  GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XL. March, 1852. No. 3. Contents
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. A DACOTAH INDIAN COURTING. Boston Harbor. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1852. No. 3. (FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.) There was a young woman so kind and sweet-tempered that every person loved her. Among the rest, there was an old witch who lived near where she dwelt, and with whom she was a great favorite. One day this old witch told her she had a nice present to give her. “See,” she said, “here is a barley-corn, which, however, is by no means of the same sort as those which grow in the farmer’s field, or those we give to the fowls. Now you must plant this in a flower-pot, and then take care and see what happens.” “Thank you a thousand times,” said the young woman. And, thereupon, she went straight home, and planted the barley-corn the witch had given her in a flower-pot. Immediately there grew out of it a large, handsome flower, but its leaves were all shut close as if they were buds. “That is a most beautiful flower!” said the woman, while she bent down to kiss its red and yellow leaves; but scarcely had her lips pressed the flower, than it gave forth a loud sound and opened its cup. And now the woman was able to see that it was a regular tulip, and in the midst of the cup, down at the bottom, there sat a small and most lovely little maiden; her height was about one inch, and on that account the woman named her Ellise. She made the little thing a cradle out of a walnut-shell, gave her a blue violet-leaf for a mattress, and a rose-leaf for a coverlet. In this cradle Ellise slept at night time, and during the day she played upon the table. The woman had set a plate filled with water upon the table, which she surrounded with flowers, and the flower-stalks all rested on the edge of the water; on the water floated a large tulip-leaf, and upon the tulip-leaf sat the little Ellise, and sailed from one side of the plate to the other; and for this she used two white horse-hairs for oars. The whole effect was very charming, and Ellise could sing too, but with such a delicate little voice as we have never heard here. One night as she lay in her bed, an ugly toad hopped into her through the broken window pane. It was a large and very hideous toad; and it sprang at once upon the table, where Ellise lay asleep under the rose-leaf. “That would be, now, a nice little wife for my son,” said the toad, and seized, as she said it, the walnut-shell in her mouth, and hopped with it out through the window into the garden again. Through the garden flowed a broad stream, but its banks were marshy, and among the marshes lived the toad and her son. Ha! how hideous the son was too; exactly like his mother he was, and all that he could say, when he saw the sweet little maiden in the walnut-shell, was “Koax! koax! breckke ke!” “Don’t talk so loud,” said the old one to him, “else you’ll awake her, and then she might easily run away from us, for she is lighter than swans’-down. We will set her upon a large plant in the stream; that will be a whole island for her, and then she cannot run away from us; while we, down in the mud, will build the house for you two to live in.” In the stream there were many large plants, which all seemed as if they floated on the water; the most distant one was, at the same time, the largest, and thither swam the old toad and set down the walnut-shell, with the little maiden upon it. Early on the following morning the little Ellise awoke, and when she looked about her and saw where she was, that her new dwelling-place was surrounded on all sides by water, and that there remained no possible way for her to reach land again, she began to weep most bitterly. Meanwhile the old toad sat in the mud and adorned the building with reeds and yellow flowers, that it might be quite grand for her future daughter-in-law, and then, in company with her hideous son, swam to the little leaf-island where Ellise lay. She now wanted to fetch her pretty little bed, that it might at once be placed in the new chamber, before Ellise herself was brought there. The old toad bent herself courteously before her in the water, while she presented her son in these words—“You see here my son, who is to be your husband, and you two shall live together charmingly down in the mud.” “Koax! koax! breckke-ke!” was all that the bridegroom could find to say. And, therewith, they both seized upon the beautiful little bed, and swam away with it; while Ellise sat alone upon the leaf and cried very much, for she did not like at all to live with the frightful toad, much less have her odious son for her husband. Now the little fishes which swam about under the water, had seen the toad, and heard, moreover, perfectly well all that she said; they, therefore, raised their heads above water, that they might have a look at the beautiful little creature. No sooner had they seen her than they were, one and all, quite moved by her beauty; and it seemed to them very hard that such a sweet maiden should become the prey of an ugly toad. They assembled themselves, therefore, round about the green stalk from which grew the leaf whereon Ellise sat, and gnawed it with their teeth until it came in two, and then away floated Ellise and the leaf far, far away, where the toad could come no more. And so sailed the little maiden by towns and villages, and when the birds upon the trees beheld her, they sang out—“Oh, what a lovely young girl.” But away, away floated the leaf always further and further. Ellise made quite a foreign journey upon it. For some time a small white butterfly had hovered over her, and at last he sat himself down on her leaf, because he was very much pleased with Ellise, and she, too, was very glad of the visit, for now the toad could not come near her, and the country through which she traveled was so beautiful. The sun shone so bright upon the water that it glittered like gold. And now the idea occurred to her to loosen her girdle, bind one end of it to the butterfly, the other on to the leaf; she did this and then she flew on much faster, and saw much more of the world than she would have done. But, at last, there came by a cock-chafer, who seized her with his long claws round her slender waist, and flew away with her to a tree, while on swam the leaf, and the butterfly was obliged to follow, for he could not come loose, so fast and firm had Ellise bound him. Ah! how terrified was poor Ellise when the cock-chafer carried her off to the tree. But her sorrow over the little butterfly was quite as great, for she knew he must certainly perish, unless by some good accident he should chance to free himself from the green leaf. But all this made no impression upon the cock-chafer, who set her upon a large leaf, gave her some honey to eat, and told her she was very charming, although not a bit like a chafer. And now appeared all the other cock-chafers who dwelt upon this tree, who waited upon Ellise, and examined her from top to toe; while the young lady-chafers turned up their feelers and said, “She has only two legs! how very wretched that looks!” and added they, “she has no feelers whatever, and is as thin in the body as a human being! Ah! it’s really hideous!” and all the young lady-cock-chafers cried out, “Ah! it’s perfectly hideous!” And yet Ellise was so charming! and so felt the cock-chafer; but at last, because all the lady-chafers thought her ugly he began to think so too, and resolved he would have nothing more to do with her; “she might go,” he said, “wherever she liked;” and with these words he flew with her to the ground, and set her upon a daisy. And now the poor little thing wept bitterly, to find herself so hideous that not even a cock-chafer would have any thing to do with her. But, notwithstanding this decisive opinion of the young lady-cock-chafers, Ellise was the loveliest, most elegant little creature in the world, as delicate and beautiful as a young rose-leaf. The whole summer through the poor little maiden lived alone in the great forest; and she wove herself a bed out of fine grass, and hung it up to rock beneath a creeper, that it might not be blown away by the wind and rain; she plucked herself sweets out of the flowers, for food, and drank of the fresh dew, that fell every morning upon the grass. And so the summer and the autumn passed away. All the birds which had sung so sweetly to Ellise, left her and went away, the trees lost all their green, the flowers withered, and the great creeper which, until now, had been her shelter, shriveled away to a bare yellow stalk. The poor little thing shivered with cold, for her clothes were now worn out, and her form was so tender and delicate that she certainly would perish with cold. It began also to snow, and every flake which touched her, was to her what a great heapfull would be to us, for her whole body was only one inch long. Close beside the forest in which Ellise lay, there was a corn-field, but the corn had long since been reaped, and now, only the dry stubble rose above the earth; yet, for Ellise was this a great forest, and hither she came. So she reached the house of a field-mouse, which was formed of a little hole under the stubble. Here dwelt the field-mouse warm and comfortable, with her store-room full of food for the winter, and near at hand a pretty kitchen and eating-room. Poor Ellise stepped up to the door and begged for a little grain of barley, for she had tasted nothing for the whole day. “You poor little wretch!” said the field-mouse, who was very kind-hearted, “come in to my warm room and eat something.” And when now she was much pleased with Ellise, she added, “you may if you like, spend the winter here with me; but you must keep my house clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I am very fond of hearing stories.” Ellise did as the field-mouse wished, and, as a reward for her trouble, was made comfortable with her. “Now we shall have a visit,” said the field-mouse to her one day. “My neighbor is accustomed to pay me a visit every week. He is much richer than I am, for he has several beautiful rooms, and wears the most costly velvet coat. Now if you could only have him for your husband, you would be nicely provided for, but he does not see very sharply, that’s one thing. Only you must tell him all the best stories you can think of.” But Ellise would hear nothing of it, for she could not endure the neighbor, for he was nothing more nor less than a mole. He came, as was expected, to pay his respects to the field-mouse, and wore his handsome velvet coat as usual. The field-mouse said he was very rich, and very well informed, and that his house was twenty times larger than hers. Well informed he might be, but he could not endure the sunshine or the flowers, and spoke contemptuously of both one and the other, although he had never seen either. Ellise was obliged to sing before him, and she sang the two songs—“Chafers fly! the sun is shining!” and “The priest goes to the field!” Then the mole became very much in love with her because of her beautiful voice, but he took good care not to show it, for he was a cautious, sensible fellow. Very lately he had made a long passage from his dwelling to that of his neighbor, and he gave permission to Ellise and the field-mouse to go in it as often as they pleased; yet he begged of them not to be startled at the dead bird which lay at the entrance. It was certainly a bird lately dead, for all the feathers were still upon him, it seemed to have been frozen exactly there where the mole had made the entrance of his passage. Mr. Neighbor now took a piece of tinder in his mouth, and stepped on before the ladies, that he might lighten the way for them, and as he came to the place where the dead bird lay, he struck with his snout on the ground, so that the earth rolled away, and a large opening appeared through which the daylight shone in. And now, Ellise could see the dead bird quite well—it was a swallow. The pretty wings were pressed against the body, and the feet and head covered over by the feathers. “The poor bird has died of cold,” said Ellise, and it grieved her very much for the dear little animal, for she was very fond of birds, for they sang to her all through the summer. But the mole kicked him with his foot and said, “The fine fellow has done with his twittering now! It must indeed be dreadful to be born a bird! Heaven be praised that none of my children have turned out birds! Stupid things! they have nothing in the wide world but their quivit, and when the winter comes, die they must!” “Yes,” returned the field-mouse, “you, a thoughtful and reflecting man, may well say that! What indeed has a bird beyond its twitter when the winter comes? he must perforce hunger and freeze!” Ellise was silent; but when the others had turned their backs upon the bird, she raised up its feathers gently, and kissed its closed eyes. “Perhaps it was you,” she said softly, “who sang me such beautiful songs! How often you have made me happy and merry, you dear bird!” And now the mole stopped up the opening again through which the daylight fell, and then accompanied the young ladies home. But Ellise could not sleep the whole night long. She got up, therefore, wove a covering of hay, carried it away to the dead bird, and covered him with it on all sides, in order that he might rest warmer upon the cold ground. “Farewell, you sweet, pretty little bird!” said she. “Farewell! and let me thank you a thousand times for your friendly song this summer, when the trees were all green, and the sun shone down so warm upon us all!” And therewith she laid her little head on the bird’s breast, but started back, for it seemed to her as if something moved within. It was the bird’s heart; he was not dead, but benumbed, and now he came again to life as the warmth penetrated to him. In the autumn, the swallows fly away to warmer countries; and when a weak one is among them, and the cold freezes him, he falls upon the ground, and lies there as if dead, until the cold snow covers him. Ellise was frightened at first, when the bird raised itself, for to her he was a great big giant, but she soon collected herself again, pressed the hay covering close round the exhausted little animal, and then went to fetch the curled mint-leaves which served for her own covering, that she might lay it over his head. The following night she slipped away to the bird again, whom she found now quite revived, but yet so very weak, that he could only open his eyes now and then, to look at Ellise, who lighted up his face with a little piece of tinder. “I thank you a thousand times, you lovely little child,” said the sick swallow, “I am now so thoroughly warmed through, that I shall soon gain my strength again, and shall be able to fly out in the warm sunshine.” “Oh! it is a great deal too cold out there,” returned Ellise, “it snows and freezes so hard! only just stay now in your warm bed, and I will take such care of you!” She brought the bird some water to drink out of a leaf, and then he related to her how he had so hurt his wing against a thorny bush that he could not fly away to the warm countries with his comrades, and at last had fallen exhausted to the ground, where all consciousness left him. The little swallow remained here the whole winter, and Ellise attended to him, and became every day more and more fond of him; yet she said nothing at all about it to the mole or the field-mouse, for she knew well enough already that neither of them could bear the poor bird. As soon, however, as the summer came, and the warm sunbeams penetrated the earth, the swallow said good-bye to Ellise, who had now opened the hole in the ground, through which the mole let the light fall in. The sun shone so kindly, that the swallow turned and asked Ellise, his dear little nurse, whether she would not fly away with him. She could sit very nicely upon the swallow’s back, and then they would go away together to the green forest. But Ellise thought it would grieve the good field-mouse if she went away secretly, and therefore she was obliged to refuse the bird’s kind offer. “Then, once more farewell, you kind, good maiden,” said the swallow, and therewith he flew out into the sunshine. Ellise looked sorrowfully after him, and the tears rushed into her eyes, for she was very fond of the good bird. “Quivit! quivit!” sang the swallow, and away he flew to the forest. And now Ellise was very mournful, for she hardly ever left her dark hole. The corn grew up far above her head, and formed quite a thick wood round the house of the field-mouse. “Now you can spend the summer in working at your wedding-clothes,” said the field-mouse, for the neighbor, the wearisome mole, had at last really proposed for Ellise. “I will give you every thing you want, that you may have all things comfortable about you, when you are the mole’s wife.” And now Ellise was obliged to sit all day long busy at her clothes, and the field-mouse took four clever spiders into her service, and kept them weaving day and night. Every evening came the mole to pay his visit, and every evening he expressed his wish that the summer would soon come to an end, and the heat cease, for then, when the winter was here, his wedding should take place. But Ellise was not at all happy to hear this, for she could hardly bear even to look upon the ugly mole, for all his expensive velvet coat. Every evening and every morning she went out at the door, and when the wind blew the ears of corn apart, and she could look upon the blue heaven, she saw it was so beautiful out in the open air, that she wished she could only see the dear swallow once more; but the swallow never came; he preferred rejoicing himself in the warm sunbeams in the green woods. By the time autumn came, Ellise had prepared all her wedding-garments. “In four weeks your wedding will take place,” said the field-mouse to her; but Ellise wept, and said she did not want to have the stupid mole for a husband. “Fiddle-de-dee,” answered the field-mouse—“Come, don’t be obstinate, or I shall be obliged to bite you with my sharp teeth. Isn’t he a good husband that you’re going to have? Why, even the queen hasn’t such a fine velvet coat to show as he has! His kitchen and his cellar are well-stocked, and you ought rather to thank Providence for providing so well for you!” So the wedding was to be! Already was the mole come to fetch away Ellise, who, from henceforth, was to live always with him. Deep under the earth, where no sunbeam could ever come! The little maiden was very unhappy, that she must take her farewell of the friendly sun, which at all events she saw at the door of the field-mouse’s house. “Farewell, thou beloved sun!” said she, and raised her hands toward heaven, while she advanced a few steps from the door; for already was the corn again reaped, and she stood once more among the stubble in the field. “Adieu, adieu!” she repeated, and threw her arms round a flower that stood near her, “Greet the little swallow for me, when you see him again,” added she. “Quivit! quivit!” echoed near her in the same moment, and, as Ellise raised her eyes, she saw her well-known little swallow fly past. As soon as the swallow perceived Ellise, he too, became quite joyful, and hastened at once to his kind nurse; and she told him how unwilling she was to have the ugly mole for her husband, and that she must go down deep into the earth, where neither sun nor moon could ever look upon her, and with these words she burst into tears. “See now,” said the swallow, “the cold winter is coming again, and I am flying away to the warm countries, will you come and travel with me? I will carry you gladly on my back. You need only to bind yourself fast with your girdle, so we can fly away far from the disagreeable mole, and his dark house, far over mountains and valleys, to the beautiful countries, where the sun shines much warmer than it does here; where there is summer always, and always beautiful flowers blooming. Come, be comforted, and fly away with me, dear, kind Ellise, who saved my life when I lay frozen in the earth.” “Yes, I will go with you,” cried Ellise joyfully. She mounted on the back of the swallow, set her feet upon his out-spread wings, bound herself with her girdle to a strong feather, and flew off with the swallow through the air, over woods and lakes, valleys and mountains. Very often Ellise suffered from the cold when they went over icy glaciers and snowy rocks; but then she concealed herself under the wings and among the feathers of the bird, and merely put out her head to gaze and wonder at all the glorious things around her. At last, too, they came into the warm countries. The sun shines there clearer than with us; the heavens were a great deal higher, and on the walls and in the hedges grew the most beautiful blue and green grapes. In the woods hung ripe citrons and oranges, and the air was full of the scent of thyme and myrtle, while beautiful children ran in the roads playing with the gayest colored butterflies. But farther and farther flew the swallow, and below them it became more and more beautiful. By the side of a lake, beneath graceful acacias, there rose an ancient marble palace, the vines clung around the pillars, while above them, on their summits, hung many a swallow’s nest. Into one of these nests the bird carried Ellise. “Here is my house,” said he, “but look you for one of the loveliest flowers, which grow down there, for your home, and I will carry you there, and you shall have every thing you can possibly want.” “That would be glorious indeed!” said Ellise, and she clapped her hands together for very joy. Upon the earth there lay a large white marble pillar, which had been thrown down, and was broken into three pieces, but between its ruins there grew the very fairest flowers, all white, the loveliest you would ever wish to see. The swallow flew with Ellise to one of these flowers, and set her down upon a broad leaf; but how astonished was Ellise when she saw that a wee little man sat in this flower, who was as fine and transparent as glass. He wore a graceful little crown upon his head, and had beautiful wings on his shoulders; and withal he was not a bit bigger than Ellise herself. He was the angel of this flower. In every flower dwell a pair of such like little men and women, but this was the king of all the flower angels. “Heavens! how handsome this king is,” whispered Ellise into the ear of the swallow. The little prince was somewhat startled by the arrival of the large bird; but when he saw Ellise, he became instantly in love with her; for she was the most charming little maiden that he had ever seen. So he took off his golden crown, set it upon Ellise, and asked what was her name, and whether she would be his wife; if so, she should be queen over all the other flowers—ah! this was a very different husband to the son of the hideous toad, and the heavy, stupid mole, with his velvet coat! So Ellise said yes, to the beautiful prince; and now, from all the other flowers, appeared either a gentleman or a lady, all wonderfully elegant and beautiful, to bring presents to Ellise. The best presents offered to her was a pair of exquisite white wings, which were immediately fastened on her; and now she could fly from flower to flower. And now the joy was universal. The little swallow sat above in his nest, and sang as well as he possibly could, though at the same time he was sorely grieved, for he was so fond of Ellise that he wanted never to part from her again. “You shall not be called Ellise any more,” said the flower-angel, “for it is not at all a pretty name, and you are so pretty! But from this moment you shall be called Maja.” “Farewell! Farewell!” cried the little swallow, and away he flew again, out of the warm land, far, far away, to the little Denmark, where he had his summer nest over the window of the good man, who knows how to tell stories, that he might sing his Quivit! Quivit! before him. And it is from him, the little swallow, that Granny learnt all this wonderful history. Those eyes, they are so bright and blue, They seem as if just bathed in dew, And if they but reflect aright, Thy heart must joyous be and bright, Where cherished images must dwell, Oh! number mine with thine, ma Belle. Come listen, ladies! listen, knights! Ye men of arms and glory! Ye who have done right noble deeds, Aye love the poet’s story. As minstrels love the warriors bold, And joyfully sing their fame, O’er warriors’ hearts the poet’s tale Shall peaceful triumphs claim.
From distant lands Arion came, From wandering far and long, With gifts and gold—for princely hearts Denied no gift to song. The song that cheered the saddest wo, The tale that sings of youth, Flowing sweetly, flowing on, Through labyrinths of truth.
Rich tributes had been poured on him, Arion far renowned, And fair and gentle loved the rule, Of one by nature crowned. But what can gifts and what can gold, Or Fame’s loud peal avail, Wandering from his childhood’s home, His own Corinthian vale? WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. ——— BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. ——— Fair lady, on this day of love, My spirit, like a timid dove, Exulting flies to thee for rest, And nestles on thy gentle breast. Thou seemest of my life a part, A haunting presence in my heart, A glory in my day-dreams bright, An angel in my dreams at night, Like yon pure bow of airy birth A vision more of heaven than earth. Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine— But wilt thou be my Valentine?
I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft, Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft. I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long, I’ve heard thy witching voice of song, I’ve listened when thy deep words came As if thy lips were touched with flame, I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep. I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep, I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear, And I have been supremely blest When thou wast folded to my breast, And thy dear lips were pressed to mine— But wilt thou be my Valentine?
Dove of my spirit! gentle dove, That bring’st the olive-bough of love To me when waters vast and dark Are tossing wild beneath my bark, Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife, Blest haunter of each thought of life. Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse, Sultana of my longing lips, Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams, Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams, Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day, Lone palm-tree of my desert way, Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower, Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower, My star when all beside is dim, My morning prayer, my evening hymn, My hope, my bliss, my life, my love, My all of earth, my heaven above, On lightning pinions wild and free, My panting spirit flies to thee, And worships at thy burning shrine— But wilt thou be my Valentine? Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!” In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong; What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green-fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, “I love my love, and my love loves me!” A BALLAD OF SPAIN. At her lattice sits Leora, In the long and mellow June, What time when whitely westward Shines the round and pendent moon.
Sits she silent, sits she sadly, With her head upon her hand, Looking outward where the Ebro Throws its ripples on the sand.
Never lighter blew the breezes In the vales of Aragon, Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens With more lovely glories on.
Such an evening ’tis as gladdens Cavaliers of sunny Spain— Such an evening ’tis when maidens Recount their loves again.
Now more restless grows Leora, Fair Leora, gentle maid, With sweet eyes so dark and fervent, And each tress of nightly shade.
Heaves her bosom fast and wildly Like a billow snowed with foam, For there’s something boding tells her That Almagro will not come.
Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her, On her heart their shadows rest, And the tear-drops from their fountains Fall embittered to her breast.
Listens now she to the gallop Of a steed adown the vale; Now with hope her face is radiant, Now with fear her cheek is pale.
But no lover rideth swiftly, Swiftly to the trysting bower, And Leora still is waiting Through the long and dreary hour.
And the tears cease not to gather, And the tears cease not to flow, And she feels like one abandoned On the haunted paths of wo.
Where a mountain streamlet gurgles, From that watcher leagues away— Where the hours amid the valleys Listen to the waters’ play—
Faithless Almagro is breathing Vows of deeply passioned love, To a maiden on his bosom In the sweetness of a dove.
And he tells her how he never To another gave his heart, Till her innocence is fallen In the meshes of his art.
Till another than the midnight Throws a darkness o’er her soul, Leaving there a troubled fountain, Leaving there a broken bowl.
Softly sigh the sleeping branches On the bosom of the breeze, Sweetly stars are gazing downward To earth’s blue, unclouded seas:
And in fragrance dream the blossoms Pure and taintless as before— But heart-flowers have been gathered That shall blossom nevermore.
Lowly westward walketh Dian, On her watches with the night, And the hours far have stolen To the gateways of the light.
But, ah! wo is thee, Leora, Though hopeless, hoping on, Till Aurora up the Orient, Rosy-fingered, leads the dawn.
But less wo is thee, Leora, By thy lattice weary worn— More’s the wo for thee, Estella, When thou wakest at the morn. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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