Third Reader: The Alexandra Readers. John Dearness
in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.
—Jean Blewett.
From “The Cornflower and Other Poems,” by permission.
WORK
Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?
“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;
I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;
I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;
Let those laugh who win!”
Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?
“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;
I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;
I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;
Is that worth pursuing?”
Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?
“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledglings lie;
I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;
By and by I shall teach them to fly,
Up and away, every one!”
Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?
“To fill my basket with precious pelf;
To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;
To find out the sweetest flower that grows,
Be it a thistle or be it a rose—
A secret worth the knowing!”
—Mary N. Prescott.
FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR
One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he kept wondering why it was that people who had so much money were never satisfied, but were always wanting more.
“Here,” said he, “is the master of this house—I know him well. He was always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He began building ships and sending them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He thought he would get mountains of gold.
“But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now his hopes all lie at the bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished like the dreams of a night. There are many such cases. Men seem never to be satisfied unless they can gain the whole world. As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear I would not wish anything more.”
Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar and stopped. She said to him: “Listen! I have long desired to help you. Hold your wallet and I shall pour this gold into it. But I shall pour only on this condition: All that falls into the wallet shall be pure gold, but every piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” said the beggar.
“Then have a care,” said Fortune. “Your wallet is old; so do not load it too heavily.”
The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars was poured into it. The wallet soon began to grow heavy.
“Is that enough?” asked Fortune.
“Not yet.”
“Isn’t it cracking?”
“Never fear.”
The beggar’s hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would only pour forever!
“You are the richest man in the world now!”
“Just a little more,” said the beggar; “add just a handful or two.”
“There, it’s full. The wallet will burst.”
“But it will hold a little more, just a little more!”
Another piece was added and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished.
The beggar had now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from top to bottom. He was as poor as before.
—From the Russian of Ivan Kriloff.
THE SPRITE
A little sprite sat on a moonbeam
When the night was waning away,
And over the world to the eastwards
Had spread the first flush of the day.
The moonbeam was cold and slippery,
And a fat little fairy was he;
Around him the white clouds were sleeping,
And under him slumbered the sea.
Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,
And laughed when she thought of the fun,
For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on
Would soon melt away in the sun;
So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder,
And winked at a bright little star—
The moon was remarkably knowing,
As old people always are.
“Great madam,” then answered the fairy,
“No doubt you are mightily wise,
And know possibly more than another
Of the ins and the outs of the skies.
But to think that we don’t in our own way
An interest in sky-things take
Is a common and fatal blunder
That sometimes you great ones make.
“For I’ve looked up from under the heather,
And watched you night after night,
And marked your silent motion
And the fall of your silvery light.
I have seen you grow larger and larger,
I have watched you fade away;
I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop
At the sudden approach of day.
“So don’t think for a moment, great madam,
Though a poor little body I be,
That