A long time ago, where Milwaukee now stands, on the shore of Lake Michigan, stood a great forest. The first settlers were afraid of it, for many strange animals were said to inhabit the place. Wolves howled dismally every evening at the setting of the sun. Some said that the woods were frequented by goblins.

One evening a peddler appeared in the little colony. He was given a good dinner and was much pleased when he was invited to stay all night at the home of Charles and Betty Townsend.

It was quite an event in the lives of the children to have a stranger present. They were all curiosity when the evening meal was over and begged him to tell them about himself.

"Very well," said the jolly merchant tramp, "I shall tell you a story that occurred in these very woods."

"Oh! Oh!" cried the children. The man blew his nose in a red handkerchief and continued his yarn.

"Ten years ago I was making my way home in a canoe from Canada. I came by way of Sault Sainte Marie and then along the banks of this lake. I had been to the Canadian side with my goods, had sold much to the Indians and made money, and I was coming home with a bag of money in my light canoe, and a merry heart. One evening I took my gun and strolled a short way inland to shoot a few wild fowl for my supper. I soon succeeded in shooting a pair of partridge—for the woods abounded at that time with much game—and was about to return, when I met, face to face, a curious bird, which resembled a common crow, except that it was white and with a black topknot. I raised my gun to shoot so that I might have a better chance of looking at it, but it flew upon a neighboring branch, and—will you believe me?—it began to talk!

"'Son of a tramp!' it began, 'thou wasteful peddler, wouldst thou shoot an innocent bird to suit thy idle curiosity? Shame! shame!'

"The creature stretched its beak and laughed in my face, nodding its topknot in mock defiance.

"I stood motionless in sheer fright, but when the bird jeered at me again, I seized my gun, saying: 'Balaam's ass! I shall teach you respect for your superiors! Dare you, that perch every night upon the stump of a tree, address a decent son of Adam in terms of scorn? I shall fill you with shot, pluck your feathers out, tear your tongue from your head, and throw you to the wolverines.'

"I raised my gun to fire, when the monster bird spoke again.

"'Shoot, if thou darest, fool! I have beaten thee in thine argument. Because thou art big as a moose, strong as Goliath, thou thinkest to put an end to my arguments by destroying my mortal body! Thou art no man; thou art a coward, as all argumentative humans are! Go home and learn thy A-B-C's! Teach thy grandmother! Tell her that a pee-wee crow has beaten thee in a debate!'

"'Well, of all things!' thought I, lowering my gun, and eyeing the impudent thing. 'Who are you?' I asked. 'Speak! If not, I shall scatter your brains to the four winds.'

"But the bird merely grinned, turning his head from side to side, tauntingly.

"'Bang!' I fired, and the report was terrific. For a while I could not see anything on account of the smoke, but, when the smoke had cleared away, I saw beneath the place where the insolent bird had been, a monk. He was holding the bleeding bird in his arms. Where had he come from? I began to have cold chills down my back, and worse, remorse crept into my soul. I turned to flee, but my boots stuck fast to the earth.

"The monk spoke bluntly, but also very tenderly. 'Sir,' he said, 'thou has wronged thyself! Thinkest thou this poor bird, whose only fault was to be in thy angry, inhuman path, has died for naught? No, my son. Thou hast shot the King of Crows, and every drop of his blood, and every feather also, must be sacredly gathered by thee and brought to me before twelve hours have passed away.'

"He held to my view the bleeding bird.

"'But,' protested I, 'how can I gather blood that has already disappeared into the soil? Can his feathers be gathered—from where? I do not know.'

"The monk shook his head sadly. 'Son, it must be done—it must be done!'

"In a moment he was gone. I turned to run away, but I could not move my feet. Then thought I, 'it is indeed true.'

"That night the shadows themselves became moving crows, and every noise appeared to be the voice of the dead bird. I shook with fear. The woods grew black as ink. The fireflies floated about, and all nature laughed at me.

"Suddenly I heard the deep baying of wolves. I seized my gun and stood up. Nearer and nearer they came.

"'Oh!' I exclaimed, 'am I to perish by their teeth!'

"Soon I could see the gleam of yellow-red eyes glaring at me in the darkness. I aimed at the first one that came near me, and fired. There was a wild cry, and then the cracking of bones, for the others at once fell to devouring the wolf I had shot. Breathlessly I reloaded my double-barreled gun. In less time than I can tell it, the dead wolf was gone! Then there was a rush for me. I fired again, with the same result. Half an hour passed, and my ammunition gave out. Seizing the muzzle of my gun, I determined to fight to the end. When the wolves leaped at me, I sprang back: my feet were free. With the butt end of the gun, I beat them off, running backward all the time. Suddenly my back struck against a tree, and in a moment I sprang for it. A wolf seized me by the leg. My trousers ripped, but I scrambled up the tree!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Charlie, "what about the monk and the crow?"

"I knew," answered the peddler, "that someone would ask that question. Well, to be brief, I sat on a limb all night—on the very limb on which the crow had been sitting. The wolves all the while were prowling about, and sniffing in the air, to make sure I was there. Not a bit of sleep did I get that night, and when the morning came, I was thankful, for one by one the wolves slunk off and I was left alone. When all was still again and things looked safe, my thoughts turned to the monk's threat, so I got down off my perch, and crept upon my knees, searching for traces of the blood and feathers of the crow. I succeeded in obtaining five little feathers, and these I pocketed with great care. I gathered up twigs that had any stains of blood upon them, and stored them away also. Then I made search under the leaves and dirt for signs of spilt blood. The leaves I gathered up, and the ground I sifted for particles of the precious fluid.

"While I was thus engaged, I heard a voice and looked up. It was the voice of the monk, saying, 'Hast thou accomplished all thy task?'

"I trembled and made no reply.

"'Thou hast tried, I see, but hast not succeeded in gathering all. But give me what thou hast!' he said.

"I heaped upon the ground all that I had gathered, just as if it had been precious gold.

"'There are still five drops of blood and one feather missing,' said the monk slowly, and a tear ran down his cheek.

"'Oh, monk,' I cried, 'help me; I shall find them for you!'

"'No, no, my son; I shall give some of my own.'

"To my great astonishment, he cut his arm and let five tiny little drops of blood trickle down upon the pile of earth. Then he lifted his hand to his head, as if to extract a hair. Recognizing what he was about to do, I pulled a bunch of hair out of my own head, and threw it down. The monk smiled. Putting his hand beneath his cape, he drew out the white crow. He placed the crow upon the pile and clapped his hands. In a second, the crow—yes, the same old crow—hopped up and sat on the monk's shoulder. Children, I was so pleased to see that crow, that I cried and begged to be allowed to go with the monk, but he waved me off and walked away."

"Oh, peddler," exclaimed Betty. "Did that really happen in these woods?"

The peddler nodded. "Yes, children, it really happened, and the experience changed my whole life. It is very strange, but whenever I tell this story, someone soon afterward learns for himself that it was true."

The children opened their eyes in astonishment. But their father laughed at them, and mamma said it was time to go to bed. Very reluctantly did the youngsters rise and scamper off to rest. The peddler also went to bed.

When the peddler had gone, Charles and Betty thought a great deal about what he had told them. It was Charles who suggested: "Betty, let us go and search for the monk?"

"Oh, Oh!" exclaimed Betty, opening wide her large blue eyes. "Do you really mean it? But suppose the monk should see us?"

"Well, and if he did? We have not shot his birds."

So Betty stared open-eyed while Charlie outlined his plans. They were to steal away that afternoon, taking with them their favorite dog, Don.

As soon as dinner was over, Charlie and Betty, attended by Don, struck off into the woods with light hearts. They took the old, familiar path, over which they had many a time before played hide and seek. However, it soon vanished into a new and unknown winding trail. They were delighted to find a road so easily traveled in the heart of the wood. Though they did not know it, the path was really a deer's runway. For at least two long hours the children wandered, whither they did not know. At times they would stand and shout, just to see the squirrels scramble and talk back at them, and even Don would stretch out his neck and howl in unison. Occasionally a wild bird scurried away. Don always gave pursuit.

Suddenly Don cocked up his short ears and whined. The children looked and saw a few yards away a little vine-covered hut.

"This is the monk's home, I believe!" whispered Charlie.

"Oh!" exclaimed Betty, clapping her hands; "isn't it fun?"

Don, seeing Betty clap her hands, and beholding Charlie's face so eagerly looking in the direction of the hut, thought something strange was going on, and he lifted up his great head and barked. The woods rang with his voice, and Charlie silenced him. They could hear the clatter of geese and the quack-quack of ducks, but not a sign of a human being could be seen.

"Let us go closer," whispered Charlie, growing bolder. Betty nodded, and slowly they crept, holding onto Don's collar, until they entered a most beautiful yard. In the center was a large pond, filled with wild geese, ducks, and all sorts of fowl. Nothing seemed to be afraid. The house was one mass of trellis work, ivy green. The door was open and the children, growing still bolder, entered. They found a table spread with flowers and fruits and other things to eat. Don, without waiting for ceremony, sniffed at a piece of bacon, and promptly devoured it. He looked around at the children, licking his chops and grinning. They were also tempted to partake, but the stillness made them afraid.

While they were looking at the pretty things within, they heard a step at the door. They turned and saw walking toward them a great turkey gobbler, almost as big as a man.

"Gobble-gobble," said the turkey. Don bristled up his hairs and growled.

"Gobble-gobble," again began the turkey. Charlie, summoning courage, spoke up:

"Well, Mr. Turkey, we are not doing any harm, and we will go away, if you make room for us."

But the turkey only drew closer. "Gobble-gobble!—"

"Mr. Turkey," began Betty, feeling afraid, for he looked as if he were going to peck them, "we have come to see the monk."

The turkey shook his head from side to side, and again said, "Gobble-gobble." There was no doubt about his intentions. He meant harm. His face was scarlet and there lurked an angry fire in his eyes. He filled the entrance completely. The gobbler's face swelled bigger and became redder. His long string nose shot out stiff and straight. He cleared his throat and yelled, "Gobble! Gobble! Gobble! OOOO!" It was the turkey's challenge to fight.

Charlie rushed forward to protect Betty, but the creature caught him with his great foot and hurled him back. Don sprang to the rescue, but almost at once fell back with a great howl and began to wipe his eyes with his paw. The children were grief-stricken when they saw that Don had lost an eye. They looked at the turkey and saw him in the act of swallowing it. He seemed well pleased, for he grinned and licked the sides of his mouth with his red tongue. Charlie rushed the second time at the gobbler and succeeded in catching him by the neck. The bird gave a squawk and a desperate kick, then tumbled backward and lay as if dead. The boy fell exhausted on the hard floor.

Betty ran to the door for help and was delighted to see a kindly old monk approaching. He stepped over the monster turkey and entered the hut. For a long time he stood and looked from girl to boy as if trying to fathom the whole affair. Betty could not find courage to say a word.

"Well, well! my dear, this does look serious!" the monk said.

"Please, Mr. Monk, do not be angry, we have had a terrible time."

"Yes," spoke up Charlie, sitting up, "we did not mean to disturb your dwelling place. It was you we were seeking and the turkey attacked us."

"Oh!" exclaimed Betty, "are you the monk that met the peddler?"

The monk nodded and Betty clapped her hands in delight.

"But, dear monk," she asked, "why don't you chain that horrid gobbler?"

"My dear girl, he is quite harmless, if you are not afraid of him. If you and Charlie had paid no attention to him, this afternoon, he would have left you alone. The old fellow thinks that he has the right to guard the place when I am away. If you are indifferent to his gobbles he believes then that you must belong to the family. No doubt he was afraid that you were going to steal something from the table."

"Oh!" exclaimed Charlie, "Don did take a piece of meat, but we could not prevent him."

"Yes, my dears, and poor Don has suffered for it."

Suddenly the whole trouble became clear. They had been guilty of stealing as well as Don. They had desired to take something and had only been prevented by the appearance of the turkey. Now as they watched him strutting about the yard—for he had scrambled to his feet while they were talking—he did not look so fierce. And strange to say, they understood the meaning of "Gobble." It was nothing more than, "Vanity and ignorance, tut and nonsense."

"Come with me," said the good old monk, and he led the children to the top of the very high hill. Here he showed them all the great cities of the East through a large telescope.

It was a very powerful glass for it could bring into view any place that the looker desired. They saw their own home. They saw New York and all the great cities.

"Why are the people trampling on each other?" inquired Betty.

"Gold, the love of gold. Yet it is not making them any happier. You can see that. Now take a look at that woman, Betty."

Betty looked and saw a simply dressed woman attending to her children. Her face beamed with pleasure. They looked at another woman, driving in a carriage, all pampered and bedecked. She had pain written on her face. She was loaded down with jewels so that her fingers ached, and her general appearance was distressful.

"Are all rich people unhappy?" asked Charlie.

"No. Look at the woman I shall show you now. She is richer than the first one you saw."

They looked and saw a gentle-eyed woman busy carrying cheer into the poorer haunts of men. She was a very beautiful as well as a happy woman.

"Life is not what we have, children, but what we are. Rich or poor, we can be happy if we do something for one another."

"Tell us how to be happy without money," said the boy.

The monk smiled. "There is but one way."

"What is it?" They eagerly asked.

"Do the thing that is right whenever required, and do it immediately. For instance, restore the lost eye to Don."

"But!" they both protested, "how can we—for the gobbler swallowed it?"

The monk lowered his voice: "Why not give one of your eyes to him?"

"I will give my eye, dear Monk!" replied the boy.

Poor Don stood opposite them, a sorry sight.

"No! No! You will not!" cried Betty. "I will give mine."

"It must be done by both!" whispered the monk.

It was a dreadful minute.

"Are you ready?" inquired the monk. Charlie nodded his head and the good man took out a sharp knife and quickly extracted one eye. The pain was hard to bear, but the boy never cried. Then the monk did the same thing to Betty. Both covered their faces and wept.

Don nosed his way to Charlie and licked his hands. Charlie peered through his fingers and saw Don with two whole eyes.

"Oh, Don!" he exclaimed, forgetting himself and hugging the old fellow, "I am so glad that you have two eyes again!"

"Oh, Charlie! Charlie!" exclaimed Betty, "you have not lost an eye! Have I two eyes?"

To their great amazement, the children found that they had not lost their eyes at all, but by the operation could see better than ever.

"Yes," explained the good monk, "do what is right when you see that it is to be done, and never think of the pain. Then you will always be happy."

Then he took the children by the hands and told them it was time to go home. They did not want to leave the kind Father, but he assured them that they could come again. Yes, they came often and brought others too.

"I'm glad we weren't afraid to give up our eyes for Don," said Betty, as they were getting ready for bed that night.

"So am I," said Charlie. "And I'm going to remember this whenever I feel like being selfish again: That one doesn't lose anything by trying to help another."