Third Reader: The Alexandra Readers. John Dearness
The rest of the people were either warriors, or else simple-minded shepherds and farmers.
In this monastery lived a servant whose duty it was to attend to the sheep and cattle. In the evenings, very often, his companions were in the habit of gathering together in the common hall or banquet room. There it was the custom, while the feast was going on, for each one in turn to take the harp as it was passed around the table, and make up some simple song to entertain his friends. Although these people knew nothing about reading or writing, they were wonderfully clever at singing songs and accompanying themselves on the harp.
Only the herdsman who attended to the sheep and cattle, and whose name was Cædmon, could never sing. So whenever the feasting time came, and his comrades began to pass the harp from one to another, he, being ashamed of his lack of skill, would leave the banquet hall to go alone to the little house where he slept.
One night, after he had left his comrades, and had attended to all the wants of the cattle under his care, he, as usual, went to sleep, and in his sleep he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed that to his door came a beautiful youth, with a light shining about his head, who said to him, “Cædmon, sing for me.” Cædmon answered: “But thou knowest I cannot sing. That is why I left my companions in the banquet hall, and came here to my lonely hut.” “Try,” said the beautiful youth, “and thou shalt find that thou canst sing.” Then Cædmon in wonder asked, “What shall I sing about?”—“Sing of the beauty of the world, and the glory of the stars and the skies, and of all that is on the earth,” was the answer.
Then in his sleep Cædmon sang a beautiful song, just as the youth had commanded him. But the strangest thing was that when he awoke he remembered every word of the song, and not only that, but he found he could sing a song about any thought that came into his mind; whereas, formerly, he had never been able to sing at all.
Wonderful, indeed, all this seemed to the humble shepherd. He told his companions about his dream, and they led him to the abbess, who was chief in the monastery, and bade him sing his songs for her.
So he sang. All the wise monks came to hear him, and tears came into their eyes at the beauty of his song; for when he sang, the sky and the earth and the sea these men had known all their lives seemed suddenly to be filled with a new glory. They all said that Cædmon had received a wonderful gift from God, and that he must use it in a holy way.
From that day on some one else guarded the sheep and the cattle in the monastery of Whitby; and the former shepherd learned to read and write, and became one of the monks of the abbey. Many and beautiful and holy were the songs he wrote. They were written in Anglo-Saxon, the language spoken by the ancestors of the English people, and this simple shepherd, Cædmon, who was the first of the Anglo-Saxon poets, was therefore really the father of all English poetry.
—Grace H. Kupfer.
THE BLUEBELL
There is a story I have heard—
A poet learned it from a bird,
And kept its music, every word—
A story of a dim ravine,
O’er which the towering tree-tops lean,
With one blue rift of sky between;
And there, two thousand years ago,
A little flower, as white as snow,
Swayed in the silence to and fro.
Day after day with longing eye,
The floweret watched the narrow sky,
And fleecy clouds that floated by.
And through the darkness, night by night,
One gleaming star would climb the height,
And cheer the lonely floweret’s sight.
Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,
And the rising of its favorite star,
A slow change came—but not to mar;
For softly o’er its petals white
There crept a blueness like the light
Of skies upon a summer night;
And in its chalice, I am told,
The bonny bell was found to hold
A tiny star that gleamed like gold.
And bluebells of the Scottish land
Are loved on every foreign strand
Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand.
Now, little people, sweet and true,
I find a lesson here for you,
Writ in the floweret’s bell of blue:
The patient child whose watchful eye
Strives after all things pure and high,
Shall take their image by and by.
—Anonymous.
LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF
O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
—Sir Walter Scott.
THE MINSTREL’S SONG
Once in the olden time a king called his heralds together to hear his bidding. And all the swift runners gathered before the king, each with a trumpet in his hand. And the king sent them forth into every part of the kingdom to sound their trumpets and to call aloud:—
“Hear, O ye minstrels! Our gracious king bids ye come to his court and play before the queen.”
The minstrels were men who went about from castle to castle and from palace to cot, singing beautiful songs and playing on harps. Wherever they roamed they were always sure of a welcome. They sang of the brave deeds that the knights had done, and of wars and battles. They sang of the mighty hunters that hunted in the great forests. They sang of fairies and goblins, of giants and elves. And because there were no storybooks in those days, everybody, from little children to the king, was glad to see them come.
When the minstrels heard the king’s message, they made haste to the palace; and it so happened that three of them met on the way and decided to travel together.
One of these minstrels was a young man named Harmonious; and while the others talked of the songs that they would sing, he gathered the wild flowers that grew by the