Title: The Little Brown Hen Hears the Song of the Nightingale & The Golden Harvest
Author: Van Dresser, Jasmine Stone, 1878-
Language: English
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[Illustration: THE·LITTLE·BROWN·HEN·HEARS THE·SONG·OF·THE·NIGHTINGALE

By Jasmine Stone Van Dresser]

[Illustration: AND·WITH·THE·LENGTHENING· EVENING·SHADOWS·]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



          The Little Brown Hen
          Hears the Song of the
          Nightingale
          & The Golden Harvest

          By Jasmine Stone Van Dresser

          Author of "How to Find Happyland"

          With an Introduction by Margaret Beecher White

          The Illustrations by William T. Van Dresser

          [Illustration: THE·LOUDEST·TALKERS·ARE·NOT·ALWAYS·WISEST··]

          Paul Elder and Company
          San Francisco and New York

_Copyright, 1908_ _by_ Paul Elder and Company



                      TO
             WILLIAM T. VAN DRESSER
            BUT FOR WHOM THE STORIES
          WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
           THIS LITTLE BOOK IS LOVINGLY
                 DEDICATED BY THE
                    AUTHOR



FOREWORD.


It is the duty of all good, useful stories to give a message to their
readers. The two dainty stories contained in this little volume each
carries its message of truth. Pure, simple and wholesome in quality,
they cannot fail to refresh as well as instruct those who receive them.

In the _Golden Harvest_ the lesson of patience taught by the little
apple tree's experience will bear rich fruit I do not doubt, and the
wisdom of the little brown hen cannot help but teach us all to listen
for the nightingale's song of harmony in our own lives.

                                            MARGARET BEECHER WHITE.



The Little Brown Hen Hears the Song of the Nightingale

[Illustration]


A POMPOUS old gander who lived in a barn-yard thought himself wiser than
the rest of the creatures, and so decided to instruct them.

He called together all the fowls in the barn-yard, and the pigeons off
the barn-roof, and told them to listen to him.

They gathered around and listened very earnestly, for they thought they
would learn a great deal of wisdom.

"The first thing for you to learn," said the gander, "is to speak my
language. It is very silly for you to chatter as you do. Now we will all
say, 'honk!' one, two, three,--'honk!'"

The creatures all tried very hard to say "honk!" but the sounds they
made were so remarkable that I cannot write them, and none of them
sounded like "honk!"

The gander was very angry.

"How stupid you are!" he cried. "Now you all must practise till you
learn it. Do not let me hear a peep or cluck or a coo! You must all
'honk' when you have anything to say."

So they obediently tried to do as he said.

When the little brown hen laid an egg, instead of making the fact known
with her sharp little "cut--cut--cut-cut-ah-cut!" as a well-ordered hen
should do, she ran around the barn-yard trying to say, "honk! honk!"

But nobody heard her, and nobody came to look for the egg.

The guinea-fowls way down in the pasture ceased calling "la croik! la
croik!" and there was no way of finding where they had hid their nests.
In the afternoon, when their shrill cries should have warned the farmers
that it was going to rain, they were still honking, or trying to, so
the nicely dried hay got wet.

Next morning chanticleer, instead of rousing the place with his lusty
crow, made an effort at honking that could not be heard a stone's throw
away, and so the whole farm overslept.

All day there was a Babel of sounds in the barn-yard. The turkeys left
off gobbling and made a queer sound that they thought was "honk!" the
ducks left off quacking, the chicks left off peeping, and said nothing
at all, for "honk!" was too big a mouthful for them; and the soft
billing and cooing of the doves were turned into an ugly harsh sound.

Things were indeed getting into a dreadful state, and they grew worse,
instead of better.

The hens forgot to lay eggs, the doves became proud and pompous like
the gander, and as for the turkey gobblers, they kept the place in an
uproar, for they thought they could really honk! and they never ceased
from morning till night.

There's no telling what it all would have come to if there hadn't been
one in the barn-yard, with an ear that could hear something besides the
dreadful discords.

One night the little brown hen was roosting alone in the top of the
hen-house. All at once she was awakened by the sweetest song she had
ever heard.

She called to her chicks and to some of her companions to wake up and
listen; but they were sleepy and soon dozed off again, so the little
brown hen was left listening alone.

"I will ask the gander what this beautiful song means," she said. "He
knows everything."

So she awoke the gander and asked him who was singing the beautiful
song, and what it meant.

The gander said gruffly: "It is the nightingale. I do not know what her
song means. She should learn to honk!" And he tucked his head back under
his wing.

"Ah!" thought the little brown hen, "if learning the gander's language
does not help me to understand this beautiful song, I do not think it is
worth bothering with. I shall never try to say 'honk!' again."

So she went back to her roost and listened till the nightingale's song
ceased. Then she tucked her head under her little brown wing and went to
sleep, her little heart singing within her.

At daylight she awoke, and hopping down sought her companions, eager to
tell them the wonderful thing that was singing in her heart.

"This is a beautiful, simple world," she cried, "and I have learned a
very wonderful thing!"

But to her surprise, the creatures had no desire to hear what it was,
for they were all in a flurry getting ready for their next lesson in
honking.

"Indeed, you need not bother about honking," cried the little brown hen,
but nobody paid any attention to her.

So she called her chicks about her, and went her way, clucking merrily,
while they picked up bugs, and dared to peep once more when they found a
nice fat worm.

Meanwhile the class in honking made very little headway, for no sooner
were they settled than they began to wish they knew what wonderful thing
the little brown hen had to tell.

[Illustration: THEY·GATHERED·AROUND·AND·LISTENED·VERY·EARNESTLY··]

They craned their necks to watch her, and were filled with envy, seeing
that she and her chicks feasted bountifully, with very little
scratching, whereas _they_ scratched in the barn-yard all day, and found
only enough bugs to quarrel over.

"Indeed!" said one old rooster, "we have learned nothing about the best
way of scratching for bugs, with all our gabbling."

"I should be glad," spoke up a duck, "to learn the wonderful thing that
the little hen has learned, so _I_ could keep from quarreling with my
neighbors."

They all grew quite uneasy, and the gander became very angry.

"Such a stupid lot I have never seen!" he cried. "I have a great mind to
let you go your ways and not bother with you!" and thereat he dismissed
the class in high dudgeon.

The first thing they all did was to take after the little brown hen.

"What is the wonderful thing you have learned?" asked the gobblers,
shaking their red throats and looking very important.

"Oh!" said the wise little hen, "I learned it by listening to the
nightingale, and so can you, I presume, if you leave off that silly
honking. Just gobble as nicely as you can when you have anything to say,
but first be sure it is worth saying."

The turkeys wished the little brown hen would tell them and save them
the trouble of listening, but as they had paid no attention when she
offered, they had nothing to do but follow her advice.

So they stopped honking and did very little gobbling, for they found
that they had not much of importance to say.

The ducks and the chickens and the doves all asked the same question,
and the little brown hen gave them much the same answer:

"Just quack and coo and cluck as nicely as you can, and have a care to
lay nice eggs. Attend very strictly to your own affairs, for I have
found that one learns a great deal by listening."

As they all took her advice, the barn-yard became a quiet, well-ordered
barn-yard again, with only so much cackling and clucking, and so forth,
as to give it a business-like air.

For each one was listening to hear when the nightingale came, and first
thing they knew each one heard the same song as the little brown hen,
for it was singing in all their hearts, and they understood it, whether
they quacked or gobbled or cooed.

"It does seem that there's a deal of talking these days," said the
little brown hen, "and it's mighty hard to listen; but even if the old
gander does honk every now and then, nobody need pay any attention to
him, for, after all, it isn't always those with the loudest voices that
have the best things to say."



The Little Apple Tree Bears a Golden Harvest

[Illustration]


IN A thriving apple orchard full of trees richly laden with fruit, stood
one hardy little tree whose apples remained small and green and hard.

The little tree wondered why her fruit was so small, when that on the
other trees grew so large and fine.

"But perhaps as these are my first apples they are slow in ripening,"
she thought. "I must be patient and before long the beautiful color will
begin to appear."

So day after day she watched for some signs of color on the cheeks of
the hard little apples, and time seemed to drag more and more slowly.

But life in an apple orchard is not altogether uneventful, and the
little tree became interested in finding she could take part in what was
going on about her.

One day there was a curious squawk in among her branches, and soon two
robins, each with a worm in his mouth, came flying in through the
thick-leaved boughs, to their nest in a crotch of the tree.

"Our birdies are hatched!" they cried, filling the gaping mouths. "The
little tree sheltered our eggs from storm and sun, and hid them so
carefully that no one could find them. We are safer in this tree than in
any tree in the orchard."

The little tree was filled with joy at finding that, after all, there
was something she could do to be of use.

"I have watched the little blue eggs ever since you left them here," she
said; and she seemed to snuggle her branches more closely about the
nest.

At last the little robins grew strong enough to fly, and the nest was
left empty, though the young birds stayed in the orchard and often came
to perch in the tree, and sing their song of gratitude.

Indeed all the creatures about seemed to know that here was loving
shelter for them. A little chipmunk made its home under the rock at the
foot of the tree, and frisked up the trunk and among the boughs. Many
birds perched in the branches and told wonderful song stories of what
was going on in the world.

A merry little flycatcher chose a small twig under one of the boughs of
the apple tree, where it perched for hours, darting out when a fly or
other insect buzzed by; but always returning to the little twig as if it
were home. In the shade of the thick-leaved boughs, the friendly cows
sought shelter, patiently chewing their cud, and switching their tails
to shoo off the flies.

And so the earnest little tree did all she could to be of use, and was
more beloved, though she did not know it, than any tree in the orchard.
Yet she could not but think sadly of her little green apples, that
seemed to show no signs of ripening.

Many long summer days passed. The early harvest apples in their full
prime were picked and barreled.

Each day the golden pippins grew more juicy and golden; the big jolly
Ben Davis, wine-saps, northern spies, bellflowers and many others
ripening in their turn, filled the orchard with a delightful odor and
glow of color; but the fruit on the one tree seemed as hard and backward
as ever.

The trees with the beautiful fruit laughed and whispered among
themselves, and the little tree was very unhappy, for she thought they
were laughing at her.

"Surely my fruit _must_ begin to ripen soon," she thought.

But at night when the rest of the orchard was asleep, she wept silently
to herself, for she wondered if it could be possible that her apples
would not ripen at all.

At last summer seemed to hold her breath. Day after day the warm
sunshine beat down upon the orchard, drowsy with the richness and
fulness of its almost completed labor. The trees now and then stirred
their heavy branches, as if suggesting that it was time to be relieved
of their burden.

One day a flock of merry children came to the orchard to play. The day
was cool, a gentle breeze stirred,--early fall had blown its first faint
breath.

The children frolicked all day, ate their luncheon on the grass, shook
down ripe apples, and with the lengthening evening shadows, began to
gather up their baskets, happy and contented and ready to go home.

A cool evening breeze sprang up with sudden briskness.

"Look at that black cloud!" cried a little urchin.

Suddenly the rain began to come down with a brisk patter; the children
scampered quickly under the nearest tree; the dark cloud overspread the
whole sky, rain pelted down, a great wind roared through the orchard,
bending the trees, and causing their branches to wave wildly and a
shower of apples to fall.

"Oh, where shall we go?" cried the children. "The apples are pelting us,
and the rain drives in upon us."

"Yonder under the little tree with green apples," cried one. "See how
thickly leaved it is, and how low the boughs bend; we shall be well
sheltered there."

[Illustration: THE WARM SUNSHINE BEAT DOWN UPON THE DROWSY ORCHARD]

Quickly they rushed to the tree, and how gladly she gathered them in,
and kept them dry under her loving arms; and not one of her apples fell
off.

Soon the shower was over, and the children scampered home, saying:

"It's a good thing we were near that tree, or we should have been
soaking wet. There isn't another one like it in the orchard."

The little tree heard their words of gratitude, and wept for joy.

The next day was bright and warm, and pleasant sunshiny weather
followed. At last the haze of Indian summer settled lovingly over the
country and the orchard rang with the voices of men and boys carrying
baskets and ladders.

"Too bad that equinoctial storm was such a blusterer," said one of the
men. "These lazy trees have dropped much of their fruit, and it lies
bruised on the ground."

But they picked barrel after barrel of the rich harvest, and soon the
little tree was left alone with her burden of useless fruit.

Now the trees seemed prouder than ever, and talked boastfully about the
fine apple harvest _they_ had furnished for mankind.

The little tree sighed softly to herself.

"But I must not be unhappy," she said, "for if I cannot bear beautiful
red and golden apples, there is surely some work for me to do, and I
shall find out what it is."

And now, though the little tree had not noticed that her apples had
grown, her branches were bending almost to the ground with their weight.
She tried to shake off some of the apples, for it seemed to add to her
disgrace to bear so much of this useless fruit. But she could no more
shake them off than could the wind and storm.

The clear cool fall days were passing, growing shorter and shorter. The
little tree was very lonely now, for the chipmunk was snug in his winter
home, the birds had flown south and the cows now looked for sun instead
of shade. The other trees, having finished their work, were preparing
for their long winter nap. The little tree way down in the corner of the
orchard seldom saw any one, but she was stout of heart, and kept on
saying:

"I know I shall find some way to be of use."

She did not pay much attention to her apples, for she had long ago given
up hopes of their becoming red and ripe.

Every night now white frost tripped daintily over the hardening ground,
and at sunup disappeared; the days were cool and bright; the frosts grew
heavier and the weather colder.

One day there were voices in the orchard,--men and boys carrying baskets
and ladders were coming; and to the astonishment of the little tree,
they stopped under her boughs, placed the ladders in the branches and
climbed up.

"Good old apples!" cried one of the boys, dropping them into his basket
with a plump.

"A fine yield!" said one of the men. "Did you ever see anything more
beautiful than this rich golden brown?"

"The sweetest apple that ever grew!" said another. "I don't feel that
I've had an apple till November brings these."

"It's a wise Providence that saves this sweetest morsel for the last,"
declared a third.

The little tree listened, trembling with happiness. Could it be true?

She gazed at the fruit on her heavy branches, and there, like drops of
gold, tinged with the sombre violet of November, hung ball after ball of
the luscious sweetness.

"Oh!" she murmured, "how blest I am to have so much to give, when all
the rest of nature is silent and sleeping. How happy I shall be, and how
earnestly I will try to bear the sweetest apples ever grown!"

At last the apples were all picked and carried to the great bins in the
cellar, there to lie mellowing and sweetening for the farmer's use
during the long winter months.

And the little russet apple tree went to sleep, and took her long nap
with the rest.





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