Indians who were compelled to hunt and fish for game for their wives and children, while their own women had to plant the corn and harvest it.

“In the Happy Hunting Grounds,” they said, “the Great Spirit feeds our brothers and their wives and does not let any foes or dangers come upon them, but here he lets us go hungry many times. If he is as great as you have said, why does he not take care of his children here?”

Then the Great Spirit told them he would turn his smiling face away from them, so that they should have no more light and warmth and they must build fires in the forest if they would see.

But the red men laughed and taunted him, telling him that he had followed one trail so long that he could not get out of it, but would have to come every day and give them light and heat as usual. Then they would dance and make faces at him and taunt him with his helplessness.

In a few days the quick eyes of some of the red men saw in the morning the face of the Great Spirit appear where it was not wont to appear, but they were silent, fearing the jibes of their brothers. Finally, duller eyes noticed the change, and alarm and consternation spread among the people. Each day brought less and less of the Great Spirit’s smile and his countenance was often hidden by dark clouds, while terrible storms beat upon the frightened faces turned in appeal toward the heavens. The strong braves and warriors became as women; the old men covered their heads with skins and starved in the forests; while the women in their lodges crooned the low, mournful wail of the death song. Frosts and snows came upon an unsheltered and stricken race, and many of them perished.

Then the Great Spirit, who had almost removed his face from the sight of men, had pity and told them he would come back. Day after day the few that remained alive watched with joy the return of the sun. They sang in praise of the approaching summer and once more hailed with thankfulness the first blades of growing corn as it burst from the ground. The Great Spirit told his children that every year, as a punishment for the insults they had given their Father, they should feel for a season the might of the power they had mocked; and they murmured not, but bowed their heads in meekness.

SNOW SONG

Over valley, over hill,
Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,
Driving all the white flock forth,
From the far folds of the north.

Blow, wind, blow,
Weird melodies you play,
Following your flocks that go
Across the world today.

Hither, thither, up and down,
Every highway of the town,
Huddling close the white flocks all
Gather at the shepherd’s call.

Blow, wind, blow,
Upon your pipes of joy,
All your sheep the flakes of snow
And you their shepherd boy.
Frank Dempster Sherman.

THE SNOW MAIDEN

(Russian Legend)

Once upon a time there lived a peasant named Ivan and his wife, Marie. They were very sad because they had no children. One cold winter day the peasant and his wife sat near a window in their cottage and watched the village children playing in the snow. The little ones were busily at work making a beautiful snow maiden.

Ivan turned to his wife and said, “What a good time the children are having. See, they are making a beautiful snow maiden. Come, let us go into the garden and amuse ourselves in the same way. We will make a pretty little snow image.”

They went into the garden which lay back of their cottage.

“My husband,” said Marie, “we have no children, what do you say to our making for ourselves a child of snow?”

“A very good idea!” said the husband. And he at once began to mold the form of a little body, with tiny feet and hands. His wife made a small head and set it upon the shoulders of the snow image.

A man who passed by the garden stopped for a moment and looked at the peasants who were so strangely occupied. After a moment’s silence he said to them, “May God help you.”

“Thank you,” said Ivan.

“God’s blessing, indeed, is always good,” nodded Marie.

“What are you making?” asked the stranger.

Ivan looked up and said, “We are making a little snow maiden.” Then he went on with his work, forming the nose, chin, and eyes.

In a few moments the snow child was finished, and Ivan looked at her in great admiration. Suddenly, he noticed that the mouth and eyes opened, the cheeks and lips took on a rosy hue, and in a few moments the astonished peasant saw standing before him a living child.

“Who are you?” he asked, filled with wonder at seeing a little girl instead of a snow image.

“I am Snow White, your little daughter,” said the child. Then she threw her arms lovingly around the man and his wife, who both began to cry for joy.

The delighted parents took Snow White into the cottage, and before long the news ran through the village that a little daughter had come to live with Ivan and Marie.

Of course the village children came to play with Snow White. She was such a charming little girl, with a very white skin, eyes as blue as the sky, and lovely golden hair. To be sure, her cheeks were not so rosy as those of her companions, but she was so bright and gentle that everyone loved her very much indeed.

The winter passed very quickly and Snow White grew so fast that by the time the trees were veiled in the green buds of spring she was as tall as a girl of twelve or thirteen years.

During the winter months the snow maiden had been very joyous and happy, but when the mild, warm days of spring came she seemed sad and low-spirited. Her mother, Marie, noticed the change and said to her, “My dear little girl, why are you sad? Tell me, are you ill?”

“No, mother, dear, I am not ill,” said Snow White. But she no longer seemed to enjoy playing out of doors with the other children; she stayed very quietly in the cottage.

One lovely spring day the village children came to the cottage and called out, “Come, Snow White! Come! We are going into the woods to gather wild flowers. Come with us.”

“Yes, do go, my dear!” said mother Marie. “Go with your little friends and gather spring flowers. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the outing.”

Away went the happy children to the woods. They gathered the lovely wild flowers and made them into bouquets and coronets, and when the afternoon sun began to sink in the western sky they built a big bonfire. Gayly they sang little songs, merrily dancing around the bright, crackling blaze.

“Let each one dance alone,” called out one of the little girls.

“Snow White, watch us for a little while, and then you, too, will know how to dance alone.”

Away whirled the happy little children, dancing freely round and round the bonfire. In a little while Snow White joined them.

When the gay little people were out of breath and the dancing grew slower and slower, some one called out, “Where is Snow White?”

“Snow White, where are you?” shouted the other children, but nowhere could they find their little companion.

They ran home and told Ivan and Marie that Snow White had disappeared while dancing round the bonfire. The villagers made a thorough search for the little maiden, but they never found her, for while she was dancing around the bonfire she had slowly changed into a little white vapour and had flown away toward the sky, where she changed into a delicate snowflake.

THE FROST KING

Oho! have you seen the Frost King,
A-marching up the hill?
His hoary face is stern and pale,
His touch is icy chill.
He sends the birdlings to the South,
He bids the brooks be still;
Yet not in wrath or cruelty
He marches up the hill.

He will often rest at noontime,
To see the sunbeams play;
And flash his spears of icicles,
Or let them melt away.
He’ll toss the snowflakes in the air,
Nor let them go nor stay;
Then hold his breath while swift they fall,
That coasting boys may play.

He’ll touch the brooks and rivers wide,
That skating crowds may shout;
He’ll make the people far and near
Remember he’s about.
He’ll send his nimble, frosty Jack—
Without a shade of doubt—
To do all kinds of merry pranks,
And call the children out;

He’ll sit upon the whitened fields,
And reach his icy hand
O’er houses where the sudden cold
Folks cannot understand.
The very moon, that ventures forth
From clouds so soft and grand,
Will stare to see the stiffened look
That settles o’er the land.

And so the Frost King o’er the hills,
And o’er the startled plain,
Will come and go from year to year
Till Earth grows young again—
Till Time himself shall cease to be,
Till gone are hill and plain:
Whenever Winter comes to stay,
The hoary King shall reign.
Mary Mapes Dodge.

KING WINTER’S HARVEST

King Winter sat upon his iceberg throne, and waving his scepter, a huge icicle, called for all the Snow Fairies and Frost Fairies to draw near, as he wished to see them.

“Tell me, Snow Fairies,” said King Winter, “what have you been doing of late; have you made anybody happy by your work?”

“Oh, yes,” they all said at once, “we had the jolliest time last night putting white dresses on the trees, white spreads over the grasses, white caps on all the fence posts, and making things look so strange that when the children came out in the morning they just shouted and laughed, and soon threw so much snow over each other that they were dressed in white, too, and seemed Snow Fairies like ourselves. They, too, wanted to make curious canes, castles, and other things with the snow as we had done. Sleds were brought out and when the sleighbells commenced their music it seemed that everybody was made glad by our work.”

“Well done,” said King Winter, “now away to your work again.”

In a twinkling the Snow Fairies were up in a purple cloud-boat throwing a shower of snowflake kisses down to King Winter to thank him for giving them work to do.

“Now, Frost Fairies,” said King Winter, turning to a glittering band who wore some of his own jewels, “what have you done to make anybody glad?”

“We have made pictures upon the windows and hung your jewels upon the trees for the people to look at, and covered the skating ponds,” said Jack Frost, the leader.

“That is good,” said King Winter. “You and the Snow Fairies seem to be making the world glad now, but pretty soon we must leave the work, and the good sunbeams will put our things away; they will hide the snowballs, and crack the skating ponds so that the ice may float downstream. Now I would like to make something that will keep long after we are gone away. Queen Summer is gone but her harvest of hay and grain is in the barns. Queen Autumn is gone but her harvest of apples and potatoes is in the cellars; now I want to leave a harvest, too.”

“But the sunbeams are away most of the time now,” said Jack Frost. “Can anything grow without them?”

“My harvest will grow best without them,” said King Winter, “and I’ll just hang up a thick cloud curtain and ask them to play upon the other side while my harvest grows. Mr. North Wind will help, and if all you Frost Fairies do your liveliest work my harvest will soon be ready.”

North Wind soon came with bags of cold air which he scattered hither and thither, while the Frost Fairies carried it into every track and corner, wondering all the while what the harvest would be. But after two days’ work they found out; for horses were hitched to sleds and men started for the lakes and rivers, saying, “The ice has frozen so thick that it is a fine time to fill the ice-houses.” Saws and poles were carried along, and soon huge blocks of ice were finding places upon the sleds ready for a ride to some ice-house where they would be packed so securely in sawdust that King Winter’s harvest would keep through the very hottest weather.

“Then the ice-men can play that they are we,” said a Frost Fairy, “scattering cold all about to make people glad.”

OLD KING WINTER

Old King Winter’s on his throne
In robes of ermine white;
The crown of jewels on his head
Now glitters bright with light.

The little flakes of snow and hail,
And tiny pearls of sleet,
Are with the wild winds dancing
All round his magic feet.

His beard is white, his cheeks are red,
His heart is filled with cheer;
His season’s best some people say;
The best of all the year.
Anna E. Skinner.

SHELTERING WINGS

Harriet Louise Jerome

It was intensely cold. Heavy sleds creaked as they scraped over the jeweled sounding board of dry, unyielding snow; the signs above shop doors shrieked and groaned as they swung helplessly to and fro; and the clear, keen air seemed frozen into sharp little crystalline needles that stabbed every living thing that must be out in it. The streets were almost forsaken in mid-afternoon. Business men hurried from shelter to shelter; every dog remained at home; not a bird was to be seen or heard. The sparrows had been forced to hide themselves in crevices and holes; the doves found protected corners and huddled together as best they could; many birds were frozen to death.

A dozen or more doves were gathered close under the cornice of the piazza of a certain house, trying with little success to keep warm. Some small sparrows, disturbed and driven from the cozy place they had chosen, saw the doves and came flying across the piazza.

“Dear doves,” chirped the sparrows, “won’t you let us nestle near you? Your bodies look so large and warm.”

“But your coats are frosted with cold. We cannot let you come near us, for we are almost frozen now,” murmured the doves sadly.

“But we are perishing.”

“So are we.”

“It looks so warm near your broad wings, gentle doves. Oh, let us come! We are so little, and so very, very cold!”

“Come,” cooed a dove at last, and a trembling little sparrow fluttered close and nestled under the broad white wing.

“Come,” cooed another dove, and another little sparrow found comfort.

“Come! Come!” echoed another warm-hearted bird, and another, until at last more than half the doves were sheltering small, shivering sparrows beneath their own half-frozen wings.

“My sisters, you are very foolish,” said the other doves. “You mean well, but why do you risk your own beautiful lives to give life to worthless sparrows?”

“Ah! they were so small, and so very, very cold,” murmured the doves. “Many of us will perish this cruel night; while we have life let us share its meager warmth with those in bitter need.”

Colder and colder grew the day. The sun went down behind the clouds suffused with soft and radiant beauty, but more fiercely and relentlessly swept the wind around the house where the doves and sparrows waited for death.

An hour after sunset a man came up to the house and strode across the piazza. As the door of the house closed heavily behind him, a little child watching from the window saw something jarred from the cornice fall heavily to the piazza floor.

“Oh, papa,” she cried in surprise, “a poor frozen dove has fallen on our porch!”

When he stepped out to pick up the fallen dove the father saw the others under the cornice. They were no longer able to move or to utter a cry, so he brought them in and placed them in a room where they might slowly revive. Soon more than half of the doves could coo gratefully, and raise their stiffened wings. Then out from beneath the wing of each revived dove fluttered a living sparrow.

“Look, papa!” cried the child. “Each dove that has come to life was holding a poor little sparrow close to her heart.”

They gently raised the wings of the doves that could not be revived. Not one had a sparrow beneath it.

Colder and fiercer swept the wind without, cutting and more piercing grew the frozen, crystalline needles of air, but each dove that had sheltered a frost-coated sparrow beneath her own shivering wings lived to rejoice in the glowing gladsome sunshine of the days to come.

SNOWFLAKES

Out of the Bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow,
Descends the snow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE SNOW-IMAGE

Nathaniel Hawthorne

One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow.

The elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used to call Violet.

But her brother was known by the title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers.

“Yes, Violet—yes, my little Peony,” said their kind mother; “you may go out and play in the new snow.”

Forth sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow bunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom.

Then what a merry time they had! To look at them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had been created, as the snowbirds were, to take delight only in the tempest and in the white mantle which it spread over the earth.

At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was struck with a new idea.

“You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of snow—an image of a little girl—and it shall be our sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter long. Won’t it be nice?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a little boy. “That will be nice! And mamma shall see it.”

“Yes,” answered Violet; “mamma shall see the new little girl. But she must not make her come into the warm parlour, for, you know, our little snow-sister will not love the warmth.”

And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was knitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow.

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight—those bright little souls at their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skillfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure.

It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this, and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised she grew.

Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest but indistinct hum of the two children’s voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, while Peony acted rather as a labourer and brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too.

“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet; for her brother was at the other side of the garden. “Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the snow-drift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister’s head!”

“Here they are, Violet!” answered the little boy. “Take care you do not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!”

“Does she not look sweet?” said Violet, with a very satisfied tone; “and now we must have some little shining bits of ice to make the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how very beautiful she is; but papa will say, ‘Tush! nonsense! come in out of the cold!’”

“Let us call mamma to look out,” said Peony; and then he shouted, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out and see what a nice ’ittle girl we are making!”

“What a nice playmate she will be for us all winter long!” said Violet. “I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold! Sha’n’t you love her dearly, Peony?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Peony. “And I will hug her and she shall sit down close by me and drink some of my warm milk.”

“Oh, no, Peony!” answered Violet, with grave wisdom. “That will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. Little snow-people like her eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we must not give her anything warm to drink!”

There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were never weary, had gone again to the other side of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully, “Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-coloured cloud! And the colour does not go away! Is not that beautiful?”

“Yes, it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. “O Violet, only look at her hair! It is all like gold!”

“Oh, certainly,” said Violet, as if it were very much a matter of course. “That colour, you know, comes from the golden clouds that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be made very red, redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red if we both kiss them!”

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed that the snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony’s scarlet cheek. “Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony.

“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and now her lips are very red. And she blushed a little, too!”

“Oh, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony.

Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west wind sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlour-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice:

“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with us!”

“What imaginative little beings my children are!” thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony’s frock. “And it is strange, too, that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! I can hardly help believing now that the snow-image has really come to life!”

“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look out and see what a sweet playmate we have!”

The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent.

But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look all over the garden, and see everything and everybody in it. And what do you think she saw there? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children.

Ah, but whom or what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children!

A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little lives. The mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them.

So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlour; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere out of doors was already growing very cold.

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child, after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west wind.

There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the neighbourhood the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white and delicate rose-colour, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks.

And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl when sending her out to play in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them except a very thin pair of white slippers.

Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony’s short legs compelled him to lag behind.

All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.

She called Violet and whispered to her.

“Violet, my darling, what is this child’s name?” asked she. “Does she live near us?”

“Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, laughing to think that her mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, “this is our little snow-sister whom we have just been making!”

“Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up simply into her face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice ’ittle child?”

“Violet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed, “tell me the truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl?”

“My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into her mother’s face, surprised that she should need any further explanation, “I have told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well as I.”

“Yes, mamma,” declared Peony, with much gravity in his crimson little phiz, “this is ’ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!”

While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands.

Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise at finding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset, too.

He soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath and the flock of snowbirds fluttering about her head.

“Pray, what little girl may this be?” inquired this very sensible man. “Surely her mother must be crazy, to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been today, with only that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers!”

“My dear husband,” said his wife, “I know no more about the little thing than you do. Some neighbour’s child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story, “insist that she is nothing but a snow-image which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon.”

As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the children’s snow-image had been made. What was her surprise on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labour!—no image at all!—no piled-up heap of snow!—nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space!

“This is very strange!” said she.

“What is strange, dear mother?” asked Violet. “Dear father, do not you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made, because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?”

“Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. “This is our ’ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!”

“Pooh, nonsense, children!” cried their good honest father, who had a plain, sensible way of looking at matters. “Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into the parlour; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can.”

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in.

“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!” cried the father, half-vexed, half-laughing. “Run into the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer now. I must take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her death of cold.”

And so, with a most benevolent smile, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house.

She followed him, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and sparkle were gone out of her figure; and, whereas just before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw.

As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into his face, their eyes full of tears which froze before they could run down their cheeks, and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image into the house.

“Not bring her in!” exclaimed the kind-hearted man. “Why, you are crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold already that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?”

His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away.

“After all, husband,” said the mother, “after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!”

A puff of the west wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled like a star.

“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is half frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to rights.”

This common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug, right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.

“Now she will be comfortable!” cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. “Make yourself at home, my child.”

Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden as she stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a pestilence. Once she threw a glance toward the window, and caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs and the stars glimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window-panes as if it were summoning her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove!

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.

“Come, wife,” said he, “let her have a pair of thick stockings and a woolen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbours and find out where she belongs.”

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings. Without heeding the remonstrance of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlour door carefully behind him.

Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony and the rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlour window.

“Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face through the window panes. “There is no need of going for the child’s parents!”

“We told you so, father!” screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-entered the parlour. “You would bring her in; and now our poor—dear—beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!”

And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so that their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too. In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She could only reply that, being summoned to the parlour by cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the hearth-rug.

“And there you see all that is left of it!” added she, pointing to a pool of water, in front of the stove.

“Yes, father,” said Violet, looking reproachfully at him through her tears, “there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!”

“Naughty father!” cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—I shudder to say—shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. “We told you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?”

And the stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which it had done! (Abridged.)

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WINTER WOODS

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
James Russell Lowell.

THE VOICE OF THE PINE TREES

(Japanese Legend)

“And all the while
The voice of the breeze
As it blows through the firs
That grow old together
Will yield us delight.”

In ancient days there lived a fisherman and his wife, and little daughter Matsue. There was nothing that Matsue loved to do more than to sit under the great pine tree. She was particularly fond of the pine needles that never seemed tired of falling to the ground. With these she fashioned a beautiful dress and sash, saying, “I will not wear these pine clothes until my wedding day.”

One day while Matsue was sitting under the pine tree, she sang the following song:

“No one so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o’er his head the withered cherry flowers
Come fluttering down. Who knows?—the spring’s soft showers
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky.”

While thus she sang Teogo stood on the steep shore of Sumiyoshi watching the flight of a heron. Up, up, it went into the blue sky, and Teogo saw it fly over the village where the fishfolk and their daughter lived.

Now Teogo was a youth who dearly loved adventure and he thought it would be very delightful to swim across the sea and discover the land over which the heron had flown. So one morning he dived into the sea and swam so hard and so long that the poor fellow found the waves spinning and dancing and saw the great sky bend down and try to touch him. Then he lay unconscious on the water; but the waves were kind to him after all, for they pressed him on and on till he was washed up at the very place where Matsue sat under the pine tree.

Matsue carefully dragged Teogo underneath its sheltering branches, and then set him down upon a couch of pine needles, where he soon regained consciousness and warmly thanked Matsue for her kindness.

Teogo did not go back to his own country, for, after a few happy months had gone by, he married Matsue and on her wedding morn she wore her dress and sash of pine needles.

When Matsue’s parents died her loss only seemed to make her love for Teogo the more. The older they grew the more they loved each other. Every night when the moon shone, they went hand in hand to the pine tree and with their little rake they made a couch for the morrow.

One night the great silver face of the moon peered through the branches of the pine tree and looked in vain for the two sitting together on a couch of pine needles. Their little rakes lay side by side and still the moon waited for the slow steps of these pine tree lovers. But that night they did not come. They had gone home to an everlasting place on the River of Souls.