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And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill.
There's joy in the mountains,
Blue sky prevailing,
white There were once three butterflies, a white one, a red one, and a yellow one. They played in the sunshine, and danced from one flower to another; and they had such pleasure in doing this, that they were never tired of it.
One day, the rain came suddenly and wet them. As soon as they felt it, they flew home instantly ; but the door of the house was locked, and they could not find the key. So they were obliged to remain outside, and became wetter and wetter. Then they flew away to a yellow and red striped tulip, and said, “Tulip dear, just open your
flower a very little bit, that we may creep in and not get wet.” But the tulip answered, “I am quite willing to take in the yellow one, and the red one, but I don't like the white one." But both the red one and the yellow one said, “No, if you will not take in our dear white brother, we will not come in either.” But it began to rain worse and worse, and they flew to the lily, and said, “Good lily, please just open your flower a little for us, to save us getting wet.” But the lily replied, “I shall be very glad to take the white one in, because it is just like myself, but I don't like the other two." Then the white butterfly said, “No, if you will not take my brothers in, I do not want to come to you either; we had much rather all get wet together, than have one leave the others in trouble." And so they flew on further.
But the sun behind the clouds had heard what good brothers the butterflies were, and how firmly they had kept true to each other; and it forced its way through the clouds, and hunted away the rain, and shone brightly again on the garden and on the three butterflies; and before very long it had dried their wings and warmed their bodies. And then the butterflies danced and played again, as gaily as before, until it was evening. Then home they all flew together and slept.
From the German of Curtman.
70.—THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
cellar branch-es cup-board
branch-es The trees once disputed amongst themselves which of them was the most useful. The oak came forward and said, “Look at me, I am tall and thick, and have many boughs, and my branches are rich in leaves and fruit." Well, you have fruit certainly," said the peach tree, “but it is only fruit for pigs; men don't want to have anything to do with it. But I send my red ripe fruit to the tables of kings.” “ That is not very much use," said the apple tree,“ very few people can get much of thy fruit; besides it only lasts a very few weeks, and then it is spoilt, and no one can use it any longer. I am a tree of quite a different kind. Every year I bear baskets full of apples. They need not be ashamed of themselves if they are placed on tables of the noblest, but there are enough of them to satisfy the poor too. They can be kept all through the winter in the cellar, they can be dried in the oven, or they can be made into wine. I am the most useful tree."
“That is what you make yourself believe," said the pine,“ but you are mistaken. With my wood they heat the stoves and build houses ; they cut me to make planks for tables, chairs, cupboards, nay, even for boats
and ships ; besides, I am not so bare as you in winter. All the year round I am green and beautiful.” “So am I," said the fir tree, “but I have another advantage also. When Christinas comes, they put me in a beautiful garden, and hang golden nuts, and apples, almonds and raisins, on all my branches; and the children have greater pleasure in seeing me than any tree. Is not that true ?”
From the German of Curtman.
"Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf !
Exclaimed an angry voice,
Between me and my choice !"
A small cascade fresh swollen with snows
That, all bespattered with his foam,
In an unhappy home.
“Dost thou presume my course to block ?
Off, off! or, puny thing !
To which thy fibres cling.”
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
He ventured to reply.
" Ah !” said the briar, “blame me not ;
Why should we dwell in strife ? We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed — What pleasure through my veins you spread !
The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.