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DAVID FRASER was a famous Scotch
hewer. On hearing that it had been remarked among a party of
Edinburgh masons that, though regarded as the first of Glasgow
stone cutters, he would find in the eastern capital at least
his equals, he attired himself most uncouthly in a long-tailed
coat of tartan, and, looking to the life the untamed, untaught,
conceited little Celt, he presented himself on Monday morning,
armed with a letter of introduction from a Glasgow builder, before
the foreman of an Edinburgh squad of masons engaged upon one
of the finer buildings at that time in the course of erection.
The letter specified neither his qualifications nor his name. It had been written merely to secure for him the necessary employment, and the necessary employment it did secure. The better workmen of the party were engaged, on his arrival, in hewing columns, each of which was deemed sufficient work for a week; and David was asked somewhat incredulously, by the foreman, if he could hew. Oh, yes, he thought he could hew. Could he hew columns such as these? Oh, yes, he thought he could hew columns such as these. A mass of stone, in which a possible column lay hid, was accordingly placed before David, not under cover of the shed, which was already occupied by workmen, but, agreeably to David's own request, directly in front of it, where he might be seen by all, and where he straightway commenced a most extraordinary course of antics. Buttoning his long tartan coat fast around him, he would first look along the stone from the one end, anon from the other, and then examine it in front and rear; or, quitting it altogether for the time, he would take up his stand beside the other workmen, and, after looking at them with great attention, return and give it a few taps with the mallet, in a style evidently imitative of theirs, but monstrously a caricature. The shed all that day resounded with roars of laughter; and the only thoroughly grave man on the ground was he who occasioned the mirth of all the others. Next morning David again buttoned his coat; but he got on much better this day than the former. He was less awkward and less idle, though not less observant than before; and he succeeded ere evening in tracing, in workmanlike fashion, a few draughts along the future column. He was evidently greatly improving! On the morning of Wednesday he threw off his coat; and it was seen that, though by no means in a hurry, he was seriously at work. There were no more jokes or laughter; and it was whispered in the evening that the strange Highlander had made astonishing progress during the day. By the middle of Thursday he had made up for his two days' trifling, and was abreast of the other workmen. Before night he was far ahead of them; and ere the evening of Friday, when they had still a full day's work on each of their columns, David's was completed in a style that defied criticism; and, his tartan coat again buttoned around him, he sat resting himself beside it. The foreman went out and greeted him. "Well," he said, "you have beaten us all. You certainly can hew!" "Yes," said David, "I thought I could hew columns. Did the other men take much more than a week to learn?" "Come, come, David Fraser," replied the foreman, "we all guess who you are. You have had your week's joke out; and now, I suppose, we must give you your week's wages, and let you go away!" "Yes," said David, "work waits for me in Glasgow; but I just thought it might be well to know how you hewed on this east side of the country." |
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IT is well known that the Fairy
People cannot abide meanness. They like to be liberally dealt
with when they beg or borrow of the human race; and, on the other
hand, to those who come to them in need, they are invariably
generous. Now there once lived a certain housewife who had a sharp eye to her own interests, and gave alms of what she had no use for, hoping to get some reward in return. One day a Hillman knocked at her door. "Can you lend us a saucepan, good mother?" said he. "There's a wedding in the hill, and all the pots are in use." "Is he to have one?" asked the servant lass who had opened the door. "Aye, to be sure," answered the housewife; "one must be neighborly." But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, the housewife pinched her arm and whispered sharply: "Not that, you good-for- nothing! Get the old one out of the cupboard. It leaks, and the Hillmen are so neat, and such nimble workers, that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one obliges the Fairy People, and saves sixpence in tinkering!" Thus bidden the maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by until the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the Hillman, who thanked her and went away. In due time the saucepan was returned, and, as the housewife had foreseen, it was neatly mended and ready for use. At supper-time the maid filled the pan with milk, and set it on the fire for the children's supper. But in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs refused to drink it. "Ah, good-for-nothing hussy!" cried the housewife, as she refilled the pan herself, "you would ruin the richest with your carelessness! There's a whole quart of good milk wasted at once!" "And that's twopence!" cried a voice that seemed to come from the chimney, in a whining tone, like some discontented old body going over her grievances. The housewife had not left the saucepan for two minutes, when the milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. "The pan must be dirty," muttered the good woman in vexation, "and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs." "And that's fourpence!" added the voice in the chimney. After a thorough cleaning the saucepan was once more filled and set on the fire, but with no better success. The milk boiled over again, and was hopelessly spoiled. The housewife shed tears of anger at the waste and cried: "Never before did such a thing befall me since I kept house! Three quarts of new milk burnt for one meal." "And that 's sixpence!" cried the voice in the chimney. "You did n't save the tinkering after all, mother!" With that the Hillman himself came tumbling down from the chimney, and went off laughing through the door. But from then on the saucepan was as good as any other. |
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ONCE long ago there was a high
mountain whose rocks were veined with gold and silver and seamed
with iron. At times, from a huge rent in the mountain-side, there
shot out roaring, red flames, and clouds of black smoke. And
when the village folk in the valley below saw this, they would
say: "Look! the Metal King is at his forge." For they
knew that in the gloomy heart of the mountain, the Metal King
and his Spirits of the Mines wrought in gold and iron. When the storm raged over the valley, the Metal King left his cavern and riding on the wings of the wind, with thundering shouts, hurled his red-hot bolts into the valley, now killing the peasants and their cattle, now burning houses and barns. But when the weather was soft and mild, and the breezes blew gently about the mouth of his cavern, the Metal King returned to his forge in the depths of the mountain, and there shaped ploughshares and many other implements of iron. These he placed outside his cavern door, as gifts to the poor peasants. It happened, on a time, there lived in that valley a lazy lad, who would neither till his fields nor ply a trade. He was avaricious, but he longed to win gold without mining, and wealth and fame without labor. So it came to pass that he set out one day to find the mountain treasure of the Metal King. Taking a lighted lantern in one hand, a hatchet in the other, and a bundle of twigs under his arm, he entered the dark cavern. The dampness smote his cheek, bats flapped their wings in his face. Shivering with fear and cold, he pressed on through a long passage under an arched and blackened roof. As he passed along he dropped his twigs, one after another, so that they might guide him aright when he returned. He came at last to a place where the passage branched off in two directions, — to the right and to the left. Choosing the right-hand path, he walked on and at length came to an iron door. He struck it twice with his hammer. It flew open, and a strong current of air rushing forth put out his light. "Come in! Come in!" shouted a voice like the rolling of thunder, and the cavern echoes gave back the sounds. Almost overcome by terror and shivering in every limb, the lad entered. As he stepped forward a dazzling light shone from the vaulted roof upheld by massive columns, and across the crystal side-walls flittered curious, shadowy figures. The Metal King, huge and fierce-eyed, surrounded by the misshapen Spirits of the Mines, sat upon a block of pure silver, with a pile of shining gold lying before him. "Come in, my friend!" he shouted again, and again the echoes rolled through the cavern. "Come near, and sit beside me." The lad advanced, pale and trembling, and took his seat upon the silver block. "Bring out more treasure," cried the Metal King, and at his command the Mountain Spirits fluttered away like dreams, only to return in a moment and pile high before the wondering lad bars of red gold, mounds of silver coin, and stacks of precious jewels. And when the lad saw all that wealth he felt his heart burst with longing to grasp it, but when he tried to put out his hand, he found that he could not move his arm, nor could he lift his feet, nor turn his head. "Thou seest these riches," said the Metal King; "they are but a handful compared with those thou mayest gain if thou wilt work with us in the mines. Hard is the service but rich the reward! Only say the word, and for a year and a day thou shalt be a Mountain Spirit." "Nay," stammered the lad, in great terror, "nay, I came not to work. All I beg of thee is one bar of gold and a handful of the jewels that lie here. If they are mine I can dress better than the village lads, and ride in my own coach!" "Lazy, ungrateful wretch!" cried the Metal King, rising from his seat, while his figure seemed to tower until his head touched the cavern roof, "wouldst thou seize without pay the treasures gained through the hard labor of my Mountain Spirits! Hence! Get thee gone to thy place! Seek not here for unearned riches! Cast away thy discontented disposition and thou shalt turn stones into gold. Dig well thy garden and thy fields, sow them and tend them diligently, search the mountain-sides; and thou shalt gain through thine industry mines of gold and silver!" Scarcely had the Metal King spoken when there was heard a screeching as of ravens, a crying as of night owls, and a mighty storm wind came rushing against the lad; and catching him up it drove him forth along the dark passage, and down the mountain-side, so that in a minute he found himself on the steps of his own house. And from that time on a strange change came over the lad. He no longer idled and dreamed of sudden wealth, but morning, noon, and evening he labored diligently, sowing his fields, cultivating his garden, and mining on the mountain-side. Years came and went; all he touched prospered, and he grew to be the richest man in that country; but never again did he see the Metal King or the Spirits of the Mines. |
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ALL firemen have courage, but
it cannot be known until the test how many have this particular
kind, -- Bill Brown's kind. It was tolerably certain that he would die if he stayed. On the other hand, the boys of old 29 were in there. Devanny, McArthur, Gillon, and Merron, his friends, his chums. He'd seen them drag the hose in through that door, — there it was now, a long, throbbing snake of it, — and they hadn't come out. Perhaps they were dead. Yes, but perhaps they weren't. If they were alive, they needed water now more than they ever needed anything before and they couldn't get water if he quit his engine. Bill Brown pondered this a
long time, perhaps four seconds; then he fell to stoking in coal,
and he screwed her up another notch, and he eased her running
parts with the oiler. Explosion or not, pain or not, alone or
not, he was going to stay and make that engine hum. He had done
the greatest thing a man can do, — had offered his life
for his friends. |
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ONCE words ran high in a smithy.
The furnace said: "If I cease to burn, the smithy must close." The bellows said: "If I cease to blow, no fire, no smithy." The hammer and anvil, also, each claimed the sole credit for keeping up the smithy. The ploughshare that had been shaped by the furnace, the bellows, the hammer and the anvil, cried: "It is not each of you alone, that keeps up the smithy, but all together." |
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A MERCHANT had done good business
at the fair; he had sold his wares, and filled his bag with gold
and silver. Then he set out at once on his journey home for he
wished to be in his own house before night. At noon he rested in a town. When he wanted to go on, the stableboy brought his horse, saying: "A nail is wanting, sir, in the shoe of his left hind foot." "Let it be wanting," answered the merchant; "the shoe will stay on for the six miles I have still to go. I am in a hurry." In the afternoon he got down at an inn and had his horse fed. The stableboy came into the room to him and said: "Sir, a shoe is wanting from your horse's left hind foot. Shall I take him to the blacksmith?" "Let it still be wanting," said the man; "the horse can very well hold out for a couple of miles more. I am in a hurry." So the merchant rode forth but before long the horse began to limp. He had not limped long before he began to stumble and he had not stumbled long before he fell down and broke his leg. The merchant had to leave the horse where he fell, and unstrap the bag, take it on his back, and go home on foot. "That unlucky nail," said he to himself, "has made all this trouble." |
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THERE was once a shoemaker who
worked very hard and was honest. Still he could not earn enough
to live on. At last all he had in the world was gone except just
leather enough to make one pair of shoes. He cut these out at
night and meant to rise early the next morning to make them up.
His heart was light in spite of his troubles for his conscience was clear. So he went quietly to bed, left all his cares to God, and fell asleep. In the morning he said his prayers and sat down to work, when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes, already made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think. He looked at the work. There was not one false stitch in the whole job. All was neat and true. That same day a customer came in and the shoes pleased him so well that he readily paid a price higher than usual for them. The shoemaker took the money and bought leather enough to make two pairs more. He cut out the work in the evening, and went to bed early. He wished to be up with the sun and get to work. He was saved all trouble for when he got up in the morning the work was done. Pretty soon buyers came in who paid him well for his goods. So he bought leather enough for four pairs more. He cut out the work again overnight and found it finished in the morning as before. So it went on for some time. What was got ready at night was always done by daybreak and the good man soon was well-to-do. One evening, at Christmas time, he and his wife sat over the fire chatting and he said: "I should like to sit up and watch tonight, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me." So they left the light burning and hid themselves behind a curtain to see what would happen. As soon as it was midnight, there came two little Elves. They sat upon the shoemaker's bench, took up all the work that was cut out, and began to ply their little fingers. They stitched and rapped and tapped at such a rate that the shoemaker was amazed and could not take his eyes off them for a moment. On they went till the job was done and the shoes stood, ready for use, upon the table. This was long before daybreak. Then they ran away as quick as lightning. The next day the wife said to the shoemaker: "These little Elves have made us rich and we ought to be thankful to them and do them some good in return. I am vexed to see them run about as they do. They have nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I'll tell you what we must do. I will make each of them a shirt, a coat, a waistcoat, and a pair of pantaloons into the bargain. Do you make each of them a little pair of shoes." The good shoemaker liked the thought very well. One evening he and his wife had the clothes ready and laid them on the table instead of the work they used to cut out. Then they went and hid behind the curtain to watch what the little Elves would do. At midnight the Elves came in and were going to sit down at their work as usual but when they saw the clothes lying there for them, they laughed and were in high glee. They dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye and danced, capered, and sprang about as merry as could be till at last they danced out of the door and over the green. The shoemaker saw them no more, but everything went well with him as long as he lived. |
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ONCE upon a time in Japan,
there was a poor stone cutter named Hofus who used to go every
day to the mountainside to cut great blocks of stone. He lived
near the mountain in a little stone hut and worked hard and was
happy. And again the same voice that
he had heard on the mountain answered: — Straightway Hofus was a prince.
He had servants dressed in crimson and gold, and he rode in a
carriage with a golden umbrella over his head. And straightway Hofus was himself again, — a poor stone cutter, working all day upon the mountain side and going home at night to his little hut. Yet, he was content and happy and never again did he wish to be other than Hofus the stone cutter. |
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