No More Learning

Helga
alone was awake. She leaned over the balcony, gazing at the
sparkling stars that shone clearer and brighter in the pure air than
they had done in the north, and yet they were the same stars. She
thought of the Viking's wife in the wild moorland, of the gentle
eyes of her foster-mother, and of the tears she had shed over the poor
frog-child that now lived in splendor and starry beauty by the
waters of the Nile, with air balmy and sweet as spring. She thought of
the love that dwelt in the breast of the heathen woman, love that
had been shown to a wretched creature, hateful as a human being, and
hideous when in the form of an animal. She looked at the glittering
stars, and thought of the radiance that had shone forth on the
forehead of the dead man, as she had fled with him over the woodland
and moor. Tones were awakened in her memory; words which she had heard
him speak as they rode onward, when she was carried, wondering and
trembling, through the air; words from the great Fountain of love, the
highest love that embraces all the human race. What had not been won
and achieved by this love?

Day and night beautiful Helga was absorbed in the contemplation of
the great amount of her happiness, and lost herself in the
contemplation, like a child who turns hurriedly from the giver to
examine the beautiful gifts. She was over-powered with her good
fortune, which seemed always increasing, and therefore what might it
become in the future? Had she not been brought by a wonderful
miracle to all this joy and happiness? And in these thoughts she
indulged, until at last she thought no more of the Giver. It was the
over-abundance of youthful spirits unfolding its wings for a daring
flight. Her eyes sparkled with energy, when suddenly arose a loud
noise in the court below, and the daring thought vanished. She
looked down, and saw two large ostriches running round quickly in
narrow circles; she had never seen these creatures before,--great,
coarse, clumsy-looking birds with curious wings that looked as if they
had been clipped, and the birds themselves had the appearance of
having been roughly used. She inquired about them, and for the first
time heard the legend which the Egyptians relate respecting the
ostrich.

Once, say they, the ostriches were a beautiful and glorious race
of birds, with large, strong wings. One evening the other large
birds of the forest said to the ostrich, "Brother, shall we fly to the
river to-morrow morning to drink, God willing? " and the ostrich
answered, "I will. "

With the break of day, therefore, they commenced their flight;
first rising high in the air, towards the sun, which is the eye of
God; still higher and higher the ostrich flew, far above the other
birds, proudly approaching the light, trusting in its own strength,
and thinking not of the Giver, or saying, "if God will. " When suddenly
the avenging angel drew back the veil from the flaming ocean of
sunlight, and in a moment the wings of the proud bird were scorched
and shrivelled, and they sunk miserably to the earth. Since that
time the ostrich and his race have never been able to rise in the air;
they can only fly terror-stricken along the ground, or run round and
round in narrow circles. It is a warning to mankind, that in all our
thoughts and schemes, and in every action we undertake, we should say,
"if God will. "

Then Helga bowed her head thoughtfully and seriously, and looked
at the circling ostrich, as with timid fear and simple pleasure it
glanced at its own great shadow on the sunlit walls. And the story
of the ostrich sunk deeply into the heart and mind of Helga: a life of
happiness, both in the present and in the future, seemed secure for
her, and what was yet to come might be the best of all, God willing.

Early in the spring, when the storks were again about to journey
northward, beautiful Helga took off her golden bracelets, scratched
her name on them, and beckoned to the stork-father. He came to her,
and she placed the golden circlet round his neck, and begged him to
deliver it safely to the Viking's wife, so that she might know that
her foster-daughter still lived, was happy, and had not forgotten her.

"It is rather heavy to carry," thought stork-papa, when he had
it on his neck; "but gold and honor are not to be flung into the
street. The stork brings good fortune--they'll be obliged to
acknowledge that at last. "

"You lay gold, and I lay eggs," said stork-mamma; "with you it
is only once in a way, I lay eggs every year But no one appreciates
what we do; I call it very mortifying. "

"But then we have a consciousness of our own worth, mother,"
replied stork-papa.

"What good will that do you? " retorted stork-mamma; "it will
neither bring you a fair wind, nor a good meal. "

"The little nightingale, who is singing yonder in the tamarind
grove, will soon be going north, too. " Helga said she had often
heard her singing on the wild moor, so she determined to send a
message by her. While flying in the swan's plumage she had learnt
the bird language; she had often conversed with the stork and the
swallow, and she knew that the nightingale would understand. So she
begged the nightingale to fly to the beechwood, on the peninsula of
Jutland, where a mound of stone and twigs had been raised to form
the grave, and she begged the nightingale to persuade all the other
little birds to build their nests round the place, so that evermore
should resound over that grave music and song. And the nightingale
flew away, and time flew away also.

In the autumn, an eagle, standing upon a pyramid, saw a stately
train of richly laden camels, and men attired in armor on foaming
Arabian steeds, whose glossy skins shone like silver, their nostrils
were pink, and their thick, flowing manes hung almost to their slender
legs. A royal prince of Arabia, handsome as a prince should be, and
accompanied by distinguished guests, was on his way to the stately
house, on the roof of which the storks' empty nests might be seen.
They were away now in the far north, but expected to return very soon.
And, indeed, they returned on a day that was rich in joy and gladness.

A marriage was being celebrated, in which the beautiful Helga,
glittering in silk and jewels, was the bride, and the bridegroom the
young Arab prince. Bride and bridegroom sat at the upper end of the
table, between the bride's mother and grandfather. But her gaze was
not on the bridegroom, with his manly, sunburnt face, round which
curled a black beard, and whose dark fiery eyes were fixed upon her;
but away from him, at a twinkling star, that shone down upon her
from the sky. Then was heard the sound of rushing wings beating the
air. The storks were coming home; and the old stork pair, although
tired with the journey and requiring rest, did not fail to fly down at
once to the balustrades of the verandah, for they knew already what
feast was being celebrated. They had heard of it on the borders of the
land, and also that Helga had caused their figures to be represented
on the walls, for they belonged to her history.

"I call that very sensible and pretty," said stork-papa.

"Yes, but it is very little," said mamma stork; "they could not
possibly have done less. "

But, when Helga saw them, she rose and went out into the
verandah to stroke the backs of the storks. The old stork pair bowed
their heads, and curved their necks, and even the youngest among the
young ones felt honored by this reception.

Helga continued to gaze upon the glittering star, which seemed
to glow brighter and purer in its light; then between herself and
the star floated a form, purer than the air, and visible through it.
It floated quite near to her, and she saw that it was the dead
Christian priest, who also was coming to her wedding feast--coming
from the heavenly kingdom.

"The glory and brightness, yonder, outshines all that is known
on earth," said he.

Then Helga the fair prayed more gently, and more earnestly, than
she had ever prayed in her life before, that she might be permitted to
gaze, if only for a single moment, at the glory and brightness of
the heavenly kingdom. Then she felt herself lifted up, as it were,
above the earth, through a sea of sound and thought; not only around
her, but within her, was there light and song, such as words cannot
express.

"Now we must return;" he said; "you will be missed. "

"Only one more look," she begged; "but one short moment more. "

"We must return to earth; the guests will have all departed.
Only one more look! --the last! "

Then Helga stood again in the verandah. But the marriage lamps
in the festive hall had been all extinguished, and the torches outside
had vanished. The storks were gone; not a guest could be seen; no
bridegroom--all in those few short moments seemed to have died. Then a
great dread fell upon her. She stepped from the verandah through the
empty hall into the next chamber, where slept strange warriors. She
opened a side door, which once led into her own apartment, but now, as
she passed through, she found herself suddenly in a garden which she
had never before seen here, the sky blushed red, it was the dawn of
morning. Three minutes only in heaven, and a whole night on earth
had passed away! Then she saw the storks, and called to them in
their own language.

Then stork-papa turned his head towards here, listened to her
words, and drew near. "You speak our language," said he, "what do
you wish? Why do you appear,--you--a strange woman? "

"It is I--it is Helga! Dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we
were speaking together yonder in the verandah. "

"That is a mistake," said the stork, "you must have dreamed all
this. "

"No, no," she exclaimed. Then she reminded him of the Viking's
castle, of the great lake, and of the journey across the ocean.

Then stork-papa winked his eyes, and said, "Why that's an old
story which happened in the time of my grandfather. There certainly
was a princess of that kind here in Egypt once, who came from the
Danish land, but she vanished on the evening of her wedding day,
many hundred years ago, and never came back. You may read about it
yourself yonder, on a monument in the garden. There you will find
swans and storks sculptured, and on the top is a figure of the
princess Helga, in marble. "

And so it was; Helga understood it all now, and sank on her knees.
The sun burst forth in all its glory, and, as in olden times, the form
of the frog vanished in his beams, and the beautiful form stood
forth in all its loveliness; so now, bathed in light, rose a beautiful
form, purer, clearer than air--a ray of brightness--from the Source of
light Himself. The body crumbled into dust, and a faded lotus-flower
lay on the spot on which Helga had stood.

"Now that is a new ending to the story," said stork-papa; "I
really never expected it would end in this way, but it seems a very
good ending. "

"And what will the young ones say to it, I wonder? " said
stork-mamma.

"Ah, that is a very important question," replied the stork.




THE METAL PIG

In the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca,
runs a little street called Porta Rosa. In this street, just in
front of the market-place where vegetables are sold, stands a pig,
made of brass and curiously formed. The bright color has been
changed by age to dark green; but clear, fresh water pours from the
snout, which shines as if it had been polished, and so indeed it
has, for hundreds of poor people and children seize it in their
hands as they place their mouths close to the mouth of the animal,
to drink. It is quite a picture to see a half-naked boy clasping the
well-formed creature by the head, as he presses his rosy lips
against its jaws. Every one who visits Florence can very quickly
find the place; he has only to ask the first beggar he meets for the
Metal Pig, and he will be told where it is.

It was late on a winter evening; the mountains were covered with
snow, but the moon shone brightly, and moonlight in Italy is like a
dull winter's day in the north; indeed it is better, for clear air
seems to raise us above the earth, while in the north a cold, gray,
leaden sky appears to press us down to earth, even as the cold damp
earth shall one day press on us in the grave. In the garden of the
grand duke's palace, under the roof of one of the wings, where a
thousand roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been sitting
the whole day long; a boy, who might serve as a type of Italy,
lovely and smiling, and yet still suffering. He was hungry and
thirsty, yet no one gave him anything; and when it became dark, and
they were about to close the gardens, the porter turned him out. He
stood a long time musing on the bridge which crosses the Arno, and
looking at the glittering stars, reflected in the water which flowed
between him and the elegant marble bridge Della Trinita. He then
walked away towards the Metal Pig, half knelt down, clasped it with
his arms, and then put his mouth to the shining snout and drank deep
draughts of the fresh water. Close by, lay a few salad-leaves and
two chestnuts, which were to serve for his supper. No one was in the
street but himself; it belonged only to him, so he boldly seated
himself on the pig's back, leaned forward so that his curly head could
rest on the head of the animal, and, before he was aware, he fell
asleep.

It was midnight. The Metal Pig raised himself gently, and the
boy heard him say quite distinctly, "Hold tight, little boy, for I
am going to run;" and away he started for a most wonderful ride.
First, they arrived at the Piazza del Granduca, and the metal horse
which bears the duke's statue, neighed aloud. The painted
coats-of-arms on the old council-house shone like transparent
pictures, and Michael Angelo's David tossed his sling; it was as if
everything had life. The metallic groups of figures, among which
were Perseus and the Rape of the Sabines, looked like living
persons, and cries of terror sounded from them all across the noble
square. By the Palazzo degli Uffizi, in the arcade, where the nobility
assemble for the carnival, the Metal Pig stopped. "Hold fast," said
the animal; "hold fast, for I am going up stairs. "

The little boy said not a word; he was half pleased and half
afraid. They entered a long gallery, where the boy had been before.
The walls were resplendent with paintings; here stood statues and
busts, all in a clear light as if it were day. But the grandest
appeared when the door of a side room opened; the little boy could
remember what beautiful things he had seen there, but to-night
everything shone in its brightest colors. Here stood the figure of a
beautiful woman, as beautifully sculptured as possible by one of the
great masters. Her graceful limbs appeared to move; dolphins sprang at
her feet, and immortality shone from her eyes. The world called her
the Venus de' Medici. By her side were statues, in which the spirit of
life breathed in stone; figures of men, one of whom whetted his sword,
and was named the Grinder; wrestling gladiators formed another
group, the sword had been sharpened for them, and they strove for
the goddess of beauty. The boy was dazzled by so much glitter; for the
walls were gleaming with bright colors, all appeared living reality.

As they passed from hall to hall, beauty everywhere showed itself;
and as the Metal Pig went step by step from one picture to the
other, the little boy could see it all plainly. One glory eclipsed
another; yet there was one picture that fixed itself on the little
boy's memory, more especially because of the happy children it
represented, for these the little boy had seen in daylight. Many
pass this picture by with indifference, and yet it contains a treasure
of poetic feeling; it represents Christ descending into Hades. They
are not the lost whom the spectator sees, but the heathen of olden
times. The Florentine, Angiolo Bronzino, painted this picture; most
beautiful is the expression on the face of the two children, who
appear to have full confidence that they shall reach heaven at last.
They are embracing each other, and one little one stretches out his
hand towards another who stands below him, and points to himself, as
if he were saying, "I am going to heaven. " The older people stand as
if uncertain, yet hopeful, and they bow in humble adoration to the
Lord Jesus. On this picture the boy's eyes rested longer than on any
other: the Metal Pig stood still before it. A low sigh was heard.
Did it come from the picture or from the animal? The boy raised his
hands towards the smiling children, and then the Pig ran off with
him through the open vestibule.

"Thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal," said the little boy,
caressing the Metal Pig as it ran down the steps.

"Thanks to yourself also," replied the Metal Pig; "I have helped
you and you have helped me, for it is only when I have an innocent
child on my back that I receive the power to run. Yes; as you see, I
can even venture under the rays of the lamp, in front of the picture
of the Madonna, but I may not enter the church; still from without,
and while you are upon my back, I may look in through the open door.
Do not get down yet, for if you do, then I shall be lifeless, as you
have seen me in the Porta Rosa. "

"I will stay with you, my dear creature," said the little boy.
So then they went on at a rapid pace through the streets of
Florence, till they came to the square before the church of Santa
Croce. The folding-doors flew open, and light streamed from the
altar through the church into the deserted square. A wonderful blaze
of light streamed from one of the monuments in the left-side aisle,
and a thousand moving stars seemed to form a glory round it; even
the coat-of-arms on the tomb-stone shone, and a red ladder on a blue
field gleamed like fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument
is unadorned, but the red ladder is an emblem of art, signifying
that the way to glory leads up a shining ladder, on which the prophets
of mind rise to heaven, like Elias of old. In the right aisle of the
church every statue on the richly carved sarcophagi seemed endowed
with life. Here stood Michael Angelo; there Dante, with the laurel
wreath round his brow; Alfieri and Machiavelli; for here side by
side rest the great men--the pride of Italy. The church itself is very
beautiful, even more beautiful than the marble cathedral at
Florence, though not so large. It seemed as if the carved vestments
stirred, and as if the marble figures they covered raised their
heads higher, to gaze upon the brightly colored glowing altar where
the white-robed boys swung the golden censers, amid music and song,
while the strong fragrance of incense filled the church, and
streamed forth into the square. The boy stretched forth his hands
towards the light, and at the same moment the Metal Pig started
again so rapidly that he was obliged to cling tightly to him. The wind
whistled in his ears, he heard the church door creak on its hinges
as it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses--then
a cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.

It was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the
Porta Rosa, and the boy found he had slipped nearly off its back. Fear
and trembling came upon him as he thought of his mother; she had
sent him out the day before to get some money, he had not done so, and
now he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he clasped the neck of his
metal horse, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell to it. Then he
wandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there was
scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door
stood ajar; he passed through, and climbed up a brick staircase,
with dirty walls and a rope for a balustrade, till he came to an
open gallery hung with rags. From here a flight of steps led down to a
court, where from a well water was drawn up by iron rollers to the
different stories of the house, and where the water-buckets hung
side by side. Sometimes the roller and the bucket danced in the air,
splashing the water all over the court. Another broken-down
staircase led from the gallery, and two Russian sailors running down
it almost upset the poor boy. They were coming from their nightly
carousal. A woman not very young, with an unpleasant face and a
quantity of black hair, followed them. "What have you brought home? "
she asked, when she saw the boy.

"Don't be angry," he pleaded; "I received nothing, I have
nothing at all;" and he seized his mother's dress and would have
kissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need not describe
it, but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles,
made for holding fire, which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she
took in her lap, warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her
elbow.

"Certainly you must have some money," she said. The boy began to
cry, and then she struck him with her foot till he cried out louder.

"Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;" and she
swung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand, while the boy
crouched to the earth and screamed.

Then a neighbor came in, and she had also a marito under her
arm. "Felicita," she said, "what are you doing to the child? "

"The child is mine," she answered; "I can murder him if I like,
and you too, Giannina. " And then she swung about the fire-pot. The
other woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed
together so violently that they were dashed to pieces, and fire and
ashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out at the sight, sped
across the courtyard, and fled from the house. The poor child ran till
he was quite out of breath; at last he stopped at the church, the
doors of which were opened to him the night before, and went in.
Here everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first tomb
on his right, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his
heart would break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no
one noticed the boy, excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and
looked at him for a moment, and then went away like the rest. Hunger
and thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill.
At last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments, and went
to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve;
he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.

"Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day? " were
some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers,
the old man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street.
They entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A
little white poodle, so closely shaven that his pink skin could
plainly be seen, frisked about the room, and gambolled upon the boy.

"Innocent souls are soon intimate," said the woman, as she
caressed both the boy and the dog. These good people gave the child
food and drink, and said he should stay with them all night, and
that the next day the old man, who was called Giuseppe, would go and
speak to his mother. A little homely bed was prepared for him, but
to him who had so often slept on the hard stones it was a royal couch,
and he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures and of the
Metal Pig. Giuseppe went out the next morning, and the poor child
was not glad to see him go, for he knew that the old man was gone to
his mother, and that, perhaps, he would have to go back. He wept at
the thought, and then he played with the little, lively dog, and
kissed it, while the old woman looked kindly at him to encourage
him. And what news did Giuseppe bring back? At first the boy could not
hear, for he talked a great deal to his wife, and she nodded and
stroked the boy's cheek.

Then she said, "He is a good lad, he shall stay with us, he may
become a clever glovemaker, like you. Look what delicate fingers he
has got; Madonna intended him for a glovemaker. " So the boy stayed
with them, and the woman herself taught him to sew; and he ate well,
and slept well, and became very merry. But at last he began to tease
Bellissima, as the little dog was called. This made the woman angry,
and she scolded him and threatened him, which made him very unhappy,
and he went and sat in his own room full of sad thoughts. This chamber
looked upon the street, in which hung skins to dry, and there were
thick iron bars across his window. That night he lay awake, thinking
of the Metal Pig; indeed, it was always in his thoughts. Suddenly he
fancied he heard feet outside going pit-a-pat. He sprung out of bed
and went to the window. Could it be the Metal Pig?
But there was
nothing to be seen; whatever he had heard had passed already. Next
morning, their neighbor, the artist, passed by, carrying a paint-box
and a large roll of canvas.

"Help the gentleman to carry his box of colors," said the woman to
the boy; and he obeyed instantly, took the box, and followed the
painter. They walked on till they reached the picture gallery, and
mounted the same staircase up which he had ridden that night on the
Metal Pig. He remembered all the statues and pictures, the beautiful
marble Venus, and again he looked at the Madonna with the Saviour
and St. John. They stopped before the picture by Bronzino, in which
Christ is represented as standing in the lower world, with the
children smiling before Him, in the sweet expectation of entering
heaven; and the poor boy smiled, too, for here was his heaven.

"You may go home now," said the painter, while the boy stood
watching him, till he had set up his easel.

"May I see you paint? " asked the boy; "may I see you put the
picture on this white canvas? "

"I am not going to paint yet," replied the artist; then he brought
out a piece of chalk. His hand moved quickly, and his eye measured the
great picture; and though nothing appeared but a faint line, the
figure of the Saviour was as clearly visible as in the colored
picture.

"Why don't you go? " said the painter. Then the boy wandered home
silently, and seated himself on the table, and learned to sew
gloves. But all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery; and
so he pricked his fingers and was awkward. But he did not tease
Bellissima. When evening came, and the house door stood open, he
slipped out. It was a bright, beautiful, starlight evening, but rather
cold. Away he went through the already-deserted streets, and soon came
to the Metal Pig; he stooped down and kissed its shining nose, and
then seated himself on its back.

"You happy creature," he said; "how I have longed for you! we must
take a ride to-night. "

But the Metal Pig lay motionless, while the fresh stream gushed
forth from its mouth. The little boy still sat astride on its back,
when he felt something pulling at his clothes. He looked down, and
there was Bellissima, little smooth-shaven Bellissima, barking as if
she would have said, "Here I am too; why are you sitting there? "

A fiery dragon could not have frightened the little boy so much as
did the little dog in this place. "Bellissima in the street, and not
dressed! " as the old lady called it; "what would be the end of this? "

The dog never went out in winter, unless she was attired in a
little lambskin coat which had been made for her; it was fastened
round the little dog's neck and body with red ribbons, and was
decorated with rosettes and little bells. The dog looked almost like a
little kid when she was allowed to go out in winter, and trot after
her mistress. And now here she was in the cold, and not dressed. Oh,
how would it end? All his fancies were quickly put to flight; yet he
kissed the Metal Pig once more, and then took Bellissima in his
arms. The poor little thing trembled so with cold, that the boy ran
homeward as fast as he could.

"What are you running away with there? " asked two of the police
whom he met, and at whom the dog barked. "Where have you stolen that
pretty dog? " they asked; and they took it away from him.

"Oh, I have not stolen it; do give it to me back again," cried the
boy, despairingly.

"If you have not stolen it, you may say at home that they can send
to the watch-house for the dog. " Then they told him where the
watch-house was, and went away with Bellissima.

Here was a dreadful trouble. The boy did not know whether he had
better jump into the Arno, or go home and confess everything. They
would certainly kill him, he thought.

"Well, I would gladly be killed," he reasoned; "for then I shall
die, and go to heaven:" and so he went home, almost hoping for death.

The door was locked, and he could not reach the knocker. No one
was in the street; so he took up a stone, and with it made a
tremendous noise at the door.

"Who is there? " asked somebody from within.

"It is I," said he. "Bellissima is gone. Open the door, and then
kill me. "

Then indeed there was a great panic. Madame was so very fond of
Bellissima. She immediately looked at the wall where the dog's dress
usually hung; and there was the little lambskin.

"Bellissima in the watch-house! " she cried. "You bad boy! how
did you entice her out? Poor little delicate thing, with those rough
policemen! and she'll be frozen with cold. "

Giuseppe went off at once, while his wife lamented, and the boy
wept. Several of the neighbors came in, and amongst them the
painter. He took the boy between his knees, and questioned him; and,
in broken sentences, he soon heard the whole story, and also about the
Metal Pig, and the wonderful ride to the picture-gallery, which was
certainly rather incomprehensible. The painter, however, consoled
the little fellow, and tried to soften the lady's anger; but she would
not be pacified till her husband returned with Bellissima, who had
been with the police. Then there was great rejoicing, and the
painter caressed the boy, and gave him a number of pictures. Oh,
what beautiful pictures these were! --figures with funny heads; and,
above all, the Metal Pig was there too. Oh, nothing could be more
delightful. By means of a few strokes, it was made to appear on the
paper; and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched in.
Oh, if he could only draw and paint! He who could do this could
conjure all the world before him. The first leisure moment during
the next day, the boy got a pencil, and on the back of one of the
other drawings he attempted to copy the drawing of the Metal Pig,
and he succeeded. Certainly it was rather crooked, rather up and down,
one leg thick, and another thin; still it was like the copy, and he
was overjoyed at what he had done. The pencil would not go quite as it
ought,--he had found that out; but the next day he tried again. A
second pig was drawn by the side of the first, and this looked a
hundred times better; and the third attempt was so good, that
everybody might know what it was meant to represent.

And now the glovemaking went on but slowly. The orders given by
the shops in the town were not finished quickly; for the Metal Pig had
taught the boy that all objects may be drawn upon paper; and
Florence is a picture-book in itself for any one who chooses to turn
over its pages. On the Piazza dell Trinita stands a slender pillar,
and upon it is the goddess of Justice, blindfolded, with her scales in
her hand. She was soon represented on paper, and it was the
glovemaker's boy who placed her there. His collection of pictures
increased; but as yet they were only copies of lifeless objects,
when one day Bellissima came gambolling before him: "Stand still,"
cried he, "and I will draw you beautifully, to put amongst my
collection. "

But Bellissima would not stand still, so she must be bound fast in
one position. He tied her head and tail; but she barked and jumped,
and so pulled and tightened the string, that she was nearly strangled;
and just then her mistress walked in.

"You wicked boy! the poor little creature! " was all she could
utter.

She pushed the boy from her, thrust him away with her foot, called
him a most ungrateful, good-for-nothing, wicked boy, and forbade him
to enter the house again. Then she wept, and kissed her little
half-strangled Bellissima. At this moment the painter entered the
room.

* * * * *

In the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts at
Florence. Two pictures, placed side by side, attracted a large
number of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little
boy sitting at a table, drawing; before him was a little white poodle,
curiously shaven; but as the animal would not stand still, it had been
fastened with a string to its head and tail, to keep it in one
position. The truthfulness and life in this picture interested every
one. The painter was said to be a young Florentine, who had been found
in the streets, when a child, by an old glovemaker, who had brought
him up. The boy had taught himself to draw: it was also said that a
young artist, now famous, had discovered talent in the child just as
he was about to be sent away for having tied up madame's favorite
little dog, and using it as a model. The glovemaker's boy had also
become a great painter, as the picture proved; but the larger
picture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent. It
represented a handsome boy, clothed in rags, lying asleep, and leaning
against the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa. All the
spectators knew the spot well. The child's arms were round the neck of
the Pig, and he was in a deep sleep. The lamp before the picture of
the Madonna threw a strong, effective light on the pale, delicate face
of the child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame
surrounded it, and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been
hung; but a black band, twined unseen among the green leaves, and a
streamer of crape, hung down from it; for within the last few days the
young artist had--died.




THE MONEY-BOX

In a nursery where a number of toys lay scattered about, a
money-box stood on the top of a very high wardrobe. It was made of
clay in the shape of a pig, and had been bought of the potter. In
the back of the pig was a slit, and this slit had been enlarged with a
knife, so that dollars, or crown pieces, might slip through; and,
indeed there were two in the box, besides a number of pence. The
money-pig was stuffed so full that it could no longer rattle, which is
the highest state of perfection to which a money-pig can attain. There
he stood upon the cupboard, high and lofty, looking down upon
everything else in the room. He knew very well that he had enough
inside him to buy up all the other toys, and this gave him a very good
opinion of his own value. The rest thought of this fact also, although
they did not express it, for there were so many other things to talk
about. A large doll, still handsome, though rather old, for her neck
had been mended, lay inside one of the drawers which was partly
open. She called out to the others, "Let us have a game at being men
and women, that is something worth playing at. "

Upon this there was a great uproar; even the engravings, which
hung in frames on the wall, turned round in their excitement, and
showed that they had a wrong side to them, although they had not the
least intention to expose themselves in this way, or to object to
the game. It was late at night, but as the moon shone through the
windows, they had light at a cheap rate. And as the game was now to
begin, all were invited to take part in it, even the children's wagon,
which certainly belonged to the coarser playthings. "Each has its
own value," said the wagon; "we cannot all be noblemen; there must
be some to do the work. "

The money-pig was the only one who received a written
invitation. He stood so high that they were afraid he would not accept
a verbal message. But in his reply, he said, if he had to take a part,
he must enjoy the sport from his own home; they were to arrange for
him to do so; and so they did. The little toy theatre was therefore
put up in such a way that the money-pig could look directly into it.
Some wanted to begin with a comedy, and afterwards to have a tea party
and a discussion for mental improvement, but they commenced with the
latter first. The rocking-horse spoke of training and races; the wagon
of railways and steam power, for these subjects belonged to each of
their professions, and it was right they should talk of them. The
clock talked politics--"tick, tick;" he professed to know what was the
time of day, but there was a whisper that he did not go correctly. The
bamboo cane stood by, looking stiff and proud: he was vain of his
brass ferrule and silver top, and on the sofa lay two worked cushions,
pretty but stupid. When the play at the little theatre began, the rest
sat and looked on; they were requested to applaud and stamp, or crack,
when they felt gratified with what they saw. But the riding-whip
said he never cracked for old people, only for the young who were
not yet married. "I crack for everybody," said the cracker.

"Yes, and a fine noise you make," thought the audience, as the
play went on.

It was not worth much, but it was very well played, and all the
characters turned their painted sides to the audience, for they were
made only to be seen on one side. The acting was wonderful,
excepting that sometimes they came out beyond the lamps, because the
wires were a little too long. The doll, whose neck had been darned,
was so excited that the place in her neck burst, and the money-pig
declared he must do something for one of the players, as they had
all pleased him so much. So he made up his mind to remember one of
them in his will, as the one to be buried with him in the family
vault, whenever that event should happen. They all enjoyed the
comedy so much, that they gave up all thoughts of the tea party, and
only carried out their idea of intellectual amusement, which they
called playing at men and women; and there was nothing wrong about it,
for it was only play. All the while, each one thought most of himself,
or of what the money-pig could be thinking. His thoughts were on, as
he supposed, a very distant time--of making his will, and of his
burial, and of when it might all come to pass. Certainly sooner than
he expected--for all at once down he came from the top of the press,
fell on the ground, and was broken to pieces. Then the pennies
hopped and danced about in the most amusing manner. The little ones
twirled round like tops, and the large ones rolled away as far as they
could, especially the one great silver crown piece who had often to go
out into the world, and now he had his wish as well as all the rest of
the money. The pieces of the money-pig were thrown into the
dust-bin, and the next day there stood a new money-pig on the
cupboard, but it had not a farthing in its inside yet, and
therefore, like the old one, it could not rattle. This was the
beginning with him, and we will make it the end of our story.




WHAT THE MOON SAW

INTRODUCTION

It is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most deeply,
my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot rightly
describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising within me;
and yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that, and all my
friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but
I do not want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an
extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few
days I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary
enough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I
had here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I
had not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.

So one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and
presently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart
leaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last--a round,
friendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.
In, fact, it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite
unchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he
used to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on
the moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far
into my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every
evening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few
moments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can
only stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he
tells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous
night, or on that same evening. "Just paint the scenes I describe to
you"--this is what he said to me--"and you will have a very pretty
picture-book. " I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I
could make up a new "Thousand and One Nights," in my own way, out of
these pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The
pictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but
follow in their proper order, just as they were described to me.
Some great gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make
something more of them if he likes; what I have given here are only
hasty sketches, hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own
thoughts, interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every
evening--a cloud sometimes hid his face from me.


FIRST EVENING

"Last night"--I am quoting the Moon's own words--"last night I was
gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in
the waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the
thick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like
the tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid,
light as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision,
and yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this
daughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought
that had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her
sandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that
had come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a
startled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I
could see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them
for a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream,
and set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame
flickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp
burned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind
their long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest
intensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as
she could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if
the lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned
bravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the
grass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not--she thought only of
Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives! ' she shouted joyfully, 'he
lives! ' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he
lives! "


SECOND EVENING

"Yesterday," said the Moon to me, "I looked down upon a small
courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a
clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was
running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,
and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father
came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the
matter.

"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into
the same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little
girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the
bolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They
cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran
about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite
plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was
angry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out
and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly
by the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of
large tears. 'What are you about here? ' he asked. She wept and said,
'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her
yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you. '

"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed
her on the mouth and eyes. "


THIRD EVENING

"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow
that my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the
house, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made
of--in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that
woman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in
the country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were
faded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches
grew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few
roses still in bloom--not so fair as the queen of flowers generally
appears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's
little daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on
her stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll
with the battered pasteboard cheeks.

"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a
splendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I
rejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah,
nobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my
rose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage.
There are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last
act of one.

"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was
sick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the
thin coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up! ' said
he; 'your face is enough to frighten one.