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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 THE HOUSE WREN
Neltje Blanchan
When you are sound asleep some April morning, a tiny brown
bird, just returned from a long visit south, will probably alight on the
perch in front of one of your boxes, peep in the doorhole, enter—
although his pert little cocked-up tail has to be lowered to let him
through—look about with approval, go out, spring to the roof and
pour out of his wee throat a gushing torrent of music. The song
seems to bubble up faster than he can sing. After the wren’s happy
discovery of a place to live, his song will go off in a series of musical
explosions all day long, now from the roof, now from the clothes
posts, the fence, the barn, or the woodpile. There never was a more
tireless, spirited, brilliant singer. From the intensity of his feelings, he
sometimes droops that expressive little tail of his, which is usually so
erect and saucy.
With characteristic energy, he frequently begins to carry twigs into
the house before he finds a mate. The day little Jenny Wren appears
on the scene, how he does sing! Dashing off for more twigs, but
stopping to sing to her every other minute, he helps furnish the
cottage quickly, but, of course, he overdoes—he carries in more
twigs and hay and feathers than the little house can hold, then pulls
half of them out again. Jenny gathers, too, for she is a bustling
housewife and arranges matters with neatness and despatch.
Neither vermin nor dust will she tolerate within her well-kept home.
Everything she does to suit herself pleases her ardent little lover. He
applauds her with song; he flies about after her with a nervous
desire to protect; he seems beside himself with happiness. Let any
one pass too near his best beloved, and he begins to chatter
excitedly: “Chit-chit-chit-chit,” as much as to say, “Oh, do go away;
go quickly! Can’t you see how nervous and fidgety you make me?”
If you fancy that Jenny Wren, who is patiently sitting on the little
pinkish, chocolate spotted eggs in the centre of her feather bed, is a
demure, angelic creature, you have never seen her attack the
sparrow, nearly twice her size, that dares put his impudent head
inside her door. Oh! how she flies at him! How she chatters and
scolds! What a plucky little shrew she is, after all! Her piercing,
chattering, scolding notes are fairly hissed into his ears until he is
thankful enough to escape.

There’s a little brown wren that has built in our tree,[10]

And she’s scarcely as big as a big bumble-bee;
She has hollowed a house in the heart of a limb,
And made the walls tidy and made the doors trim
With the down of the crow’s foot, and tow, and with straw
The cosiest dwelling that you ever saw.

The little brown wren has the brightest of eyes

And a foot of very diminutive size.
Her tail is as big as the sail of a ship.
She’s demure, though she walks with a hop and a skip;
And her voice—but a flute were more fit than a pen
To tell of the voice of the little brown wren.

One morning Sir Sparrow came sauntering by

And cast on the wren’s house an envious eye;
With a strut of bravado and toss of his head,
“I’ll put in my claim here,” the bold fellow said;
So straightway he mounted on impudent wing,
And entered the door without pausing to ring.

An instant—, and swiftly that feathery knight

All towsled and tumbled, in terror took flight,
While there by the door, in her favourite perch,
As neat as a lady just starting for church,
With this song on her lips, “He will not call again
Unless he is asked,” sat the little brown wren.
 If the bluebirds had her courage and hot, quick temper, they
would never let the sparrows drive them away from their boxes.
Unfortunately a hole large enough to admit a bluebird will easily
admit those grasping monopolists; but Jenny Wren is safe, if she did
but know it, in her house with its tiny front door. It is amusing to see
a sparrow try to work his shoulders through the small hole of an
empty wren house, pushing and kicking madly, but all in vain.
What rent do the wrens pay for their little houses? No man is
clever enough to estimate the vast numbers of insects on your place
that they destroy. They eat nothing else, which is the chief reason
why they are so lively and excitable. Unable to soar after flying
insects because of their short, round wings, they keep, as a rule,
rather close to the ground which their finely barred brown feathers
so closely match. Whether hunting for grubs in the wood-pile,
scrambling over the brush heap after spiders, searching among the
trees to provide a dinner for their large families, or creeping, like
little feathered mice, in queer nooks and crannies among the
outbuildings on the farm, they are always busy in your interest
which is also theirs. It certainly pays, in every sense, to encourage
the wrens.
 THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND THE CLAN OF
PEACE
A CHRIST LEGEND

Fiona MacLeod
It was the last month of the last year of the seven years’ silence
and peace. When would that be, you ask?
Surely what other would it be than the seven holy years when
Jesus the Christ was a little lad.
It was a still day. The little white flowers that were called Breaths
of Hope and that we now call Stars of Bethlehem were so hushed in
quiet that the shadows of the moths lay on them like the dark
motionless violet in the hearts of pansies. In the long swords of
tender grass the multitude of the daisies were white as milk faintly
stained with flusht dews fallen from roses. On the meadows of white
poppies were long shadows blue as the blue lagoons of the sky
among drifting snow white moors of cloud. Three white aspens on
the pastures were in a still sleep; their tremulous leaves made no
rustle; ewes and lambs were sleeping and yearling kids opened and
closed their eyes among the garths of white clover.
It was Sabbath and Jesus walked alone. When He came to a little
rise in the grass He turned and looked back at the house where His
parents dwelled. Suddenly He heard a noise as of many birds and
turned and looked beyond the low upland where He stood. A pool of
pure water lay in the hollow, fed by a ceaseless wellspring and round
it and over it circled birds whose breasts were grey as pearl and
whose necks shone purple and grass green and rose. The noise was
of their wings, for though the birds were beautiful they were
voiceless and dumb as flowers.
At the edge of the pool stood two figures like angels, but the child
did not know them. One He saw was beautiful as Night, and one
beautiful as Morning.
He drew near.
“I have lived seven years,” He said, “and I wish to send peace to
the far ends of the world.”
“Tell your secret to the birds,” said one.
“Tell your secret to the birds,” said the other.
So Jesus called the birds.
“Come,” He cried, and they came.
Seven came flying from the left, from the side of the angel
beautiful as Night. Seven came flying from the right, from the side of
the angel beautiful as Morning.
To the first He said: “Look into my heart.”
But they wheeled about Him, and with new found voices mocked,
crying, “How could we see into your heart that is hidden ...” and
mocked and derided, crying, “What is Peace! ... leave us alone.
Leave us alone.”
So Christ said to them: “I know you for the birds of Evil.
Henceforth ye shall be black as night, and be children of the winds.”
To the seven other birds which circled about Him, voiceless, and
brushing their wings against His arms, He cried:
“Look into my heart.”
And they swerved and hung before Him in a maze of wings, and
looked into His pure heart: and, as they looked, a soft murmurous
sound came from them—drowsy, sweet, full of peace—and as they
hung there like a breath in frost they became white as snow.
“Ye are the Doves of the Spirit,” said Christ, “and to you I will
commit that which ye have seen. Henceforth shall your plumage be
white and your voices be the voices of peace.”
 The young Christ turned, for He heard Mary calling to the sheep
and goats, and knew that dayset was come and that in the valleys
the gloaming was already rising like smoke from the urns of the
twilight. When he looked back he saw that seven white doves were
in the cedar beyond the pool, cooing in low ecstasy of peace and
awaiting through sleep and dreams the rose-red pathways of the
dawn. Down the long grey reaches of the ebbing day He saw seven
birds rising and falling on the wind black as black water in caves,
black as the darkness of night in old pathless woods.
And that is how the first doves became white, and how the first
crows became black and were called by a name that means the clan
of darkness, the children of wind.
IN MEADOW AND POND
 A SPRING LILT

Through the silver mist

Of the blossom-spray
Trill the orioles: list
To their joyous lay!

“What in all the world

In all the world,” they say,
“Is half so sweet, so sweet,
Is half so sweet as May?”

“June! June! June!”

Low croon
The brown bees in the clover.
“Sweet! sweet! sweet!”
Repeat
The robins, nestled over.

Unknown.
 HOW BUTTERFLIES CAME
Hans Christian Andersen
One day the flowers begged the fairies to let them leave their
stalks and fly away into the air.
“We have to sit here in the same place from morning till night,
fairies! Do let us go!”
“Go then, dear flowers,” said the fairies. “But you must promise
that you will return to your stalks before the sun goes down.”
“We promise,” called out the flowers as they flew away, red,
yellow, and white, over the grass, out of the garden to the great
wide meadow beyond. The fairies’ garden seemed, suddenly, to have
taken wings.
As the sun began to set the flowers flew quietly back to their
stalks, and when the fairies came, they found each flower again in
its place.
“Well done, well done!” exclaimed the fairies. “To-morrow you may
fly away again to the meadows.”
As the sun rose the next morning there was a flutter of red and
yellow and white as, from every stalk, a pair of coloured wings rose
and flapped, then took flight once more over the meadows and
fields. And by and by a day came when the petals of the flowers
became wings—real wings, for the flowers themselves had become
beautiful butterflies—red, yellow and white.
 WHITE BUTTERFLIES
Algernon Charles Swinburne

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,

Frail, pale wings for the wind to try,
Small white wings that we scarce can see,
Fly.

Some fly light as a laugh of glee,

Some fly soft as a long, low sigh;
All to the haven where each should be,
Fly.
 THE BUTTERFLY
Mrs. Alfred Gatty
“Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor children,” said a Butterfly
to a quiet Caterpillar, who was strolling along a cabbage-leaf in her
odd lumbering way. “See these little eggs,” continued the Butterfly;
“I don’t know how long it will be before they come to life, and I feel
very sick and poorly, and if I should die, who will take care of my
baby butterflies when I am gone? Will you, kind, mild, green
Caterpillar? But you must mind what you give them to eat,
Caterpillar!—they cannot, of course, live on your rough food. You
must give them early dew, and honey from the flowers; and you
must let them fly about only a little way at first; for, of course, one
can’t expect them to use their wings properly all at once. Dear me, it
is a sad pity you cannot fly yourself! But I have no time to look for
another nurse now, so you will do your best, I hope. Dear, dear! I
cannot think what made me come and lay my eggs on a cabbage-
leaf! What a place for young butterflies to be born upon! Still you
will be kind, will you not, to the poor little ones? Here, take this
gold-dust from my wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am!
Caterpillar, you will remember about the food—”
And with these words the Butterfly drooped her wings and was
gone; and the green Caterpillar, who had not had the opportunity of
even saying Yes or No to the request, was left standing alone by the
side of the Butterfly’s eggs.
“A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor lady!” exclaimed she,
“and a pretty business I have in hand! Why, her senses must have
left her, or she never would have asked a poor crawling creature like
me to bring up her dainty little ones! Much they’ll mind me, truly,
when they feel the gay wings on their backs, and can fly away out of
my sight whenever they choose! Ah! how silly some people are, in
spite of their painted clothes and the gold-dust on their wings!”
 However, the poor Butterfly was gone, and there lay the eggs on
the cabbage-leaf; and the green Caterpillar had a kind heart, so she
resolved to do her best. But she got no sleep that night, she was so
very anxious. She made her back quite ache with walking all night
round her young charges, for fear any harm should happen to them;
and in the morning says she to herself—
“Two heads are better than one. I will consult some wise animal
upon the matter, and get advice. How should a poor crawling
creature like me know what to do without asking my betters?”
But still there was difficulty—whom should the Caterpillar consult?
There was the shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the garden.
But he was so rough!—he would most likely whisk all the eggs off
the cabbage-leaf with one brush of his tail, if she called him near to
talk to her, and then she should never forgive herself. There was the
Tom Cat, to be sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot of the
apple-tree, basking himself and warming his fur in the sunshine; but
he was so selfish and indifferent!—there was no hope of his giving
himself the trouble to think about butterflies’ eggs. “I wonder which
is the wisest of all the animals I know,” sighed the Caterpillar, in
great distress; and then she thought, and thought, till at last she
thought of the Lark; and she fancied that because he went up so
high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be very clever,
and know a great deal; for to go up very high (which she could
never do) was the Caterpillar’s idea of perfect glory.
Now in the neighbouring corn-field there lived a Lark, and the
Caterpillar sent a message to him, to beg him to come and talk to
her, and when he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked
him what she was to do to feed and rear the little creatures so
different from herself.
“Perhaps you will be able to inquire and hear something about it
the next time you go up high,” observed the Caterpillar, timidly.
The Lark said, “Perhaps he should;” but he did not satisfy her
curiosity any further. Soon afterwards, however, he went singing
upwards into the bright blue sky. By degrees his voice died away in
the distance till the green Caterpillar could not hear a sound. It is
nothing to say she could not see him, for, poor thing, she never
could see far at any time, and had a difficulty in looking upwards at
all, even when she reared herself up most carefully, which she did
now; but it was of no use, so she dropped upon her legs again, and
resumed her walk round the Butterfly’s eggs, nibbling a bit of the
cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along.
“What a time the Lark has been gone!” she cried, at last. “I
wonder where he is just now! I would give all my legs to know! He
must have flown up higher than usual this time, I do think! How I
should like to know where it is that he goes to, and what he hears in
that curious blue sky! He always sings going up and coming down,
but he never lets any secret out. He is very close!”
And the green Caterpillar took another turn round the Butterfly’s
eggs.
At last the Lark’s voice began to be heard again. The Caterpillar
almost jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend
descend with hushed note to the cabbage bed.
“News, news, glorious news, friend Caterpillar!” sang the Lark;
“but the worst of it is, you won’t believe me!”
“I believe everything I am told,” observed the Caterpillar, hastily.
“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what these little creatures are
to eat”—and the Lark nodded his beak towards the eggs. “What do
you think it is to be? Guess!”
“Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am afraid,” sighed the
Caterpillar.
“No such thing! Something simpler than that. Something you can
get at quite easily.”
“I can get at nothing quite easily but the cabbage-leaves,”
murmured the Caterpillar, in distress.
 “Excellent! my good friend,” cried the Lark, exultingly; “you have
found it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves.”
“Never!” cried the Caterpillar, indignantly. “It was their mother’s
last request that I should do no such thing.”
“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” persisted the Lark;
“but why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have
neither faith nor trust.”
“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said the Caterpillar.
“Nay, but you do not,” replied the Lark; “you won’t believe me
even about the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have
to tell you. Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will
turn out to be?”
“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the Caterpillar.
“Caterpillars!” sang the Lark; “and you’ll find it out in time;” and
the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and contest the point
with his friend.
“I thought the Lark had been wise and kind,” observed the mild
green Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, “but
I find that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up too
high this time. Ah, it’s a pity when people who soar so high are silly
and rude nevertheless! Dear! I still wonder whom he sees, and what
he does up yonder.”
“I would tell you if you would believe me,” sang the Lark,
descending once more.
“I believe everything I am told,” reiterated the Caterpillar, with as
grave a face as if it were a fact.
“Then I’ll tell you something else,” cried the Lark; “for the best of
my news remains behind. You will one day be a Butterfly yourself.”
“Wretched bird!” exclaimed the Caterpillar, “you jest with my
inferiority—now you are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I will ask
your advice no more.”
 “I told you you would not believe me,” cried the Lark.
“I believe everything that I am told,” persisted the Caterpillar;
“that is”—and she hesitated—“everything that is reasonable to
believe. But to tell me that butterflies’ eggs are caterpillars, and that
caterpillars leave off crawling and get wings, and become butterflies!
—Lark! you are too wise to believe such nonsense yourself, for you
know it is impossible.”
“I know no such thing,” said the Lark, warmly. “Whether I hover
over the cornfields of earth, or go up into the depths of the sky, I
see so many wonderful things, I know no reason why there should
not be more. Oh, Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because you
never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you call any thing
impossible.”
“Nonsense!” shouted the Caterpillar, “I know what’s possible, and
what’s not possible, according to my experience and capacity, as well
as you do. Look at my long green body and these endless legs, and
then talk to me about having wings and a painted feathery coat.”
“You would-be-wise Caterpillar!” cried the indignant Lark. “Do you
not hear how my song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the
mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, Caterpillar; what comes to you
from thence, receive, as I do, upon trust.”
“That is what you call—”
“Faith,” interrupted the Lark.
“How am I to learn Faith?” asked the Caterpillar.
At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round
—eight or ten little green caterpillars were moving about, and had
already made a show of a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken
from the Butterfly’s eggs!
Shame and amazement filled our green friend’s heart, but joy
soon followed; for, as the first wonder was possible, the second
might be so too. “Teach me your lesson, Lark!” she would say; and
the Lark sang to her of the wonders of the earth below and of the
heaven above. And the Caterpillar talked all the rest of her life to her
relations of the time when she should be a Butterfly.
But none of them believed her. She nevertheless had learnt the
Lark’s lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis, she
said—
“I shall be a Butterfly some day!”
But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said,
“Poor thing!”
And when she was a Butterfly, and was going to die again, she
said—
“I have known many wonders—I have faith—I can trust even now
for what shall come next!”
 THE WIND, A HELPER
Mary Stewart
A little girl was once standing in a dark, narrow street playing with
some bits of coloured paper she had found in an ash-can. Suddenly
a gust of wind came around the street-corner. It blew the coloured
scraps right out of the child’s hand and carried them up over her
head, then higher still, over the house-tops, until they were out of
sight.
Janie, that was the little girl’s name, watched them fly away, with
tears in her eyes. Her busy mother had given her this day for a
holiday, she had no toys to play with, and she loved those gay bits
of paper. As she looked after the scraps up into the little patch of
blue sky, which was all she could see between the high houses, she
saw a small, white cloud scudding along, just the way the papers
had flown.
“What makes the cloud fly so fast?” thought Janie, and as if in
answer another gust of wind came blowing down the street. “Oh,
wind, blow me, too,” cried Janie, “take me up in the sky with the
cloud,” and she held out her little petticoat.
The wind filled it and blew her—well, it didn’t quite blow her into
the sky, but it did a kinder thing. It blew her down the dark, narrow
street, through other streets, each getting wider and cleaner, until at
last it blew her right into the country. There she found herself racing
over green fields, with the sky overhead so big and so blue that the
clouds looked like a flock of little sheep. There for a moment the
wind left her—he had other things to do—and Janie stood looking
around her happy and surprised. It was a spring day and the grass,
which was waving in the wind, was soft and green and full of
buttercups and daisies. “Far prettier than my scraps of paper,”
thought Janie. The trees were covered with new, green leaves, some
of them were dressed in pink and white blossoms, and their
branches swayed in the wind as if they were waving a welcome to
the little girl. But she didn’t have long to stand and look. Back came
the wind, bringing new scents of blossoms and other sweet spring
things with him, and off the child ran again.
Presently she saw in front of her a shining blue line, and when she
reached it she found it was the sea. If any one of us has ever seen
the sea on a clear windy day we can never forget it, and that is just
the way Janie felt. The waves were high and blue, but they wore
great white caps which broke against the wind, and he scattered
them into splendid foamy bits of spray, while the waves came
dashing over the beach.
It was all so beautiful that Janie took a long, deep breath of wind,
and suddenly her cheeks grew pink and her eyes bright, and you
never would have known she was the pale, sad little Janie who stood
in the dark street watching her scraps of paper blow away.
She was standing on the beach gazing out to sea in astonishment.
For there, on the blue water, was something which looked like a
great bird with its wings outspread, only it was far bigger than any
bird, and as it skimmed over the water she saw men moving upon it.
Can you guess what it was? It was a splendid ship; but as Janie had
never seen one before, except in pictures, she was much puzzled.
“What makes it fly so fast?” she wondered, and for an answer the
wind blew her along the beach, through a garden, and almost into a
little white cottage, where a woman was standing with a baby in her
arms.
She didn’t seem to mind a bit when she saw a strange little girl
come flying down the garden path to her house. She just laughed
and cried, “This is another trick of my friend the wind.” Then she laid
the baby down in a cradle and took both Janie’s hands, making her
sit on the door step where the wind had dropped her.
“Please, ma’am,” said Janie, when she could get her breath, “can
you tell me what makes the boat sail?” The woman laughed again
and answered, “Why, this beautiful wind blows her along, of course;
that is only one of the hundreds of things the wind does for us. He
can blow so hard that the great ships are just driven before him, and
he can blow so softly that my baby is rocked to sleep. Look at the
cradle now.” Janie looked, and there in the light wind which seemed
to be full of the scent of blossoms, the cradle was rocking so gently
that the baby had fallen asleep. Then the mother brought Janie a
bowl of bread and milk, and while she ate it they talked about the
wind.
“He blows away the dead leaves with such fury,” said the mother,
“that they tear along in front of my window like a flock of frightened
birds. But when he finds a little flower beneath the leaves he blows
on its petals so softly that it feels as if its mother were kissing it.
“Sometimes, when it comes from the North, it brings snow and
hail and the beautiful frosts of winter. But when it comes from the
South it brings sweet scents and soft, warm air. The East Wind often
brings rain and mist, and some people don’t like it, but the ground
needs the rain, the flowers love it, and the East Wind is a gift from
God, just as the others are. The West Wind is blowing to-day, and
that is why the world looks so fresh and shining.”
So they talked most of the afternoon, the mother and Janie, until
when the sun began to sink and the ship came sailing homeward,
Janie turned again toward the city.
Very gently this time the wind blew her along, beside orchards
where the trees were rustling their leaves like lullabies, and through
meadows where, like sleepy children, the flowers were nodding their
heads for good-night to the dear West Wind.
And although she was leaving it all, Janie was very happy. The
woman in the cottage by the sea had told her to come back on her
next holiday. And she knew that although she could not always see
the dancing trees and flowers and waves and ships, she would
remember that they were waiting for her every time she heard the
wind rattling the window or blowing among the chimneys.
 Just before she went to sleep she looked out of her tiny window
through which a patch of sky could be seen. It was a dark, cloudy
patch, and Janie was just turning away from it when the clouds
began to move. The wind was still at work, in an instant the clouds
had been blown away, and through that tiny window Janie saw a
bright, clear star shining down upon her. “Thank you, dear wind,”
she whispered. And then, as she cuddled down to sleep she seemed
to hear the wind, or was it the star, singing softly, “Thank God, thank
God.”
 THE SPRINGING TREE: WILLOWS
Mrs. Dyson
The willow is one of the greatest of Mother Nature’s puzzles. It will
give you years of pleasure before you have fully found out all its
secrets. What is the puzzle? Perhaps you say, We all know a willow.
Do you? Let us see how much you know. It is a weeping tree; its
branches and leaves drop to the ground. That is true sometimes, not
always. It grows by the water side. Neither is that always true. In
early spring it has buds like soft pussy-cats, which you love to
gather, and stroke against your faces, and in summer it has long
narrow leaves.
Yes, but if you look at all the pussy-cats you can find, you will see
that they are very different from one another. The willow has two
kinds of tails growing on different trees. One tree has flowers made
of stamens, another tree has flowers containing seed-bags, and
even of these two kinds you will find many different sorts. Then if
you will look at the same trees when the leaves come out, you will
perhaps be surprised to see that they have not all leaves of the
same sort. Some are long, narrow and pointed, but some are broad
and rounded; some are white and silky, some are crumpled and
downy.
Now you see what is the great puzzle. When you see a tree with a
long narrow leaf like a sword, you are sure at once it is a willow. The
willow gives its name to this shape; for when we see other plants
with leaves of this pattern, we always call them willow-leaves. The
flowers of all the willows are very much alike. They all grow on tails,
true pussy-cats’ tails, so soft and silky are they. But they are the tails
of angry pussy-cats, for they stand up straight and stiff and thick;
they do not hang down wagging and waving in a good-tempered
way. The flowers are soft silky scales, fastened closely together on
the stalk. On the tails of one tree, under each scale, there are two,
three or five slender stamens, each with a double yellow head and
between these and the stem there is a little honey-bag. Under the
scales of another tree’s tails there are beautiful silken seed-bags,
shaped like pears, the pointed end just divided into two sticky horns.
When the seeds are ripe, these lovely silk bags split open at the
point, and the two horns curl back in a beautiful way, like two doors
opening to make way for the crowd of tiny seeds, each one with a
great plume of whitest silk, which tries to spread out to the sun and
fresh air. The opening seed-bags of all the willows are a charming
sight. What is all this silk for? To keep the seeds warm? Yes, and
also to float them through the air to a place where they may take
root and grow. You must look out for them early in the year, in late
spring and early summer, long before other seeds are ripe. You will
find that the birds are also on the lookout,—for food you suppose?
No, they are building their nests, and they want something nice and
soft with which to line them and make a comfortable bed for the
eggs and the little birds; and what could they have better than this
yellow silk? The thistledown is all destroyed by the winter rains and
there is nothing else ready yet.
The willow is the earliest tree, except the hazel, to say that spring
is coming. It begins to get ready in the autumn. Then the buds swell
and often burst, so that you can see the tufts of white silk peeping
out as if the flowers were in such a hurry they could not wait till the
spring. All the winter they are growing, but you are so busy skating
and snow balling whenever you go out that you have no time to
watch them, and are quite surprised at the first glimpse of the soft
pussy-cats in the spring. At first only the silky scales show, but soon
after the golden heads or the funny two-horned bottles hang out
and the fruit is ripe by the time other trees have opened their
flowers.
Some people say there are two hundred different kinds of willow
trees but others think this is making too much of slight differences.
There are about fifteen kinds which are so very different from one
another that you will easily be able to discover them.
 You already know well, four kinds of willow. Two of them are large
trees; one of these is always found by the water-side bending over
the still slow streams. It is called the white willow because its leaves
are covered on both sides with soft white silk.
The other is the willow tree which grows most frequently in our
gardens and by the road side. Its leaves are like those of the white
willow in shape, but on the upper side they are bright green; with no
silky covering. This is called the crack willow, because its branches
crack and break at the joints so easily. Give them just a little blow
and they snap at once. These are the only kinds of willow that grow
into large trees. They are generally very crooked trees; their trunks
split and bend and sometimes when near a stream they stretch over
it as if they wanted to make a bridge across.
The other two willows that you know well are large shrubs or little
trees not much taller than a man. One of them bears very silky
catkins, and its leaves are always silky, quite white on the under
side. This willow has long, slender arms like fairies’ wands.
Cinderella’s godmother may have used one of them. This is the osier
of which we make our baskets. If you try to break off one of these
long arms, you may tug and tug away, but all in vain, they are so
tough; and as your hand slips there comes off into it a long roll of
bark, leaving the branch smooth and white. You can bend these
slender shoots as much as you like and still they will not snap, and
so they are just what we want for weaving into light baskets.
The other shrub or little tree is perhaps the willow that you know
best in the spring. It grows in the hedge everywhere and is called
the goat willow or sallow. It has purplish brown branches and from it
you probably gather your first pussy-cats. It flowers with the
snowdrop, even while it is yet winter, in cold February or March. The
first warm sunshine is better than any fairy’s wand for it turns these
flowers into gold. Then the bees rejoice; the food they have had in
their hives during the winter is nearly done, and other flowers have
scarcely dared to think of opening yet. But the bees know the
secrets of the flowers and they are quite aware of the wee honey
bag hidden in every flower of that thick tail.
So you see this tree seems so full of life and joy, it grows so fast,
and is so willing and obliging, that we call it by the name willow,
which means the “springing” tree.
 PUSSY WILLOW
Kate Louise Brown
All winter Miss Pussy had been shut up in her house by the brook;
but one bright morning in early spring, the door of her house
opened. Then she stepped out to see the world.
The swelling buds were rocking to and fro on the branches, the
grass blades were peeping above the ground, and a few brave
flowers were opening their sleepy eyes.
“Dear me!” cried Pussy, “the wind is sharp and cold, if it is a bright
day.”
“Why, whom have we here?” asked the brook in great surprise.
“True as I live, it is Miss Pussy Willow! Good morning, Pussy, you are
out bright and early; but why do you wear that fur hood? Summer is
coming and the days grow warmer.”
“Oh, Mother Nature told me to wear it, lest I get a toothache.”
Everybody was glad to see Pussy. The little brook, the grass, the
buds, and the little spring birds. But they were all very curious to
know why she wore her fur hood.
Poor Pussy! she was tempted more than once to take it off, so
much was said about it. But she didn’t; she thought best to mind
Mother Nature. Now, it grieves me to say Mr. Robin was very bold
and saucy. He whispered some unkind things to Pussy’s friends one
day. The next morning, when Pussy opened her eyes, the birds, the
buds, the brook, the grass, and the flowers began to whisper to
themselves: “Do you suppose Pussy Willow has to wear her hood
because she has no hair? Poor Pussy Willow!”
Poor Pussy Willow! Brave Pussy felt very sad. All she said was:
“Wait and see.”
 How surprised every one was a few days after this! There was
Pussy Willow with no fur hood on her head, but bright golden curls
were dancing up and down in the breeze.
“Pussy Willow is not a baldhead; she wears beautiful golden curls,”
cried all her friends. Mr. Robin hid his head and flew away, very
much ashamed.
 THE DRAGON FLY
Mrs. Alfred Gatty
“I wonder what becomes of the Frog when he climbs up out of
this world, and disappears so that we do not see even his shadow;
till, plop! he is among us again. Does anybody know where he goes
to?”
Thus chattered the grub of a Dragon fly as he darted about with
his companions in and out among the plants at the bottom of a
beautiful pond in the centre of a wood.
“Who cares what the Frog does?” answered one who overheard
the Grub’s question, “what is it to us?”
“Look out for food for yourself and let other people’s business
alone,” cried another. “But I should like to know,” said the grub. “I
can see all of you when you pass by me among the plants in the
water here, and when I don’t see you any longer I wonder where
you have gone. I followed the Frog just now as he went upwards,
and all at once he went to the side of the water, then he began to
disappear and presently he was gone. Did he leave this world? And
where did he go?”
“You idle fellow,” cried another. “See what a good bite you have
missed with your wonderings about nothing.” So saying he seized an
insect which was flitting right in front of the Grub.
Suddenly there was a heavy splash in the water and a large yellow
Frog swam down to the bottom among the grubs.
“Ask the Frog himself,” suggested a minnow as he darted by
overhead.
Such a chance of satisfying himself was not to be lost, and after
taking two or three turns round the roots of a water-lily, the grub
screwed up his courage and, approaching the Frog, asked, “Is it
permitted to a very unhappy creature to speak?”
 The Frog turned his gold edged eyes upon him in surprise and
answered, “Very unhappy creatures had better be silent. I never talk
but when I’m happy.”
“But I shall be happy if I may talk,” said the Grub.
“Talk away then,” said the Frog.
“But it is something I want to ask you.”
“Ask away,” exclaimed the Frog.
“What is there beyond the world?” inquired the Grub in a very
quiet way.
“What world do you mean—this pond?” asked the Frog, rolling his
goggle eyes round and round.
“I mean the place we live in whatever you may choose to call it. I
call it the world,” said the Grub.
“Do you, sharp little fellow? Then what is the place you don’t live
in?”
“That’s just what I want you to tell me,” replied the little Grub.
“Oh, indeed, little one. I shall tell you, then. It is dry land.”
“Can one swim about there?” inquired the Grub.
“I should think not,” chuckled the Frog.
“Dry land is not water. That is just what it is not. Dry land is
something like the sludge at the bottom of this pond, only it is not
wet because there’s no water.”
“Really! What is there then?”
“That’s the difficulty,” exclaimed Froggy.
“There is something, of course, they call it air, but how to explain
it I don’t know. Now just take my advice and ask no more silly
questions. I tell you the thing is not worth your troubling yourself
about. But I admire your spirit,” continued the Frog. “I will make you
an offer. If you choose to take a seat on my back I will carry you up
to dry land and you can judge for yourself what is there and how
you like it.”
“I accept with gratitude, honoured Frog,” said the little Grub.
“Drop yourself down on my back, then, and cling to me as well as
you can. Come now, hold fast.”
The little Grub obeyed and the Frog, swimming gently upwards,
soon reached the bulrushes by the water’s side.
“Hold fast,” repeated the Frog, and then, raising his head out of
the pond, he clambered up the bank and got upon the grass.
“Now, then, here we are,” exclaimed the Frog. “What do you think
of dry land?”
But no one answered.
“Hallow! Gone? That’s just what I was afraid of. He has floated off
my back, stupid fellow. But perhaps he has made his way to the
water’s edge here after all, and then I can help him out. I’ll wait
about and see.”
And away went Froggy with a leap along the grass by the edge of
the pond glancing every now and then among the bulrushes to see if
he could spy his little friend, the dragon fly grub.
But what had become of the little grub? He had really clung to the
Frog’s back with all his might; but the moment the mask of his face
began to issue from the water, a shock seemed to strike his frame
and he reeled from his resting place back into the pond panting and
struggling for life.
“Terrible,” he cried as soon as he came to himself. “The Frog has
deceived me. He cannot go there, at any rate.” And with these
words, the little Grub moved away to his old companions to talk over
with them what he had done and where he had been.
“It was terrible, terrible. But the sun is beginning to set and I
must take a turn around the pond in search of food.” And away went
the little dragon fly grub for a ramble among the water plants.