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would then marry her daughter; but when the king spoke to her, the spell was broken. The queen told the king how cruelly she had been treated by her stepmother, and on hearing this he became very angry, and had the witch and her daughter brought to justice. They were both sentenced to die; the daughter to be devoured by wild beasts, and the mother to be burned alive.
No sooner, however, was the witch reduced to ashes than the charm which held the queen's brother in the form of a stag was broken; he recovered his own natural shape, and appeared before them a tall, handsome young man.
After this the brother and sister lived happily and peacefully for the rest of their lives.
By Robert Louis STEVENSON
VER the borders, a sin without pardon,
Breaking the branches and crawling below, Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the banks of the river, we go.
Here is the mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam, Here is the sluice with the race running under
Marvelous places, though handy to home!
Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill; Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.
Years may go by, and the wheel in the river
Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day, Wheel and keep roaring and foaming forever,
Long after all of the boys are away.
Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home; Still we shall find the old mill-wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam.
You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,
I with your marble of Saturday last, Honored and old and all gayly apparelled,
Here we shall meet and remember the past.
Do you not think this a beautiful little poem? It almost reads itself, or, better, it almost sings itself. If you read it aloud you will hear the music, and music is a large part of poetry.
When we read Stevenson we remember always that he was Scotch, but we know that he belongs as much to us as to the boys and girls of Scotland. We can see that he is Scotch in this poem. For instance, he says weir when we would say mill-dam, and sluice when we would be more likely to say gate. Then we might say work or drudgery in place of moil.
Again, our boys are not liable to go to the Indies, but many of the boys of Great Britain go to the British possessions in India, and they think more of the army and navy than our boys do in the United States. But they all come back, just as we do, to the places loved in childhood, and they remember their little keepsakes when they come—the bean or the marble that meant so much then.
Read this poem to your parents—they will appreciate it more than you do now, and will tell you that when you have grown older and have children of your own you will love Keepsake Mill better than you do now.
By Robert Louis STEVENSON
U Little frosty Eskimo,
You have seen the scarlet trees
Such a life is very fine,
You have curious things to eat,
Little Indian, Sioux or Crow,
Little Turk or Japanee,
THE GOLDEN BIRD By WILHELM AND JAKOB GRIMM NCE upon a time there lived a king who had a U beautiful pleasure garden behind his castle, in which grew a tree which bore golden apples; as the apples ripened they were counted, and every morning one would be missing. The king noticed this, and ordered that every night watch should be kept under the tree.
The king had three sons, and he sent the eldest to watch in the garden for the first night, but when midnight came he could not keep himself awake, and the next morning another apple was missing. On the following night the second son tried to watch, but he succeeded no better; after struggling to keep awake for twelve hours he slept one, and in the morning, as usual, an apple was missed.
Now came the turn of the third son to watch, but at first the king did not trust him; he thought he would be as unsuccessful as his brothers. At length, however, he gave him permission. The youth laid himself down under the tree and watched, but he did not allow sleep to gain the mastery over him, and as the clock struck twelve he heard a sound of rushing wings through the air, and presently a bird flew by with plumage that glittered like gold. The bird
alighted on the tree and was plucking an apple, when the young man raised his gun and fired. The bird escaped, but the shot had touched its plumage, and one of its golden feathers fell to the earth.
The youth picked it up, and the next morning carried it to the king and related to him what he had seen during the night. The king assembled his counselors and laid the whole case before them, and they all declared that such a feather as the bird had dropped was of more value than the whole kingdom. “If one feather is so costly,” cried the king, “whether I have help or not, I must and will have the whole bird!”
Then the eldest son, relying on his own cleverness, set out on a journey to find the bird, and felt sure he should do so very quickly. He had not gone far when he came to the borders of a wood, where he saw a fox, and immediately presented his gun at him. “Do not shoot me,” cried the fox; “I can give you good advice. I know you are searching for the golden bird, and if you keep straight on you will arrive toward evening at a little village in which there are two inns on exactly opposite sides of the road. You will find one lighted up brightly and with all sorts of amusement and gayety going on, but do not enter there; go to the other inn, however dark and dismal it may appear to you.”
“Why should I listen to the advice of an ignorant animal, however cunning he may be?” thought the young man; yet he followed the fox, who stretched