Ropes of Sand. FOR THE CHILDREN. BY THE AUTHOR OF EARTH'S MANY VOICES.' KNOW a little man who every rainy morning twists about on his chair and says, 'What shall I do?' And until he gets something to do he cannot rest, but fidgets about and seems very uncomfortable. One morning we find some wood and some corks, and some thread and some linen, and we make a raft, and sail it in a great basin; another day we find some card-board and we make a house; another day we find a little box and some cotton-reels and some wire, and make a cart: but as soon as any of these things is finished the little man twists about again and says, What shall I do ?' On sunshiny mornings the little man comes with his cap in his hand and says, What shall I do?' And sometimes we set up a flagstaff in the garden, and sometimes play catch-ball, and sometimes pull up the weeds; but as soon as these things are ended he is sure to say again, What shall I do?' Just at this very moment while I am writing here he comes with the same cry. Now, however, when he says it, I tell him to go and make ropes of sand; and he laughs, for he knows what I mean. Do you know what I mean? If not, I will tell you. There was once-no matter when-a wise man-never mind his name-it is all a kind of fairy story, as you will soon see-and he lived no matter where. But wherever he lived, and whatever his name may have been, he did not live quite alone, for he had a little sprite constantly with him, though I think he would rather have been without him. This little sprite was always coming to him and saying,' Master, give me something to do!' until his master thought him a great tease, because he did not care to have to spend all his time in finding this sprite something to do; however, he had to find him something whenever he asked, because if he did not the sprite, as he knew, would tear him in pieces. 6 One day the sprite came to his master saying, 'Master, give me something to do!' and his master bade him go and build a castle very high, with walls very thick. And you must hew the stone yourself out of the quarry,' he said; 'and you must carry it all yourself, and you must build the castle all yourself, without any one to help you.' Then the sprite went away, and the master hoped he might get a little quietness. But, would you believe it? before sunset the sprite came back again saying, 'Master, give me something to do!' for the castle was finished. 'Go away,' said the master, 'into yonder field and reap the corn; but you must not reap it with a sickle, you must gather it stalk by stalk, and you must tie it all up in sheaves, two hundred stalks in every sheaf, and pile the sheaves three and three over the field.' Away went the sprite: but although the corn grew thickly, and the field was larger than any field out of fairy-land, before the sun had set again the poor master heard the same old cry, 'Master, give me Ropes of Sand. something to do!' for the corn was all gathered and the sheaves were all piled. 'Dear me,' thought the master, I wish I could get rid of you!' But, wise as he was, he did not know how to get rid of him. Then he gave him a little wooden cup no bigger than a thimble, and bade him go and climb a certain high hill till he came to a lake, and when he came to the lake he was to dip the water out by cupfuls until it was quite dry. Away went the sprite, and the water soon came pouring down the hill-side and flooded the valley; but as there were no houses there, and no sheep feeding, it did not much matter; and as no rain fell, it being in the summer time, all the little streams that fed the lake were soon used up, and before the sun had set more than once back came the sprite, saying, 'Master, give me something to do!' And so the time went on; and the master was always being worried by that dangerous little sprite, so that he had no peace. At last one day, when he heard the old cry, 'Something to do!' the master looked up from his book and said,- Go to the sea-shore and there make a rope of sand, and go on until you have used up all the sand on all the sea-shores in all the world.' Away went the sprite very merrily to the sea-shore, where the sand stretched out beyond the shingle. 'This will be fun,' said he, as he went; for I like the shore and the nice, bright, dancing sea.' 'I am glad you like it,' thought the master to himself; for you will have enough to do, I fancy.' And he looked very knowing and very well pleased, and you will soon see why. The sprite never came back to worry his master; nay, they say he is still at work on the sea-shore: he never can finish his rope of sand; for as fast as he uses the sand the sea washes up more: if he clears up one store, by the time he has been the round of the world the sea has made all the shores new again; and, I believe, there will never be an end to his rope of sand-never! I think, between ourselves, he would be really rather sorry if there were an end to it. He has some pleasant journeys from shore to shore, and he sees many lands and many people, and many birds and flowers, on his way; and he loves the nice, bright, dancing sea very much-the grand, dark, tossing sea. And he is ever so much happier than he was when he was always saying, 'Master, give me something to do!' Now the little man of whom I have spoken is worried by a sprite like ths, always begging for something to do; and whatever can he find for him to do than to send him down to the shores of Knowledge, and bid him make ropes of its bright sands? He will never use up all those sinds-no, never! The great ocean of Knowledge is very deep, and wil always be bringing him new stores out of its depths; and the little sɔrite may find it very pleasant and very merry to work beside that grind and beautiful sea. Nov let all little people remember my story; but, furthermore, I would lave them understand that the brightest strands in their rope will be whenever they have gathered and woven in a handful from the golden hores of the Sea of Life. WHEN Longings in Sadness. HEN shall we come to the land of And never-fading flowers? Grey is the day, and dark is the night, When shall we gaze on the sea of glass, And walk in the streets of gold? When shall we list to the songs of Till our hearts with rapture thrill We listen-but all is still. Longing and listening, here we roam, A* Lanfranc. RCHBISHOP LANFRANC was born 1005 years after Christ, in the city of Pavia. He began life as a lawyer, but not being successful in this he opened a school in a French town, which was attended by many pupils. Happening, on one occasion, to travel to Rouen, he fell among thieves, who robbed him and tied him to a tree. He was found next day by some poor men, and carried almost dead to the neighbouring Abbey of Bec. The monks treated him so kindly, and gave him such a taste for monastic life, that he entered their ranks, and in about three years he was chosen Prior, or chief of the Abbey. He wrote a book, or tract, on the Lord's Supper, which increased his fame; and in a while he was noticed and honoured by William, Duke of Normandy, better known as William the Conqueror. William had built at Cæn, in Normandy, a great house for monks, called St. Stephen's, and he made Lanfranc the head over that house. When William conquered England Lanfranc was sixty-one years old, with an important life yet before him. The English bishops and elergy were all bitterly hostile to their new master; so William in his own strong-handed way, turned them out, and filled their places with Normans, Frenchmen, and Italians. He expelled Stigand from the Bishopric of Canterbury and gave it to Lanfranc. All those soldiers who had killed or wounded any Norman in the battle of Hastings were ordered by Lanfranc to pay certain paalties. Every archer, whether he had slain a man or not, was to fast for three Lents. Lanfranc was courageous. When Odo, William's half-brother, took away some land belonging to the bishopric, Lanfranc would not tamely bear such a wrong done to the Church. He pleaded his cause in the open air, on a wide common, called Pinnendon, or Pennenden, Heath, near Maidstone, before the king and the great men of the State, and the lands were restored. Even then a king's brother was obiged to bow to the laws. He rebuilt his Cathedral, and gae away Lanfranc was generous. Tender Words for Weary Mothers. in charity a sum which would now be equivalent to six thousand a year. He was also humane. In concert with a brave old Saxon Bishop of Worcester, named Wulstan, he stopped the trade of slaves, who were then carried to Ireland. Lanfranc was also a true and God-fearing man. The following little story will show how he abhorred, and how he could rebuke, flattery : The Conqueror was feasting one day in a splendid hall, with his brave knights and nobles round him. The monarch was splendidly apparelled, and a foolish minstrel, singing the praises of the victor, ventured to say he looked like God. He expected, no doubt, this flattery would be well rewarded. But Lanfranc at once arose from his seat, and bade the king bring the godless minstrel to immediate punishment. The Conqueror-well for him!-did so, and his flatterer was soundly flogged. Had Lanfranc been silent, or had the king passed over the wicked words, there might have been another Herod, eaten of worms because he gave not God the glory. Lanfranc died, full of days and honour, May 24, 1089, and after his decease the See of Canterbury remained vacant four years, nine months, and nine days. In 1093 it was given to Anselm, Abbot of Bec. G. S. O. Tender Words for Weary Mothers. LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee Your tired knee, that has so much to bear, A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair: Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm moist fingers holding you so tight; You do not prize this blessing over much; You are almost too tired to pray to-night! To catch the sunshine till it slips away! to me That, while I bore the badge of mother- I did not kiss more oft and tenderly good. And if, some night when you sit down to rest, You missed the elbow from the tired knee, This restless curling head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again,— If the white feet into their grave had I could not blame you for your heart ache then! I wonder so that mothers ever fret are wet Are ever black enough to make them If I could find a little muddy boot, more, If I could mend a broken cart to-dayTo-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world She was more blissfully content than I. The little boy I used to kiss is dead! |