No More Learning

He so completely surrounded the poet with
incense that the man lost his head, forgot his mission and his home,
and at last lost himself and vanished in smoke.

But when the little birds heard of it, they mourned, and for three
days they sang not one song. The black wood-snail became blacker
still; not for grief, but for envy. "They should have offered me
incense," he said, "for it was I who gave him the idea of the most
famous of his songs--the drum song of 'The Way of the World;' and it
was I who spat at the rose; I can bring a witness to that fact. "

But no tidings of all this reached the poet's home in India. The
birds had all been silent for three days, and when the time of
mourning was over, so deep had been their grief, that they had
forgotten for whom they wept. Such is the way of the world.

"Now I must go out into the world, and disappear like the rest,"
said the fourth brother. He was as good-tempered as the third, but
no poet, though he could be witty.

The two eldest had filled the castle with joyfulness, and now
the last brightness was going away. Sight and hearing have always been
considered two of the chief senses among men, and those which they
wish to keep bright; the other senses are looked upon as of less
importance.

But the younger son had a different opinion; he had cultivated his
taste in every way, and taste is very powerful. It rules over what
goes into the mouth, as well as over all which is presented to the
mind; and, consequently, this brother took upon himself to taste
everything stored up in bottles or jars; this he called the rough part
of his work. Every man's mind was to him as a vessel in which
something was concocting; every land a kind of mental kitchen.
"There are no delicacies here," he said; so he wished to go out into
the world to find something delicate to suit his taste. "Perhaps
fortune may be more favorable to me than it was to my brothers. I
shall start on my travels, but what conveyance shall I choose? Are air
balloons invented yet? " he asked of his father, who knew of all
inventions that had been made, or would be made.

Air balloons had not then been invented, nor steam-ships, nor
railways.

"Good," said he; "then I shall choose an air balloon; my father
knows how they are to be made and guided. Nobody has invented one yet,
and the people will believe that it is an aerial phantom. When I
have done with the balloon I shall burn it, and for this purpose,
you must give me a few pieces of another invention, which will come
next; I mean a few chemical matches. "

He obtained what he wanted, and flew away. The birds accompanied
him farther than they had the other brothers. They were curious to
know how this flight would end. Many more of them came swooping
down; they thought it must be some new bird, and he soon had a
goodly company of followers. They came in clouds till the air became
darkened with birds as it was with the cloud of locusts over the
land of Egypt.

And now he was out in the wide world. The balloon descended over
one of the greatest cities, and the aeronaut took up his station at
the highest point, on the church steeple. The balloon rose again
into the air, which it ought not to have done; what became of it is
not known, neither is it of any consequence, for balloons had not then
been invented.

There he sat on the church steeple. The birds no longer hovered
over him; they had got tired of him, and he was tired of them. All the
chimneys in the town were smoking.

"There are altars erected to my honor," said the wind, who
wished to say something agreeable to him as he sat there boldly
looking down upon the people in the street. There was one stepping
along, proud of his purse; another, of the key he carried behind
him, though he had nothing to lock up; another took a pride in his
moth-eaten coat; and another, in his mortified body. "Vanity, all
vanity! " he exclaimed. "I must go down there by-and-by, and touch
and taste; but I shall sit here a little while longer, for the wind
blows pleasantly at my back. I shall remain here as long as the wind
blows, and enjoy a little rest. It is comfortable to sleep late in the
morning when one had a great deal to do," said the sluggard; "so I
shall stop here as long as the wind blows, for it pleases me. "

And there he stayed. But as he was sitting on the weather-cock
of the steeple, which kept turning round and round with him, he was
under the false impression that the same wind still blew, and that
he could stay where he was without expense.

But in India, in the castle on the Tree of the Sun, all was
solitary and still, since the brothers had gone away one after the
other.

"Nothing goes well with them," said the father; "they will never
bring the glittering jewel home, it is not made for me; they are all
dead and gone. " Then he bent down over the Book of Truth, and gazed on
the page on which he should have read of the life after death, but for
him there was nothing to be read or learned upon it.

His blind daughter was his consolation and joy; she clung to him
with sincere affection, and for the sake of his happiness and peace
she wished the costly jewel could be found and brought home.

With longing tenderness she thought of her brothers. Where were
they? Where did they live? How she wished she might dream of them; but
it was strange that not even in dreams could she be brought near to
them. But at last one night she dreamt that she heard the voices of
her brothers calling to her from the distant world, and she could
not refrain herself, but went out to them, and yet it seemed in her
dream that she still remained in her father's house. She did not see
her brothers, but she felt as it were a fire burning in her hand,
which, however, did not hurt her, for it was the jewel she was
bringing to her father. When she awoke she thought for a moment that
she still held the stone, but she only grasped the knob of her
distaff.

During the long evenings she had spun constantly, and round the
distaff were woven threads finer than the web of a spider; human
eyes could never have distinguished these threads when separated
from each other. But she had wetted them with her tears, and the twist
was as strong as a cable. She rose with the impression that her
dream must be a reality, and her resolution was taken.

It was still night, and her father slept; she pressed a kiss
upon his hand, and then took her distaff and fastened the end of the
thread to her father's house. But for this, blind as she was, she
would never have found her way home again; to this thread she must
hold fast, and trust not to others or even to herself. From the Tree
of the Sun she broke four leaves; which she gave up to the wind and
the weather, that they might be carried to her brothers as letters and
a greeting, in case she did not meet them in the wide world. Poor
blind child, what would become of her in those distant regions? But
she had the invisible thread, to which she could hold fast; and she
possessed a gift which all the others lacked. This was a determination
to throw herself entirely into whatever she undertook, and it made her
feel as if she had eyes even at the tips of her fingers, and could
hear down into her very heart. Quietly she went forth into the
noisy, bustling, wonderful world, and wherever she went the skies grew
bright, and she felt the warm sunbeam, and a rainbow above in the blue
heavens seemed to span the dark world. She heard the song of the
birds, and smelt the scent of the orange groves and apple orchards
so strongly that she seemed to taste it. Soft tones and charming songs
reached her ear, as well as harsh sounds and rough words--thoughts and
opinions in strange contradiction to each other. Into the deepest
recesses of her heart penetrated the echoes of human thoughts and
feelings. Now she heard the following words sadly sung,--

"Life is a shadow that flits away
In a night of darkness and woe. "

But then would follow brighter thoughts:

"Life has the rose's sweet perfume
With sunshine, light, and joy. "

And if one stanza sounded painfully--

"Each mortal thinks of himself alone,
Is a truth, alas, too clearly known;"

Then, on the other hand, came the answer--

"Love, like a mighty flowing stream,
Fills every heart with its radiant gleam. "

She heard, indeed, such words as these--

"In the pretty turmoil here below,
All is a vain and paltry show.

Then came also words of comfort--

"Great and good are the actions done
By many whose worth is never known. "

And if sometimes the mocking strain reached her--

"Why not join in the jesting cry
That contemns all gifts from the throne on high? "

In the blind girl's heart a stronger voice repeated--

"To trust in thyself and God is best,
In His holy will forever to rest. "


But the evil spirit could not see this and remain contented. He
has more cleverness than ten thousand men, and he found means to
compass his end. He betook himself to the marsh, and collected a few
little bubbles of stagnant water. Then he uttered over them the echoes
of lying words that they might become strong. He mixed up together
songs of praise with lying epitaphs, as many as he could find,
boiled them in tears shed by envy; put upon them rouge, which he had
scraped from faded cheeks, and from these he produced a maiden, in
form and appearance like the blind girl, the angel of completeness, as
men called her. The evil one's plot was successful. The world knew not
which was the true, and indeed how should the world know?

"To trust in thyself and God is best,
In his Holy will forever to rest. "

So sung the blind girl in full faith. She had entrusted the four green
leaves from the Tree of the Sun to the winds, as letters of greeting
to her brothers, and she had full confidence that the leaves would
reach them. She fully believed that the jewel which outshines all
the glories of the world would yet be found, and that upon the
forehead of humanity it would glitter even in the castle of her
father. "Even in my father's house," she repeated. "Yes, the place
in which this jewel is to be found is earth, and I shall bring more
than the promise of it with me. I feel it glow and swell more and more
in my closed hand. Every grain of truth which the keen wind carried up
and whirled towards me I caught and treasured. I allowed it to be
penetrated with the fragrance of the beautiful, of which there is so
much in the world, even for the blind. I took the beatings of a
heart engaged in a good action, and added them to my treasure. All
that I can bring is but dust; still, it is a part of the jewel we
seek, and there is plenty, my hand is quite full of it. "

She soon found herself again at home; carried thither in a
flight of thought, never having loosened her hold of the invisible
thread fastened to her father's house. As she stretched out her hand
to her father, the powers of evil dashed with the fury of a
hurricane over the Tree of the Sun; a blast of wind rushed through the
open doors, and into the sanctuary, where lay the Book of Truth.

"It will be blown to dust by the wind," said the father, as he
seized the open hand she held towards him.

"No," she replied, with quiet confidence, "it is indestructible. I
feel its beam warming my very soul. "

Then her father observed that a dazzling flame gleamed from the
white page on which the shining dust had passed from her hand. It
was there to prove the certainty of eternal life, and on the book
glowed one shining word, and only one, the word BELIEVE. And soon
the four brothers were again with the father and daughter. When the
green leaf from home fell on the bosom of each, a longing had seized
them to return. They had arrived, accompanied by the birds of passage,
the stag, the antelope, and all the creatures of the forest who wished
to take part in their joy.

We have often seen, when a sunbeam burst through a crack in the
door into a dusty room, how a whirling column of dust seems to
circle round. But this was not poor, insignificant, common dust, which
the blind girl had brought; even the rainbow's colors are dim when
compared with the beauty which shone from the page on which it had
fallen. The beaming word BELIEVE, from every grain of truth, had the
brightness of the beautiful and the good, more bright than the
mighty pillar of flame that led Moses and the children of Israel to
the land of Canaan, and from the word BELIEVE arose the bridge of
hope, reaching even to the unmeasurable Love in the realms of the
infinite.




THE PHOENIX BIRD

In the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge,
bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His
flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous,
and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree
of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from
Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into
the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished
in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered
aloft a new one--the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that
he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to
death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the
world, rises up from the red egg.

The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color,
charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant's cradle, he stands
on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the
infant's head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings
sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly
sweet.

But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his
way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of
Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland
summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal
mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook
that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he
floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo
maid gleams bright when she beholds him.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise,
the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of
a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees
of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan's red
beak; on Shakspeare's shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin's raven,
and whispered in the poet's ear "Immortality! " and at the minstrels'
feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the
Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he
came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away
from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.

The Bird of Paradise--renewed each century--born in flame,
ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of
the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and
disregarded, a myth--"The Phoenix of Arabia. "

In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the
Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was
given thee--thy name, Poetry.




THE PORTUGUESE DUCK

A duck once arrived from Portugal, but there were some who said
she came from Spain, which is almost the same thing. At all events,
she was called the "Portuguese," and she laid eggs, was killed, and
cooked, and there was an end of her. But the ducklings which crept
forth from the eggs were also called "Portuguese," and about that
there may be some question. But of all the family one only remained in
the duckyard, which may be called a farmyard, as the chickens were
admitted, and the cock strutted about in a very hostile manner. "He
annoys me with his loud crowing," said the Portuguese duck; "but,
still, he's a handsome bird, there's no denying that, although he's
not a drake. He ought to moderate his voice, like those little birds
who are singing in the lime-trees over there in our neighbor's garden,
but that is an art only acquired in polite society. How sweetly they
sing there; it is quite a pleasure to listen to them! I call it
Portuguese singing. If I had only such a little singing-bird, I'd be
kind and good as a mother to him, for it's in my nature, in my
Portuguese blood. "

While she was speaking, one of the little singing-birds came
tumbling head over heels from the roof into the yard. The cat was
after him, but he had escaped from her with a broken wing, and so came
tumbling into the yard. "That's just like the cat, she's a villain,"
said the Portuguese duck. "I remember her ways when I had children
of my own. How can such a creature be allowed to live, and wander
about upon the roofs. I don't think they allow such things in
Portugal. " She pitied the little singing-bird, and so did all the
other ducks who were not Portuguese.

"Poor little creature! " they said, one after another, as they came
up. "We can't sing, certainly; but we have a sounding-board, or
something of the kind, within us; we can feel that, though we don't
talk about it. "

"But I can talk," said the Portuguese duck; "and I'll do something
for the little fellow; it's my duty;" and she stepped into the
water-trough, and beat her wings upon the water so strongly that the
bird was nearly drowned by a shower-bath; but the duck meant it
kindly. "That is a good deed," she said; "I hope the others will
take example by it. "

"Tweet, tweet! " said the little bird, for one of his wings being
broken, he found it difficult to shake himself; but he quite
understood that the bath was meant kindly, and he said, "You are
very kind-hearted, madam;" but he did not wish for a second bath.

"I have never thought about my heart," replied the Portuguese
duck, "but I know that I love all my fellow-creatures, except the cat,
and nobody can expect me to love her, for she ate up two of my
ducklings. But pray make yourself at home; it is easy to make one's
self comfortable. I am myself from a foreign country, as you may see
by my feathery dress. My drake is a native of these parts; he's not of
my race; but I am not proud on that account. If any one here can
understand you, I may say positively I am that person. "

"She's quite full of 'Portulak,'" said a little common duck, who
was witty. All the common ducks considered the word "Portulak" a
good joke, for it sounded like Portugal. They nudged each other, and
said, "Quack! that was witty! "

Then the other ducks began to notice the little bird. "The
Portuguese had certainly a great flow of language," they said to the
little bird. "For our part we don't care to fill our beaks with such
long words, but we sympathize with you quite as much. If we don't do
anything else, we can walk about with you everywhere, and we think
that is the best thing we can do. "

"You have a lovely voice," said one of the eldest ducks; "it
must be great satisfaction to you to be able to give so much
pleasure as you do. I am certainly no judge of your singing so I
keep my beak shut, which is better than talking nonsense, as others
do. "

"Don't plague him so," interposed the Portuguese duck; "he requires
rest and nursing. My little singing-bird do you wish me to prepare
another bath for you? "

"Oh, no! no! pray let me dry," implored the little bird.

"The water-cure is the only remedy for me, when I am not well,"
said the Portuguese. "Amusement, too, is very beneficial. The fowls
from the neighborhood will soon be here to pay you a visit. There
are two Cochin Chinese amongst them; they wear feathers on their legs,
and are well educated. They have been brought from a great distance,
and consequently I treat them with greater respect than I do the
others. "

Then the fowls arrived, and the cock was polite enough to-day to
keep from being rude. "You are a real songster," he said, "you do as
much with your little voice as it is possible to do; but there
requires more noise and shrillness in any one who wishes it to be
known who he is. "

The two Chinese were quite enchanted with the appearance of the
singing-bird. His feathers had been much ruffled by his bath, so
that he seemed to them quite like a tiny Chinese fowl. "He's
charming," they said to each other, and began a conversation with
him in whispers, using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect: "We
are of the same race as yourself," they said. "The ducks, even the
Portuguese, are all aquatic birds, as you must have noticed. You do
not know us yet,--very few know us, or give themselves the trouble
to make our acquaintance, not even any of the fowls, though we are
born to occupy a higher grade in society than most of them. But that
does not disturb us, we quietly go on in our own way among the rest,
whose ideas are certainly not ours; for we look at the bright side
of things, and only speak what is good, although that is sometimes
very difficult to find where none exists. Except ourselves and the
cock there is not one in the yard who can be called talented or
polite. It cannot even be said of the ducks, and we warn you, little
bird, not to trust that one yonder, with the short tail feathers,
for she is cunning; that curiously marked one, with the crooked
stripes on her wings, is a mischief-maker, and never lets any one have
the last word, though she is always in the wrong. That fat duck yonder
speaks evil of every one, and that is against our principles. If we
have nothing good to tell, we close our beaks. The Portuguese is the
only one who has had any education, and with whom we can associate,
but she is passionate, and talks too much about 'Portugal. '"

"I wonder what those two Chinese are whispering about,"
whispered one duck to another; "they are always doing it, and it
annoys me. We never speak to them. "

Now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing-bird
was a sparrow. "Well, I don't understand the difference," he said; "it
appears to me all the same. He's only a plaything, and if people
will have playthings, why let them, I say. "

"Don't take any notice of what he says," whispered the Portuguese;
"he's very well in matters of business, and with him business is
placed before everything. But now I shall lie down and have a little
rest. It is a duty we owe to ourselves that we may be nice and fat
when we come to be embalmed with sage and onions and apples. " So she
laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye; she had a very
comfortable place, and felt so comfortable that she fell asleep. The
little singing-bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing,
and at last he lay down, too, quite close to his protectress. The
sun shone warm and bright, and he found out that it was a very good
place. But the fowls of the neighborhood were all awake, and, to
tell the truth, they had paid a visit to the duckyard, simply and
solely to find food for themselves.
The Chinese were the first to
leave, and the other fowls soon followed them.

The witty little duck said of the Portuguese, that the old lady
was getting quite a "doting ducky," All the other ducks laughed at
this. "Doting ducky," they whispered. "Oh, that's too 'witty! '" And
then they repeated the former joke about "Portulak," and declared it
was most amusing. Then they all lay down to have a nap.

They had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly
something was thrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down
with such a bang, that the whole company started up and clapped
their wings. The Portuguese awoke too, and rushed over to the other
side: in so doing she trod upon the little singing-bird.

"Tweet," he cried; "you trod very hard upon me, madam. "

"Well, then, why do you lie in my way? " she retorted, "you must
not be so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry 'tweet. '"

"Don't be angry," said the little bird; "the 'tweet' slipped out
of my beak unawares. "

The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast
as she could, and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay
down again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to
sing,--

"Chirp and twitter,
The dew-drops glitter,
In the hours of sunny spring,
I'll sing my best,
Till I go to rest,
With my head behind my wing. "


"Now I want rest after my dinner," said the Portuguese; "you
must conform to the rules of the house while you are here. I want to
sleep now. "

The little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly.
When madam awoke afterwards, there he stood before her with a little
corn he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had not slept
well, she was naturally in a bad temper. "Give that to a chicken," she
said, "and don't be always standing in my way. "

"Why are you angry with me? " replied the little singing-bird,
"what have I done? "

"Done! " repeated the Portuguese duck, "your mode of expressing
yourself is not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact. "

"It was sunshine here yesterday," said the little bird, "but
to-day it is cloudy and the air is close. "

"You know very little about the weather, I fancy," she retorted,
"the day is not over yet. Don't stand there, looking so stupid. "

"But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I
fell into the yard yesterday. "

"Impertinent creature! " exclaimed the Portuguese duck: "would
you compare me with the cat--that beast of prey? There's not a drop of
malicious blood in me. I've taken your part, and now I'll teach you
better manners. " So saying, she made a bite at the little
singing-bird's head, and he fell dead on the ground. "Now whatever
is the meaning of this? " she said; "could he not bear even such a
little peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this
world. I've been like a mother to him, I know that, for I've a good
heart. "

Then the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in, and
crowed with steam-engine power.

"You'll kill me with your crowing," she cried, "it's all your
fault. He's lost his life, and I'm very near losing mine. "

"There's not much of him lying there," observed the cock.

"Speak of him with respect," said the Portuguese duck, "for he had
manners and education, and he could sing. He was affectionate and
gentle, and that is as rare a quality in animals as in those who
call themselves human beings. "

Then all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird. Ducks
have strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity. There was
nothing to envy here, so they all showed a great deal of pity, even
the two Chinese. "We shall never have another singing-bird again
amongst us; he was almost a Chinese," they whispered, and then they
wept with such a noisy, clucking sound, that all the other fowls
clucked too, but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards. "We
have hearts of our own," they said, "nobody can deny that. "

"Hearts! " repeated the Portuguese, "indeed you have, almost as
tender as the ducks in Portugal. "

"Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger," said
the drake, "that's the most important business. If one of our toys is
broken, why we have plenty more. "




THE PORTER'S SON

The General lived in the grand first floor, and the porter lived
in the cellar. There was a great distance between the two families--the
whole of the ground floor, and the difference in rank; but they
lived in the same house, and both had a view of the street, and of the
courtyard. In the courtyard was a grass-plot, on which grew a blooming
acacia tree (when it was in bloom), and under this tree sat
occasionally the finely-dressed nurse, with the still more
finely-dressed child of the General--little Emily. Before them
danced about barefoot the little son of the porter, with his great
brown eyes and dark hair; and the little girl smiled at him, and
stretched out her hands towards him; and when the General saw that
from the window, he would nod his head and cry, "Charming! " The
General's lady (who was so young that she might very well have been
her husband's daughter from an early marriage) never came to the
window that looked upon the courtyard. She had given orders, though,
that the boy might play his antics to amuse her child, but must
never touch it. The nurse punctually obeyed the gracious lady's
orders.

The sun shone in upon the people in the grand first floor, and
upon the people in the cellar; the acacia tree was covered with
blossoms, and they fell off, and next year new ones came. The tree
bloomed, and the porter's little son bloomed too, and looked like a
fresh tulip.

The General's little daughter became delicate and pale, like the
leaf of the acacia blossom. She seldom came down to the tree now,
for she took the air in a carriage. She drove out with her mamma,
and then she would always nod at the porter's George; yes, she used
even to kiss her hand to him, till her mamma said she was too old to
do that now.

One morning George was sent up to carry the General the letters
and newspapers that had been delivered at the porter's room in the
morning. As he was running up stairs, just as he passed the door of
the sand-box, he heard a faint piping. He thought it was some young
chicken that had strayed there, and was raising cries of distress; but
it was the General's little daughter, decked out in lace and finery.

"Don't tell papa and mamma," she whimpered; "they would be angry. "

"What's the matter, little missie? " asked George.

"It's all on fire! " she answered. "It's burning with a bright
flame! " George hurried up stairs to the General's apartments; he
opened the door of the nursery. The window curtain was almost entirely
burnt, and the wooden curtain-pole was one mass of flame. George
sprang upon a chair he brought in haste, and pulled down the burning
articles; he then alarmed the people. But for him, the house would
have been burned down.

The General and his lady cross-questioned little Emily.

"I only took just one lucifer-match," she said, "and it was
burning directly, and the curtain was burning too. I spat at it, to
put it out; I spat at it as much as ever I could, but I could not
put it out; so I ran away and hid myself, for papa and mamma would
be angry. "

"I spat! " cried the General's lady; "what an expression! Did you
ever hear your papa and mamma talk about spitting? You must have got
that from down stairs! "

And George had a penny given him. But this penny did not go to the
baker's shop, but into the savings-box; and soon there were so many
pennies in the savings-box that he could buy a paint-box and color the
drawings he made, and he had a great number of drawings. They seemed
to shoot out of his pencil and out of his fingers' ends. His first
colored pictures he presented to Emily.

"Charming! " said the General, and even the General's lady
acknowledged that it was easy to see what the boy had meant to draw.
"He has genius. " Those were the words that were carried down into
the cellar.

The General and his gracious lady were grand people. They had
two coats of arms on their carriage, a coat of arms for each of
them, and the gracious lady had had this coat of arms embroidered on
both sides of every bit of linen she had, and even on her nightcap and
her dressing-bag. One of the coats of arms, the one that belonged to
her, was a very dear one; it had been bought for hard cash by her
father, for he had not been born with it, nor had she; she had come
into the world too early, seven years before the coat of arms, and
most people remembered this circumstance, but the family did not
remember it. A man might well have a bee in his bonnet, when he had
such a coat of arms to carry as that, let alone having to carry two;
and the General's wife had a bee in hers when she drove to the court
ball, as stiff and as proud as you please.

The General was old and gray, but he had a good seat on horseback,
and he knew it, and he rode out every day, with a groom behind him
at a proper distance. When he came to a party, he looked somehow as if
he were riding into the room upon his high horse; and he had orders,
too, such a number that no one would have believed it; but that was
not his fault. As a young man he had taken part in the great autumn
reviews which were held in those days. He had an anecdote that he told
about those days, the only one he knew. A subaltern under his orders
had cut off one of the princes, and taken him prisoner, and the Prince
had been obliged to ride through the town with a little band of
captured soldiers, himself a prisoner behind the General. This was
an ever-memorable event, and was always told over and over again every
year by the General, who, moreover, always repeated the remarkable
words he had used when he returned his sword to the Prince; those
words were, "Only my subaltern could have taken your Highness
prisoner; I could never have done it! " And the Prince had replied,
"You are incomparable. " In a real war the General had never taken
part. When war came into the country, he had gone on a diplomatic
career to foreign courts. He spoke the French language so fluently
that he had almost forgotten his own; he could dance well, he could
ride well, and orders grew on his coat in an astounding way. The
sentries presented arms to him, one of the most beautiful girls
presented arms to him, and became the General's lady, and in time they
had a pretty, charming child, that seemed as if it had dropped from
heaven, it was so pretty; and the porter's son danced before it in the
courtyard, as soon as it could understand it, and gave her all his
colored pictures, and little Emily looked at them, and was pleased,
and tore them to pieces. She was pretty and delicate indeed.

"My little Roseleaf! " cried the General's lady, "thou art born
to wed a prince. "

The prince was already at the door, but they knew nothing of it;
people don't see far beyond the threshold.

"The day before yesterday our boy divided his bread and butter
with her! " said the porter's wife. There was neither cheese nor
meat upon it, but she liked it as well as if it had been roast beef.
There would have been a fine noise if the General and his wife had
seen the feast, but they did not see it.

George had divided his bread and butter with little Emily, and
he would have divided his heart with her, if it would have pleased
her. He was a good boy, brisk and clever, and he went to the night
school in the Academy now, to learn to draw properly. Little Emily was
getting on with her education too, for she spoke French with her
"bonne," and had a dancing master.


"George will be confirmed at Easter," said the porter's wife;
for George had got so far as this.

"It would be the best thing, now, to make an apprentice of him,"
said his father. "It must be to some good calling--and then he would
be out of the house. "

"He would have to sleep out of the house," said George's mother.
"It is not easy to find a master who has room for him at night, and we
shall have to provide him with clothes too. The little bit of eating
that he wants can be managed for him, for he's quite happy with a
few boiled potatoes; and he gets taught for nothing. Let the boy go
his own way. You will say that he will be our joy some day, and the
Professor says so too. "

The confirmation suit was ready. The mother had worked it herself;
but the tailor who did repairs had cut them out, and a capital
cutter-out he was.

"If he had had a better position, and been able to keep a workshop
and journeymen," the porter's wife said, "he might have been a court
tailor. "

The clothes were ready, and the candidate for confirmation was
ready. On his confirmation day, George received a great pinchbeck
watch from his godfather, the old iron monger's shopman, the richest
of his godfathers. The watch was an old and tried servant. It always
went too fast, but that is better than to be lagging behind. That
was a costly present. And from the General's apartment there arrived a
hymn-book bound in morocco, sent by the little lady to whom George had
given pictures. At the beginning of the book his name was written, and
her name, as "his gracious patroness. " These words had been written at
the dictation of the General's lady, and the General had read the
inscription, and pronounced it "Charming! "

"That is really a great attention from a family of such position,"
said the porter's wife; and George was sent up stairs to show
himself in his confirmation clothes, with the hymn-book in his hand.

The General's lady was sitting very much wrapped up, and had the
bad headache she always had when time hung heavy upon her hands. She
looked at George very pleasantly, and wished him all prosperity, and
that he might never have her headache. The General was walking about
in his dressing-gown. He had a cap with a long tassel on his head, and
Russian boots with red tops on his feet. He walked three times up
and down the room, absorbed in his own thoughts and recollections, and
then stopped and said:

"So little George is a confirmed Christian now. Be a good man, and
honor those in authority over you. Some day, when you are an old
man, you can say that the General gave you this precept. "

That was a longer speech than the General was accustomed to
make, and then he went back to his ruminations, and looked very
aristocratic. But of all that George heard and saw up there, little
Miss Emily remained most clear in his thoughts. How graceful she
was, how gentle, and fluttering, and pretty she looked. If she were to
be drawn, it ought to be on a soap-bubble. About her dress, about
her yellow curled hair, there was a fragrance as of a fresh-blown
rose; and to think that he had once divided his bread and butter
with her, and that she had eaten it with enormous appetite, and nodded
to him at every second mouthful! Did she remember anything about it?
Yes, certainly, for she had given him the beautiful hymn-book in
remembrance of this; and when the first new moon in the first new year
after this event came round, he took a piece of bread, a penny, and
his hymn-book, and went out into the open air, and opened the book
to see what psalm he should turn up. It was a psalm of praise and
thanksgiving. Then he opened the book again to see what would turn
up for little Emily. He took great pains not to open the book in the
place where the funeral hymns were, and yet he got one that referred
to the grave and death. But then he thought this was not a thing in
which one must believe; for all that he was startled when soon
afterwards the pretty little girl had to lie in bed, and the
doctor's carriage stopped at the gate every day.

"They will not keep her with them," said the porter's wife. "The
good God knows whom He will summon to Himself. "

But they kept her after all; and George drew pictures and sent
them to her. He drew the Czar's palace; the old Kremlin at Moscow,
just as it stood, with towers and cupolas; and these cupolas looked
like gigantic green and gold cucumbers, at least in George's
drawing. Little Emily was highly pleased, and consequently, when a
week had elapsed, George sent her a few more pictures, all with
buildings in them; for, you see, she could imagine all sorts of things
inside the windows and doors.

He drew a Chinese house, with bells hanging from every one of
sixteen stories. He drew two Grecian temples with slender marble
pillars, and with steps all round them. He drew a Norwegian church. It
was easy to see that this church had been built entirely of wood, hewn
out and wonderfully put together; every story looked as if it had
rockers, like a cradle. But the most beautiful of all was the
castle, drawn on one of the leaves, and which he called "Emily's
Castle. " This was the kind of place in which she must live. That is
what George had thought, and consequently he had put into this
building whatever he thought most beautiful in all the others. It
had carved wood-work, like the Norwegian church; marble pillars,
like the Grecian temple; bells in every story; and was crowned with
cupolas, green and gilded, like those of the Kremlin of the Czar. It
was a real child's castle, and under every window was written what the
hall or the room inside was intended to be; for instance: "Here
Emily sleeps;" "Here Emily dances;" "Here Emily plays at receiving
visitors. " It was a real pleasure to look at the castle, and right
well was the castle looked at accordingly.

"Charming! " said the General.

But the old Count--for there was an old Count there, who was still
grander than the General, and had a castle of his own--said nothing at
all; he heard that it had been designed and drawn by the porter's
little son. Not that he was so very little, either, for he had already
been confirmed. The old Count looked at the pictures, and had his
own thoughts as he did so.

One day, when it was very gloomy, gray, wet weather, the brightest
of days dawned for George; for the Professor at the Academy called him
into his room.

"Listen to me, my friend," said the Professor; "I want to speak to
you. The Lord has been good to you in giving you abilities, and He has
also been good in placing you among kind people. The old Count at
the corner yonder has been speaking to me about you. I have also
seen your sketches; but we will not say any more about those, for
there is a good deal to correct in them. But from this time forward
you may come twice a-week to my drawing-class, and then you will
soon learn how to do them better. I think there's more of the
architect than of the painter in you. You will have time to think that
over; but go across to the old Count this very day, and thank God
for having sent you such a friend. "

It was a great house--the house of the old Count at the corner.
Round the windows elephants and dromedaries were carved, all from
the old times; but the old Count loved the new time best, and what
it brought, whether it came from the first floor, or from the
cellar, or from the attic.

"I think," said, the porter's wife, "the grander people are, the
fewer airs do they give themselves. How kind and straightforward the
old count is! and he talks exactly like you and me. Now, the General
and his lady can't do that. And George was fairly wild with delight
yesterday at the good reception he met with at the Count's, and so
am I to-day, after speaking to the great man. Wasn't it a good thing
that we didn't bind George apprentice to a handicraftsman? for he
has abilities of his own. "

"But they must be helped on by others," said the father.

"That help he has got now," rejoined the mother; "for the Count
spoke out quite clearly and distinctly. "

"But I fancy it began with the General," said the father, "and
we must thank them too. "

"Let us do so with all my heart," cried the mother, "though I
fancy we have not much to thank them for. I will thank the good God;
and I will thank Him, too, for letting little Emily get well. "

Emily was getting on bravely, and George got on bravely too.