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of their own imaginations. On the contrary,
the older man grows, the larger reality appears.
The fields which glisten for the young with the
morning dew of love's brightness, chill the gray
half-blind old man with heavy evening damps,
and at last he requires an entire world, even
the second, barely to live in.

Truthfulness is not so much a branch as a
blossom of moral, manly strength. The weak,
whether they will or not, must lie. As respects
children, for the first five years they utter
neither truth nor falsehood they only speak.
Their talk is thinking aloud; and as one half
of their thought is often an affirmative, and
the other a negative, 'and, unlike us, both
escape from them, they seem to lie, while they
are only talking with themselves. Besides, at
first they love to sport with their new art of
speech; and so talk nonsense merely to hear
themselves. Often they do not understand
your question, and give an erroneous, rather
than a false reply. We may ask, besides,
whether, when children seem to imagine and
falsify, they are not often relating their re-
membered dreams, which necessarily blend in
them with actual experience.

Children everywhere fly on the warm, sunny
side of hope. They say, when the bird or the
dog has escaped from them, without any reason
for the expectation " he will come back again
soon." And since they are incapable of distin-
guishing hope, that is, imagination, from re-
flection or truth, their self-delusion conse-
quently assumes the appearance of falsehood.
For instance, a truthful little girl described to
me various appearances of a Christ child, tell-
ing what it had said and done. In all those j
cases in which we do not desire to mirror before
the child the black image of a lie, it is sufficient
to say, " Be sober, have done with play."

Finally, we must distinguish between un-
truths relating to the future and the past. We
do not attribute to a grown man who breaks
his word in reference to some future perform-
ance, that blackness of perjury which we charge
on him who falsifies what has been already
done ; so with children, before whose brief
vision time, like space, is immeasurable, and
who are as unable to look through a day, as
we through a year, we should widely separate
untruthfulness of promise from untruthfulness
of assertion. Truth is a divine blossom upon
an earthly root: of course, it is in time not the
earliest, but the latest virtue.


Only place all life before the child as within
the realm of humanity, and thus the greater
reveals to him the less. Put life and soul into
everything; describe to him even the lily, which
he would pull up as an unorganized thing, as
the daughter of a slender mother, standing in
her garden-bed, from whom her little white off-
spring derives nutriment and moisture. And
let not this be done to excite an empty enerva-
ted habit of pity, a sort of inoculation-hospital
for foreign pains, but from the religious cultiva-
tion of reverence for life, the God all-moving
in the tree top and the human brain. The love
of animals, like maternal affections, has this
advantage, that it is disinterested and claims
no return, and can also at every moment find
an object and an opportunity for its exercise.



[Rer. Richard Harris Barham, born at Canterbury
6th December, 1788; died 17th June, 1845. As Thomas
Ingoldsby, author of the Ingoldtby Legends, he is re-
cognized as one of the greatest humorists of our cen-
tury. In his Life and Ltlters, edited by his son (pub-
lished by Bentley, 1870), appears the following criticism,
which is perfectly just, notwithstanding the relationship
of the writer to the subject of his biography: "As re-
spects the poems, remarkable as they have been pro-
nounced for the wit and humour which they display,
their distinguishing attraction lies in the almost un-
paralleled flow and facility of the versification. Popular
phrases, sentences the most prosaic, even the cramped
technicalities of legal diction, and snatches from various
languages, are wrought in with an apparent absence of
all art and effort that surprises, pleases, and convulses
the reader at every turn ; the author triumphs with a
master's hand over every sort of stanza, however com-
plicated or exacting ; not a word seems out of place,
not an expression forced ; syllables the most exacting
find the only partners fitted for them throughout the
lange of language, and couple together as naturally sis
those kindred spirits which poets tell us were created
pail's, and dispersed in sj ace to seek out their particular
mates." The Rev. Mr. Barham was rector of St. Au-
gustine and St. Faith, and a minor canon of St. Paul's.
London. Besides the Lie/ends he wrote a novel entitled
Mil Coiuin Nicholas, and contributed largely to the
principal magazines.]

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair !

Bishop and abbot, and prior were there ;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,

i Inserted by special permission, of Messrs. R. Bentley
& Son, London.



With a great many more of lesser degree,

In sooth a goodly company ;

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.

Never, I ween,

Was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheirns !

In and out

Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ;

Here and there

Like a dug in a fair,

Over comfits and cates,

And dishes and platea,
Cowl and cope, aud rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier ! he hopp'd upon all !

With saucy air,

He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ;

And he peer'd in the face

Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
" We two are the greatest folks here to day !"

Aud the priesta, with awe,

As such freaks they saw,
Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw !"

The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disapi>ear'd,
And six little Singing-boys, dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,

Came, in order due,

Two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through !
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill d with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne ;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.

One little boy more

A napkin bore,

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink.
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink."

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white :

From his finger he draws

His costly turquoise ;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,

Deposits it straight

By the side of his plate,

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait ;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring I


There's a cry and a shout,

And a deuce of a rout,

And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out.

The friars are kneeling,

And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.

The Cardinal drew

Off each plum-coloured shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view ;

He peeps, and he feels

In the toes and the heels ;

They tum up the dishes, they turn up the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

They turn up the rugs,

They examine the mugs :

But, no ! no such thing;

They can't find THE RING 1

And the Abbot declared that, " when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in and priggfd it ! "

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look.

He call'd for his candle, his bell, and hU book I

In holy anger, and pious grief.

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ;

From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;

He cursed him in sleeping, that every night

He should dream of the devil, aud wake in a fright;

He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ;

He cursed him in sitting, in staiuling, in lying;

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying.

He cursed him in living, he cursed him dying !
Never was heard such a terrible curse ! I
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the wors 1

The day was gone,

The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they earch'd till dawn ;

When the Sacristan saw,

On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw I

No longer gay.

As on yesterday ;

His feathers all seem'd to be turned the wrong way ;
His pinions droop'd he could hardly stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ;

His eyes so dim,

So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S


That's the scamp that has done this scandalous Ihing !
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring 1 "

The poor little Jackdaw,

When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
"Pray, be so good as to walk this way '"



Slower and slower

He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry doer,

Where the first thing they saw,

Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw !

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took ;

The mute expression

Served in lieu of confession,
And being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !

When those words were heard,

That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd,

He grew sleek and fat;

In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat !

His tail waggled more

Even than before ;

But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.

He hopp'd now about,

With a gait devout ;

At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out ;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seeni'd telliug the Confessor's beads,
If any one lied, or if any any one swore,
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happeu'd to snore,

That good Jackdaw

Would give a great " Caw !"
As much as to say, ' Don't do so any more !*
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they "never h-id known such a pious Jackdaw !'

He lo;,g lived the pride

Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died ;

When, as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint ;
And <m newly-made Saints and Popes as you know,
It's the custom at Rome, new names to bestow
SJo they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow 1



[BjOrnstjerne Bjornson, born at Quikne. Oesterdal,
ft li Uecemoer, 1832. He is the most prominent of living
Norwegian novelists, and his sketches of the lives and
habits of the peasants of Norway are marked by idyllic
pathos and humour. His chief works are: Tin-owl, Ai-ne,
Synneeve Solbakken. Ovind, The Fifher Maiden, The
Ha,,py Boy, The. Newly Married Couple, and love and
Life in NnrwayM. tales of the peasantry. They have
been translated into English chiefly by A. Plesner. The
following extracts from Arne are taken from a transla-
tion miule by a Norwegian, and published in English at
Bergeii by H. J. Geelmuydens.J

[Arne is the son of Margit Kampen, the
owner of a small farm; his father Nils, the
tailor and fiddler, a drunken ne'er-do-well, who
had been the idol of the lasses at all rural
gatherings, is dead. Arne has grown up au
industrious lad, but a maker of songs, and
possessed with strange longings to see other
lands beyond the hills of snow. Besides
managing his mother's land he works at sea-
sons at neighbours' farms, and he falls in love
with Eli, the daughter of Birgit Boen, who
had been one of his father's many admirers,
and had hoped to be his wife.]

As Arne with his hand-saw on his shoulder
walked over the ice and approached the farm
of Boen, it seemed to him a very nice one.
The house looked as if it were newly painted.
He felt somewhat cold, and perhaps that was
why the house looked so comfortable. He did
not go straight in, but" went first to the cow-
house. There a flock of thick-haired goats
were standing in the snow, gnawing the bark
of some sprigs. A chained dog was running
to arid fro by its kennel barking as if tlie fiend
himself had been coming, but wagged his tail
as soon as Arne stopped, and then allowed
himself to be patted. The kitchen door on
the upper side of the house was often opened,
and, every time, Arne looked that way; but
it was either the dairy-maid who came with
her milk-pans, or the cook-maid who emptied
some vessels for the goats. In the barn
they were threshing; to the left before the
wood-house a boy was standing cutting wood,
and behind him there was a great quantity
of wood piled together. Arne put down his
hand -saw and went into the kitchen; there
was white sand on the floor and juniper cut
in very small pieces strewn over. Copper
kettles were shining on the walls, and jugs
and plates standing in long rows. They were
preparing dinner, and he asked to speak to
Bard. "Go in to the room," said somebody,
pointing to the door. He went. There was
no latch to the door, but the handle was of
brass. Inside it was light and painted, the
ceiling ornamented with many roses: the cup-
boards red, with the name of the proprietor in
black; the bedstead red likewise, but with blue
stripes on all the edges. Near the stove there
was a broad-shouldered man sitting with a
mild face and long yellow hair. He was putting
some hoops round some little tubs. At the
long table a tall and slender woman was sitting
with a handkerchief on her head and with a
tight-sleeved gown. She was dividing some
corn into two heaps. There was no one elae
in the room.



"Good day, and blessing to your work!" said
Ame, taking off his cap. Both looked up, the
man smiling, and asked who he was.

"He who is to cut with a hand-saw." The
man then smiled more and said, whilst bend-
ing his head down and again beginning his
work, "Oh! Arne Kampen?"

"Arne Kampen!" cried out the woman,
staring with all her eyes.

Her husband looked up, smiling anew.
"Son of Nils the tailor;" and he set to work

Some while afterwards the woman rose,
went up to a shelf, turned round, went to the
cupboard, turned again, and whilst at last
standing and looking at something in the
drawer of the table she asked without looking
up, "Is he going to work here?"

" Yes, he is," replied the man, also without
looking up. "I am afraid nobody has asked
you to sit down," continued he, turning to-
wards Arne. He went to take a seat ; the
woman went out, the man went on working,
so Arne asked if he should also begin. "We
must dine first."

The woman did not come in any more, but
the next time the kitchen door was opened it
was Eli who entered. She pretended at first
not to see him ; when he rose to go to her she
stopped, half turning to offer him her hand,
but she did not look at him. They then spoke
a couple of words to each other, the father
going on working. She had her hair plaited,
was dressed in a high-bodied gown with
narrow sleeves; she was slender and straight,
round about the waist, and had very small
hands. She laid the table, as the working men
dined in the other room, but Arne with the
family in this room. "Will not your mother
come 1 ?" asked the man.

"No, she is upstairs weighing some wool."

"Have you asked her?"

" Yes, but she says she wants nothing."
There was some silence.

" But it is cold upstairs."

"She did not wish that I should light afire."

After dinner Arne worked; in the evening
he was again in the room with the family.
Then Eli's mother was also there. The women
were sewing, the husband doing some little
jobs, Arne assisting him, and there was a
silence of some hours, for Eli, who always
seemed to be the spokeswoman, was also silent
now. It pained Arne to think that so it was
also often in his home, but he did not seem to
think of it before now. At length Eli once
drew a deep breath as if she had kept silence
long enough, and then she began to laugh.

Then her father also laughed, and Arne also
thought it very ridiculous, and began to laugh
too. From this time they talked a little, espe-
cially Eli and Arne, the father occasionally join-
ing in with a word. But once, as Arne had
happened to talk a long time, he looked up.
He then saw that the mother had let her work
fall and sat looking eagerly at him. She now
began to work again, but at the first words he
happened to say she looked up.

It was now bedtime, and every one went to
rest. Arne would try to remember the dream
he had the first night he slept in a new place,
but there was no sense in it. The whole day
he had spoken little or nothing with Eli's
father, but all night long it was of him he was
dreaming. The last thing he dreamed was,
that Bard was sitting playing cards with Nils
the tailor, who was very angry and pale in the
face, whilst Bard was smiling and dragging
all the cards over to him.

Arne remained there several days, during
which little was spoken, but a great deal of
work was done. Not only the family in their
own room were silent, but even the servants,
the workmen, and the women. There was an
old dog in the yard, which was always barking
whenever there came any stranger to the farm;
but the people said "Hush!" and then he
went away growling to lie down again. At
home at Kampen there was a great weather-
cock on the top of the house, that turned with
the wind. Here there was a still larger one that
Arne could not but take notice of. because it
did not turn at all. When the wind was strong
the weather-cock always worked hard to get
loose, and Arne looked at this so long that he
was induced to go up on the roof to loosen
it. It was not frozen fast, as he thought, but
a stick was put in to make it stand still. This
Arne took out and threw down. The stick hit
Bard, who was walking underneath. He looked
up: " What are you doing there 1"

" I am loosening the weather-cock."

" Do not do that, it creaks when it goes."

Arne was sitting astride on the ridge of the
house. " I am sure that it is better than to
let it be silent."

Bard looked up at Arne and Arne looked
down on Bard. Then Bard smiled and called
up to him, " If 1 must shriek when I am to
talk then I had better be silent."

Now it may happen so that a word is remem-
bered a long time after it has been said, and
especially when it is the last word said. These
words followed Arne when in the cold weather
he crept down from the roof, and they were in
his mind when he entered the room in the



evening. There stood Eli in the dusk of the
evening near a window looking across the ice,
which was lying as smooth as a mirror in the
moonlight. He went to the other window and
looked out as she did. Inside it was warm
and quiet, outside cold; and a sharp evening
breeze rushed through the valley, shaking the
trees so much that the shadows which they
threw in the moonlight did not lie still, but
groped about and crept on the surface of the
snow. In the parsonage a light could be seen
that came ever opening and shutting itself,
taking many shapes and colours as it always
appears when one is looking too long at it.
The dark mountain stood overhead, with many
marvellous fairy stories in the bottom, but
with moonlight on the snowy plains of its
summit. In the sky could be seen the stars
and some little flickering aurora borealis
yonder in one corner; but it did not increase
all over the sky. Some distance from the
window down towards the water several trees
were standing, and they seemed stealing over
to each other through their shadows; but the
great ash stood by itself writing on the snow.

It was quite silent everywhere; only occa-
sionally there was something that gave a long
and yelling shriek that sounded quite plain-
tive. " What is that?" asked Arne.

" It is the weather-cock," replied Eli, after-
wards adding more slowly, as if to herself,
" It must have been loosened." Arne had
felt as if he had been wanting to talk and was
not able; but now he said:

" Do you remember the story of the thrushes;
that song?"

" Yes, I do."

" Well, I remember it was you who told it
us. That was a nice story."

She now said in so soft a voice that it seemed
to him the first time he heard it, "1 often
think there is something that sings when it is
quite still."

" That is what is good in us."

She looked towards him as if there was
something too much in that answer. They
were both silent afterwards. Then she asked
him while she was writing with her finger on the
glass-pane, "Have you lately made any song?"

He turned red, but she did not see it.
She therefore asked again, " How do you
manage to make songs?"

" Would vou like to know?''

"Yes, I should."

" I take care of such thoughts as others
allow to pass." She was now silent a long
time. I dare say she was trying to compose a
Bong of some sort or other, as if she had had some

thoughts but allowed them to pass. " That
was strange," said she, as if to herself, and
began writing again on the glass-pane.

" I was making a song the first time I saw

" Where was that?"

" Near the parsonage that evening you left
it. I saw you in the water."

She laughed, stood quiet a little, and said,
" Let me hear that song."

Arne had never before done anything of the
kind, but now he commenced saying the song:

My Thora jumped so light on her feet

Her lover to meet.
He sang. It was heard over roof and way

Good day ! good day I
And all little birds sang merry and gay:
"Till midsummer eve

Laughter and dancing they never leave;
Later but little 1 know, if she does her garland weave."

Eli stood very attentive a long time after he
had done. At last she burst out, " Well, how
1 do pity her!"

"It appears to me as if I had not made that
song," said he, and remained standing as if
looking after the song.

Then she said, " But I hope it will not go
so with me."

" No, I thought more of myself."

" W T ill it go so with you then?"

" I do not know, but 1 have felt so at times."

"That is strange," and she wrote on the
glass-pane again.

The next day when Arne came in to dine
he went up to the window. Outside it was
gray and thick, inside it was warm and com-
fortable. But on the window-pane was written
with a finger Arne, Arne, Arne, and continu-
ally Arne. It was near this window that Eli
had been standing the preceding night.

[His mother dreads that Arne will go away,
and is glad to discover that he has fallen in
love; but, knowing his shyness, she schemes
to bring about the match, and the kindly pastor
of the village aids her.]

" Good bye," said Margit, in the door up at
the clergyman's. It was a Sunday evening
later in the summer; he was come from church,
and she had been sitting there till now it
was almost seven. "Good-bye, Margit," said
the clergyman. She made haste down the
stairs and out into the yard, for there she had
just seen Eli Boen playing with the clergy-
man's son and her own brother.

" Good evening," said Margit, and remained
standing. "God bless the party !" "Good
evening," said Eli. She was burning red in
the face, and would leave off, though the boj*



pressed her to go on ; but she begged to be ex-
cused, and was permitted to leave oft' for to-

" I almost think I should know you," said

" That may be so," said the other.

" It could not be Eli Boen]" Yes, it was
she. "Why, to be sure, so you are Eli Boen?
Yes, now I see how like you are to your mother."

Eli's tawny hair was torn out, so it hung
long and loose down ; she was as hot and red
in the face as a berry ; her breath came
heavily, so much so that she could not talk
and laugh. " Well, now, that belongs to
youth, that does," said Margit, and looked at
the girl till she grew quite fond of her.
" I suppose you do not know me, do you?"
Eli wished to ask, but did not do so on
account of the other being elder, so she said
that she did not recollect ever having seen

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