The Pearl Story Book by Mrs. Colman
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Mrs. Colman >> The Pearl Story Book
MRS. COLMAN'S
NEW JUVENILE SERIES
I. THE TALISMAN OF THE GOOD GENIUS, &c.
II. STORIES OF AFFECTION.
III. THE PEARL STORY BOOK.
IV. THE PET BUTTERFLIES; THE LITTLE SEEKERS FOR HAPPINESS, &c. &c.
V. NEW AND TRUE STORIES.
VI. HOLIDAY STORIES.
THE PEARL STORY BOOK:
A COLLECTION OF TALES,
ORIGINAL AND SELECTED.
BY MRS. COLMAN,
AUTHOR OF INNOCENCE OF CHILDHOOD, ETC. ETC.
1850.
CONTENTS.
~THE TURTLE-DOVES OF CARMEL.~
CHAPTER FIRST.
About a young English musician, and how he came to spend the winter at
Mount Carmel
CHAPTER SECOND.
About the kind old monk and the musician, and about the turtle-doves who
made their nest near his window
THE DYING CHILD
FRIGHTENED BY A COW
~THE RED SHOES.~
CHAPTER FIRST.
How little Karen was adopted by a lady, and how she came by her red
shoes
CHAPTER SECOND.
Karen grows vain of her red shoes, and is forced to dance over the
fields, across the bridges, and everywhere
CHAPTER THIRD.
How Karen tried to go to church again, how she prayed and was sorry, and
how an angel came to comfort her, and how happy she became
NAUGHTY MARIAN
MORNING HOUR
THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP
PLEASANT AMUSEMENTS
THE CAGED BIRD
~THE YOUNG GLEANER.~
CHAPTER FIRST.
How Willy meets the young gleaner in the field--how he pities his
misfortunes, and assists to fill his bag with corn
CHAPTER SECOND.
How the young gleaner was much frightened, and how happy he was
made--and how delighted Willy was in doing kind things to the poor
PERSEVERANCE
~TONY THE MILLER'S SON.~
CHAPTER FIRST.
About a mill, and the old miller who became tired and sold it to Tony's
father, and of the advice given to the new occupant
CHAPTER SECOND.
How the miller behaved to his kind neighbors, and about the rushing
torrent which came very near destroying the old mill
PREFACE.
* * * * *
One evening--it was winter, and the hills and fields were covered with
snow, but the moon shone bright on the frosty windows, and the fire was
burning cheerfully in the grate; it was such an evening when one likes
to enjoy the pleasures of a song or story. You may imagine yourselves on
such an evening seated around the table, something like the knights of
old, whose pleasure it was to relate their wonderful deeds of arms, when
they returned from the "_Holy Land_," or from some noble deed of
knightly prowess; but the stories you shall hear are very different from
those, as the picture you see before you indicates. They are chiefly
stories for children, and are such as relate more particularly to the
affections of the heart. They may be "_Fairy Tales_," or they may be
household narratives of facts, such as occur in the every-day life of a
child. If the moral be good and pure, and the mind interested and made
better, the end is accomplished.
THE TURTLE-DOVES OF CARMEL.
BY MARY HOWITT.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIRST.
ABOUT A YOUNG ENGLISH MUSICIAN, AND HOW HE CAME TO SPEND THE WINTER AT
MOUNT CARMEL.
A great many turtle-doves lived about Mount Carmel, and there were
orange-trees and cypresses there, and among these the doves lived all
the winter. They had broods early in the year, and towards the end of
March, or the beginning of April, they set off like great gentlefolks,
to spend "the season" near London. All last winter a young English
musician, who was very pale and thin, lived with the monks in the
monastery on Mount Carmel. He went to Syria because when a child he had
loved so to hear his mother read in the Bible about Elijah and Elisha on
Mount Carmel. And he used to think then that if ever he was rich, he
would go and see all the wonderful places mentioned in the Bible.
But he never was rich, and yet he came here. He was very pale, and had
large and beautiful but sorrowful eyes. He took a violin with him to
Mount Carmel; it was the greatest treasure he had on earth, and he
played the most wonderful things on this violin that ever were heard,
and everybody who heard it said that he was a great musician. In the
winters he suffered very much from the cold and the fogs of England;
so, last summer he saved a little money, and set off with his violin for
Syria, and all last winter he lived in the monastery of Mount Carmel,
among the grave old monks.
There was one little old monk, a very old man, who soon grew very fond
of him; he too had been a musician, but he was now almost childish, and
had forgotten how to play; and the brother monks had taken from him his
old violin, because they said he made such a noise with it. He cried to
part with it, like a child, poor old man!
The young musician had a little chamber in the monastery, which
overlooked the sea; nobody can think what a beautiful view it had. The
sun shone in so warm and pleasant, and a little group of cypresses grew
just below the window.
[Illustration]
The young man often and often stood at the window, and looked out upon
the sea, and down into the cypress-trees, among the thick branches of
which he heard the doves cooing. He loved to hear them coo, and so did
the little old monk. One day early in January he saw that the
turtle-doves had built a nest just in sight; he watched the birds taking
it by turns to sit on the eggs, and his heart was full of love to them;
they turned up their gentle eyes to him, but they never flew away, for
they saw in his mild and sorrowful countenance, that he would not hurt
them.
Beautiful and melancholy music sounded for half of the day down from his
window to where the birds sat; it had a strange charm for the doves,
they thought it was some new kind of nightingale come down from heaven.
The little old monk sat in his Carmelite frock, with his hands laid
together on his knees and his head down on his breast, and listened with
his whole soul; to him too it came as a voice from heaven, and seemed to
call him away to a better land; great tears often fell from his eyes,
but they were not sorrowful tears, they were tears of love, tears which
were called forth by a feeling of some great happiness which was coming
for him, but which he could not rightly understand. He was, as you know,
a very old man, the oldest in all the monastery.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER SECOND.
ABOUT THE KIND OLD MONK AND THE MUSICIAN, AND ABOUT THE TURTLE-DOVES WHO
MADE THEIR NEST NEAR HIS WINDOW.
Heavenly music from the young man's room was heard every day;--finer and
finer it sounded. As early spring came on, he grew very poorly; the
little old monk used to bring him his meals into his chamber, because it
tired him to go up and down the long stone staircase to the great
eating-room. There never was anybody so kind as the little old monk.
A pair of young doves were hatched in the nest, and when the sun shone
in at the window, the young man used to sit in his dressing-gown, with a
pillow in his chair, and look down into the cypress-tree where the
turtle-doves' nest was; he would sit for hours and look at them, and
many beautiful thoughts passed through his mind as he did so. Never had
his heart been so full of love as now. The little old monk used to sit
on a low seat before him, waiting for the time when he asked for his
violin, which was a great happiness for them both. The musician loved
the old monk very much, and often, when he played, he desired to pour
bright and comfortable thoughts into his innocent soul.
It was the end of March; the turtle-doves were all preparing for their
flight to England; the pair that had built their nest under the
musician's window had a home in some quiet woods in Surrey, where it
was delightfully mild and pleasant even in winter, but they never were
there in winter, although the wood had the name of Winterdown. It was a
lovely wood: broad-leaved arums and primroses, and violets blue and
white, covered the ground in spring, and in summer there were hundreds
and hundreds of glow-worms, and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with
ivy and honeysuckle. It was a very pleasant place, and near to it a
poet's children were born; they had wandered in its wilds, had gathered
its flowers, and admired its glow-worms, and listened to the
turtle-doves, when they were very young; now, however, their home was
near London; they only went to Winterdown about once a year for a great
holiday. The old turtle-doves talked about the poet's children in
Winterdown, and the young doves fancied that they lived there always.
[Illustration: THE POET'S CHILDREN.]
It was now the time for them to set off on their long journey; the old
doves had exercised their young ones, and they were sure that they could
perform the journey. Next morning early they were to set off.
All night there was a light burning in the young musician's chamber,
and towards morning the most heavenly music sounded from the window,
which the old monk had opened a little, a very little, for fresh air,
because his young friend had complained of the room being close and hot.
The sound awoke the doves; and they listened to what they still thought
a glorious bird. The little old man sat with his feeble hands together,
and his head raised; it was the first time for years that he had ever
sat _so_; the young man played, and there was a heavenly joy in his
soul; he knew not whether he was in heaven or earth; all his pain was
gone. It was a blissful moment; the next, and all was still in the
chamber--wonderfully still. The lamp continued burning, a soft breeze
blew in from the half-opened window, and just stirred the little old
man's Carmelite frock, and lifted the young man's dark locks, but they
neither of them moved.
"That glorious bird has done his singing for this morning," said the old
doves; "he will now sleep--let us set off; all our friends and neighbors
are off already; we have a long journey before us." The parent doves
spread their wings; they and their elder ones were away, but the younger
stayed as if entranced in the nest; he could think of nothing but the
glorious bird that had just been singing: his family wheeled round the
cypress, and then returned for him; they bade him come, for it was late.
The sun was rising above the sea, and all the doves of Carmel were ready
for flight. The younger dove then spread its wings also for this long
journey, bearing with him still the remembrance of that thrilling music
which affected him so greatly.
The turtle-doves went forth on their long journey. The young musician
and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer.
[Illustration]
THE DYING CHILD
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.
Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.
Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!
Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?
Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!
Do not sigh thus--it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired--my weary eyes are closing--
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!
[Illustration]
FRIGHTENED BY A COW.
I.
One morning Miss Lucy,
As oft-times before,
Went out in the fields
With maid Ellenore:
II.
The sun shone so bright,
And the air was so still;
Not a breath could be raised
To turn the old mill.
III.
They walked through the fields
All sprinkled with dew,
Where the bright yellow flowers
Gave a charm to the view;
IV.
The birds sang so gayly
To bless the bright day,
And sweetly the baby
Talked and laughed by the way.
V.
Now Lucy knew well
There was naught to alarm--
Old Brindle was gentle,
And would do her no harm.
VI.
But the cow raised her head
And looked round so bold,
That she started and shrieked,
And made Ellenore scold.
VII.
Then the man at the mill
Rushed out in a fright,
And seeing Miss Lucy
All trembling and white,
[Illustration: FRIGHTENED BY A COW.]
VIII.
Said, "Have courage, young lady!
Pray cease your alarm;
Cows never will hurt you,
If you do them no harm."
IX.
Now the baby he prattled,
And begged for a ride;
He clapped his hands loudly,
And "Come, Mooly!" he cried;
X.
"Let me ride on your back
O'er the green fields so bright,
Where the busy bees hum--
_Dear Mooly_, you _might_.
XI.
"We'll ride o'er the hills
Where the lofty pines grow,
And through the green lanes
Of hawthorn we'll go;
XII.
"We'll ride through the groves
Where the happy birds play,
And sing a glad song
Of praise by the way."
THE RED SHOES.
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIRST.
HOW LITTLE KAREN WAS ADOPTED BY A LADY, AND HOW SHE CAME BY HER RED
SHOES.
There was once a little girl who was very pretty and delicate, but in
the summer she was obliged to run about with bare feet, she was so poor,
and in the winter to wear large wooden shoes, which made her little
instep quite red, and that looked so dangerous!
In the middle of the village lived old mother Shoemaker, and she sat and
sewed together, as well as she could, a little pair of shoes out of red
cloth; they were very clumsy, but it was a kind thought,--they were
meant for the little girl.
The little girl was called Karen. On the very day her mother was buried
Karen received the red shoes, and wore them for the first time. They
were certainly not intended for mourning, but she had no others, and
with stockingless feet she followed the poor straw coffin in them to the
grave.
Suddenly an old carriage drove up, and a large old lady sat in it; she
looked at the little girl, felt compassion for her, and then said to the
clergyman--
"Here, give me that little girl, I will adopt her!"
Karen believed all this happened on account of her red shoes, but the
old lady thought they were horrible, and so they were burnt; but Karen
was otherwise nicely clothed, and besides, had a pretty doll charmingly
dressed in green.
[Illustration: KAREN WITH HER DOLL.]
She must now learn to read and sew; and people said she was a nice
little girl; but the looking-glass said, "Thou art more than nice, thou
art beautiful!"
Now the queen once travelled through the land, and she had a daughter
with her, and this little daughter was a princess; and people streamed
to the castle, and Karen was there also, and the little princess stood
in her fine white dress, in a window, and let herself be stared at: she
had neither a train nor a golden crown, but splendid red morocco shoes.
They were certainly far handsomer than those mother Shoemaker had made.
Nothing in the world can compare with red shoes, thought Karen, and she
greatly desired them.
* * * * *
Now Karen was old enough to be _confirmed_ by the bishop, and that she
might be ready to go to the church, the old lady had new clothes made
for her, and took her to the rich shoemaker's in the city to select
some shoes. This took place in his store, where stood large glass cases,
filled with elegant shoes and brilliant boots. All this looked charming,
but the old lady could not see well, and so had no pleasure in looking
at them. In the midst of these shoes stood a pair of red ones just like
those the little princess had worn. How beautiful they were! The
shoemaker said also that they had been made for the child of a count,
but had not fitted.
"That must be patent leather," said the old lady, "they shine so."
"Yes, they shine," said Karen, "and I should be delighted to have them!"
And they were tried on, and fitted her little foot so well that they
were bought; but the old lady knew nothing about their being red, else
she would never have allowed Karen to have gone in red shoes to be
confirmed. Yet such was the case.
Everybody looked at her feet; and when she stepped through the
chancel-door on the church pavement, it seemed to her as if the old
figures on the tombs--those portraits of old preachers and preachers'
wives, with stiff ruffs and long black dresses, fixed their eyes on her
red shoes. And she thought only of them as the clergyman laid his hand
upon her head, and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with God,
and how she should now become a true Christian; and the organ pealed so
solemnly, the sweet children's voices sang, and the old music-directors;
but Karen thought only of her red shoes.
In the afternoon the old lady heard that the shoes had been red, and she
said that it was very wrong of Karen, that it was not at all becoming,
and that in future Karen should only go in black shoes to church, even
when she should be older.
The next Sunday there was to be the sacrament, and Karen looked at the
black shoes, then looked at the red ones,--looked at them again, and put
on the red shoes.
The sun shone gloriously; Karen and the old lady walked along the path
through the corn; it was rather dusty, and their shoes were covered.
At the church-door stood an old soldier with a crutch, and with a
wonderful long beard which was more red than white, and he bowed to the
ground and asked the old lady if he might dust her shoes; and Karen
stretched out her little foot.
"See! what beautiful dancing-shoes!" said the soldier; "sit firm--you
dance," and he put his hand out towards the soles.
And the old lady gave the soldier an alms, and went into the church with
Karen.
And all the people in the church looked at Karen's red shoes, and all
the pictures; and as Karen knelt before the altar and raised the cup to
her lips, she only thought of the red shoes, and they seemed to swim in
it; and she forgot to sing her psalm, and she forgot to pray, "Our
Father, who art in heaven!"
Now all the people went out of the church, and the old lady got into the
carriage. Karen raised her foot to get in after her, when the old
soldier said--
"Look, what beautiful dancing-shoes!"
And Karen could not help dancing a step or two, and when she began, her
feet continued to dance; it was just as if the shoes had power over
them. She danced round the church-corner, she could not leave off; the
coachman was obliged to run after and catch hold of her, and he lifted
her into the carriage, but her feet continued to dance, so that she trod
on the old lady dreadfully. At length she took off the shoes, and then
her legs had peace.
The shoes were placed in a closet at home, but Karen could not help
looking at them.
CHAPTER SECOND.
KAREN GROWS VAIN OF HER RED SHOES, AND IS FORCED TO DANCE OVER THE
FIELDS, ACROSS THE BRIDGES, AND EVERY-WHERE.
Now the old lady was sick, and it was said that she could not recover.
She must be nursed and waited upon, and there was no one whose duty it
was so much as Karen's. But there was to be a great ball, to which Karen
was invited. She looked at the old lady, who could not recover; she
looked at the red shoes, and she thought there could be no sin in it.
She put on the red shoes,--she thought she might do that also; and she
went to the ball and began to dance.
[Illustration]
When she went to dance to the right, the shoes would dance to the left;
and when she went to dance up the room, the shoes would dance back
again; and they danced down the steps, into the street, and from there
she danced, and danced straight out into the gloomy wood.
Then it was light up among the trees, and she fancied it must be the
moon, for there was a face; but it was the old soldier with the red
beard; he sat there, nodded his head, and said, "Look! what beautiful
dancing-shoes!"
Then she was terrified, and wanted to fling off the red shoes, but they
clung fast; and she pulled down her stockings, but the shoes seemed to
have grown to her feet; and she danced, and must dance, over fields and
over meadows, in rain and sunshine, by night and day; but at night it
was most fearful.
She danced over the churchyard, but the dead did not dance; they had
something better to do than to dance. She wished to seat herself on a
poor man's grave, where the bitter tansy grew; but for her there was
neither peace nor rest; and when she danced towards the open
church-door, she saw an angel standing there. He wore long white
garments, he had wings which reached from his shoulders to the earth,
his countenance was severe and grave, and in his hand he held a sword,
broad and glittering.
"Dance shalt thou!" said he, "dance in thy red shoes till thou art pale
and cold! Dance shalt thou from door to door; and where proud, vain
children dwell, thou shalt stand and knock, that they may hear thee and
tremble! Dance shalt thou!--"
"Mercy!" cried Karen. But she did not hear the angel's reply, for the
shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, across roads and
bridges, and she must keep ever dancing.
One morning she danced past a door she well knew. Within sounded a
psalm; a coffin decked with flowers was borne forth. Then she knew that
the old lady was dead, and that she was abandoned by all. She danced,
and she was forced to dance through the gloomy night. The shoes carried
her over stock and stone; she was torn till she bled. She danced over
the heath till she came to a little house. Here, she knew, dwelt the
executioner; and she tapped with her fingers at the window, and said,
"Come out! come out! I cannot come in, for I am forced to dance."
And the executioner said, "Thou dost not know who I am, I fancy. I
strike bad people's heads off; and I hear that my axe rings!"
"Don't strike my head off!" said Karen; "then I can't repent of my
sins! but strike off my feet and the red shoes!"
And then she confessed her entire sin, and the executioner struck off
her feet, with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little
feet across the field into the deep wood.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THIRD.
HOW KAREN TRIED TO GO TO CHURCH AGAIN, HOW SHE PRAYED AND WAS SORRY, AND
HOW AN ANGEL CAME TO COMFORT HER, AND HOW HAPPY SHE BECAME.
And the executioner carved out little wooden feet for her, and crutches,
and taught her the psalms criminals always sing; and she kissed the hand
which had wielded the axe, and went over the heath.
"Now I have suffered enough for the red shoes!" said she; "now I will go
into the church, that people may see me!" And she hastened towards the
church-door; but when she neared it the red shoes danced before her,
and she was terrified, and turned around.
The whole week she was unhappy, and wept many bitter tears; but when
Sunday returned, she said--
"Well, now I have struggled enough! I really believe I am as good as
many a one who sits in the church, and hold their heads so high!"
And away she went boldly; but she had not got farther than the
churchyard-gate, before she saw the red shoes dancing before her, and
she was frightened, and turned back, and repented of her sin from her
heart.
And she went to the parsonage, and begged that they would take her into
service; she would be very industrious, she said, and would do every
thing she could; she did not care about the wages, only she wished to
have a home, and be with good people; and the clergyman's wife was sorry
for her, and took her into service; and she _was_ industrious and
thoughtful. She sat still and listened when the clergyman read the Bible
in the evening. All the children thought a deal of her; but when they
spoke of dress, and grandeur, and beauty, she shook her head.
The following Sunday when the family was going to church, they asked her
whether she would not go with them; but she glanced sorrowfully, with
tears in her eyes, at her feet. The family went to hear the word of God,
but she went alone into her little chamber; there was only room for a
bed and a chair to stand in it; and here she sat down with her
prayer-book; and whilst she read with a pious mind, the wind bore the
strains of the organ towards her, and she raised her tearful eyes to
heaven and said, "Oh God, help me!"
And the sun shone clearly! And straight before her stood the angel of
God in white garments, the same she had seen at the church-door; but he
no longer carried the sharp sword, but in its stead a splendid green
spray full of roses, and he touched the ceiling with the spray, and the
ceiling rose up high, and where he had touched it there gleamed a golden
star. And he touched the walls and they widened out, and she saw the
organ which was playing; she saw the old pictures of the preachers and
the preachers' wives.