CASABIANCA. After that, the cook was worse than before. She made fun of him for sending his cat to sea. "Do you think," she would say, "that puss will sell for enough money to buy a stick to beat you?" At last Dick could not stand her abuse any longer, and he made up his mind to go back to his old home in the little country town. So, very early in the morning on All-hal-lows Day, he started. He walked as far as the place called Hol-lo-way, and there he sat down on a stone, which to this day is called "Whit-ting-ton's Stone." As he sat there very sad, and wondering which way he should go, he heard the bells on Bow Church, far away, ringing out a merry chime. He listened. They seemed to say to him,— "Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London." "Well, well!" he said to himself. "I would put up with almost anything, to be Lord Mayor of London when I am a man, and to ride in a fine coach! I think I will go back and let the old cook cuff and scold as much as she pleases." Dick did go back, and he was lucky enough to get into the kitchen, and set about his work, before the cook came down-stairs to get break-fast. IV. THE CAT. Mr. Fitzwarren's ship made a long voyage, and at last reached a strange land on the other side of the sea. The people had never seen any white men before, and they came in great crowds to buy the fine things with which the ship was loaded. The captain wanted very much to trade with the king of the country; and it was not long before the king sent word for him to come to the palace and see him. The captain did so. He was shown into a beautiful room, and given a seat on a rich carpet all flow-ered with silver and gold. The king and queen were seated not far away; and soon a number of dishes were brought in for dinner. They had hardly begun to eat when an army of rats and mice rushed in, and de-voured all the meat before any one could hinder them. The captain wondered at this, and asked if it was not very un-pleas-ant to have so many rats and mice about. "Oh, yes!" was the answer. "It is indeed un-pleas-ant; and the king would give half his treas-ure if he could get rid of them." The captain jumped for joy. He remembered the cat which little Whittington had sent out; and he told the king that he had a little creature on board his ship which would make short work of the pests. Then it was the king's turn to jump for joy; and he jumped so high, that his yellow cap, or turban, dropped off his head. "Bring the creature to me," he said. "If she will do what you say, I will load your ship with gold." The captain made believe that he would be very sorry to part with the cat; but at last he went down to the ship to get her, while the king and queen made haste to have another dinner made ready. The captain, with puss under his arm, reached the palace just in time to see the table crowded with rats. The cat leaped out upon them, and oh! what havoc she did make among the trou-ble-some creatures! Most of them were soon stretched dead upon the floor, while the rest scam-pered away to their holes, and did not dare to come out again. The king had never been so glad in his life; and the queen asked that the creature which had done such wonders should be brought to her. The captain called, "Pussy, pussy, pussy!" and the cat came up and rubbed against his legs. He picked her up, and offered her to the queen; but at first the queen was afraid to touch her. However, the captain stroked the cat, and called, "Pussy, pussy, pussy!" and then the queen ventured to touch her. She could only say, "Putty, putty, putty!" for she had not learned to talk English. The captain then put the cat down on the queen's lap, where she purred and purred until she went to sleep. The king would not have missed getting the cat now for the world. He at once made a bargain with the captain for all the goods on board the ship; and then he gave him ten times as much for the cat as all the rest came to. The captain was very glad. He bade the king and queen good-by, and the very next day set sail for England. V. THE FORTUNE. One morning Mr. Fitzwarren was sitting at his desk in his office. He heard some one tap softly at his door, and he said,— "Who's there?" "A friend," was the answer. "I have come to bring you news of your ship 'U-ni-corn.'" Mr. Fitzwarren jumped up quickly, and opened the door. Whom should he see waiting there but the captain, with a bill of lading in one hand and a box of jewels in the other? He was so full of joy that he lifted up his eyes, and thanked Heaven for sending him such good fortune. The captain soon told the story of the cat; and then he showed the rich present which the king and queen had sent to poor Dick in payment for her. As soon as the good gentleman heard this, he called out to his servants, — "Go send him in, and tell him of his fame; Pray call him Mr. Whittington by name." Some of the men who stood by said that so great a present ought not to be given to a mere boy; but Mr. Fitzwarren frowned upon them. "It is his own," he said, "and I will not hold back one penny from him." Dick was scouring the pots when word was brought to him that he should go to the office. "Oh, I am so dirty!" he said, "and my shoes are full of hob-nails." But he was told to make haste. Mr. Fitzwarren ordered a chair to be set for him, and then the lad began to think that they were making fun of him. "I beg that you won't play tricks with a poor boy like me," he said. "Please let me go back to my work." "Mr. Whittington," said Mr. Fitzwarren, "this is no joke at all. The captain has sold your cat, and has brought you, in return for her, more riches than I have in the whole world." Then he opened the box of jewels, and showed Dick his treasures. The poor boy did not know what to do. He begged his master to take a part of it; but Mr. Fitzwarren said, "No, it is all your own; and I feel sure that you will make good use of it." Dick then offered some of his jewels to his mistress and little Alice. They thanked him, and told him that they felt great joy at his good luck, but wished him to keep his riches for himself. But he was too kind-heart-ed to keep everything for himself. He gave nice presents to the cap-tain and the sailors, and to the servants in Mr. Fitz-warren's house. He even remembered the cross old cook. After that, Whittington's face was washed, and his hair curled, and he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes; and then he was as handsome a young man as ever walked the streets of London. Some time after that, there was a fine wedding at the finest church in London; and Miss Alice became the wife of Mr. Richard Whittington. And the lord mayor was there, and the great judges, and the sher-iffs, and many rich mer-chants; and everybody was very happy. And Richard Whittington became a great merchant, and was one of the foremost men in London. He was sheriff of the city, and thrice lord mayor; and King Henry V. made him a knight. He built the famous prison of New-gate in London. On the arch-way in front of the prison was a figure, cut in stone, of Sir Richard Whittington and his cat; and for three hundred years this figure was shown to all who visited London. CASABIANCA. There was a great battle at sea. One could hear nothing but the roar of the big guns. The air was filled with black smoke. The water was strewn with broken masts and pieces of timber which the cannon balls had knocked from the ships. Many men had been killed, and many more had been wounded. The flag-ship had taken fire. The flames were breaking out from below. The deck was all ablaze. The men who were left alive made haste to launch a small boat. They leaped into it, and rowed swiftly away. Any other place was safer now than on board of that burning ship. There was powder in the hold. But the captain's son, young Ca-sa-bi-an´ca, still stood upon the deck. The flames were almost all around him now; but he would not stir from his post. His father had bidden him stand there, and he had been taught always to obey. He trusted in his father's word, and be-lieved that when the right time came he would tell him to go. He saw the men leap into the boat. He heard them call to him to come. He shook his head. "When father bids me, I will go," he said. And now the flames were leaping up the masts. The sails were all ablaze. The fire blew hot upon his cheek. It scorched his hair. It was before him, behind him, all around him. "O father!" he cried, "may I not go now? The men have all left the ship. Is it not time that we too should leave it?" He did not know that his father was lying in the burning cabin below, that a cannon ball had struck him dead at the very be-gin-ning of the fight. He listened to hear his answer. "Speak louder, father!" he cried. "I cannot hear what you say." Above the roaring of the flames, above the crashing of the falling spars, above the booming of the guns, he fancied that his father's voice came faintly to him through the scorching air. "I am here, father! Speak once again!" he gasped. But what is that? A great flash of light fills the air; clouds of smoke shoot quickly upward to the sky; and— "Boom!" Oh, what a ter-rif-ic sound! Louder than thunder, louder than the roar of all the guns! The air quivers; the sea itself trembles; the sky is black. The blazing ship is seen no more. There was powder in the hold! A long time ago a lady, whose name was Mrs. Hemans, wrote a poem about this brave boy Ca-sa-bi-an-ca. It is not a very well written poem, and yet everybody has read it, and thousands of people have learned it by heart. I doubt not but that some day you too will read it. It begins in this way:— "The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. "Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm— A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form." ANTONIO CANOVA. A good many years ago there lived in Italy a little boy whose name was An-to´ni-o Ca-no´va. He lived with his grand-fa-ther, for his own father was dead. His grand-fa-ther was a stone-cut-ter, and he was very poor. An-to-ni-o was a puny lad, and not strong enough to work. He did not care to play with the other boys of the town. But he liked to go with his grandfather to the stone-yard. While the old man was busy, cutting and trimming the great blocks of stone, the lad would play among the chips. Sometimes he would make a little statue of soft clay; sometimes he would take hammer and chisel, and try to cut a statue from a piece of rock. He showed so much skill that his grandfather was de-light-ed. "The boy will be a sculp-tor some day," he said. Then when they went home in the evening, the grand-moth-er would say, "What have you been doing to-day, my little sculp-tor?" And she would take him upon her lap and sing to him, or tell him stories that filled his mind with pictures of wonderful and beautiful things. And the next day, when he went back to the stone-yard, he would try to make some of those pictures in stone or clay. There lived in the same town a rich man who was called the Count. Sometimes the Count would have a grand dinner, and his rich friends from other towns would come to visit him. Then Antonio's grandfather would go up to the Count's house to help with the work in the kitchen; for he was a fine cook as well as a good stone-cut-ter. It happened one day that Antonio went with his grandfather to the Count's great house. Some people from the city were coming, and there was to be a grand feast. The boy could not cook, and he was not old enough to wait on the table; but he could wash the pans and kettles, and as he was smart and quick, he could help in many other ways. All went well until it was time to spread the table for dinner. Then there was a crash in the dining room, and a man rushed into the kitchen with some pieces of marble in his hands. He was pale, and trembling with fright. "What shall I do? What shall I do?" he cried. "I have broken the statue that was to stand at the center of the table. I cannot make the table look pretty without the statue. What will the Count say?" And now all the other servants were in trouble. Was the dinner to be a failure after all? For everything de-pend-ed on having the table nicely arranged. The Count would be very angry. "Ah, what shall we do?" they all asked. Then little Antonio Ca-no-va left his pans and kettles, and went up to the man who had caused the trouble. "If you had another statue, could you arrange the table?" he asked. "Cer-tain-ly," said the man; "that is, if the statue were of the right length and height." "Will you let me try to make one?" asked Anto-nio "Perhaps I can make something that will do." The man laughed. "Non-sense!" he cried. "Who are you, that you talk of making statues on an hour's notice?" "I am Antonio Canova," said the lad. "Let the boy try what he can do," said the servants, who knew him. And so, since nothing else could be done, the man allowed him to try. On the kitchen table there was a large square lump of yellow butter. Two hundred pounds the lump weighed, and it had just come in, fresh and clean, from the dairy on the mountain. With a kitchen knife in his hand, Antonio began to cut and carve this butter. In a few minutes he had molded it into the shape of a crouching lion; and all the servants crowded around to see it. "How beautiful!" they cried. "It is a great deal pret-ti-er than the statue that was broken." When it was finished, the man carried it to its place. "The table will be hand-som-er by half than I ever hoped to make it," he said. When the Count and his friends came in to dinner, the first thing they saw was the yellow lion. "What a beautiful work of art!" they cried. "None but a very great artist could ever carve such a figure; and how odd that he should choose to make it of butter!" And then they asked the Count to tell them the name of the artist. "The servants crowded around to see it." "Truly, my friends," he said, "this is as much of a surprise to me as to you." And then he called to his head servant, and asked him where he had found so wonderful a statue. "It was carved only an hour ago by a little boy in the kitchen," said the servant. This made the Count's friends wonder still more; and the Count bade the servant call the boy into the room. "My lad," he said, "you have done a piece of work of which the greatest artists would be proud. What is your name, and who is your teacher?" "My name is Antonio Canova," said the boy, "and I have had no teacher but my grandfather the stonecutter." By this time all the guests had crowded around Antonio. There were famous artists among them, and they knew that the lad was a genius. They could not say enough in praise of his work; and when at last they sat down at the table, nothing would please them but that Antonio should have a seat with them; and the dinner was made a feast in his honor. The very next day the Count sent for Antonio to come and live with him. The best artists in the land were em-ployed to teach him the art in which he had shown so much skill; but now, instead of carving butter, he chis-eled marble. In a few years, Antonio Canova became known as one of the greatest sculptors in the world. PICCIOLA. Many years ago there was a poor gentleman shut up in one of the great prisons of France. His name was Char-ney, and he was very sad and un-hap-py. He had been put into prison wrong-ful-ly, and it seemed to him as though there was no one in the world who cared for him. He could not read, for there were no books in the prison. He was not allowed to have pens or paper, and so he could not write. The time dragged slowly by. There was nothing that he could do to make the days seem shorter. His only pastime was walking back and forth in the paved prison yard. There was no work to be done, no one to talk with. One fine morning in spring, Char-ney was taking his walk in the yard. He was counting the paving stones, as he had done a thousand times before. All at once he stopped. What had made that little mound of earth between two of the stones? He stooped down to see. A seed of some kind had fallen between the stones. It had sprouted; and now a tiny green leaf was pushing its way up out of the ground. Charney was about to crush it with his foot, when he saw that there was a kind of soft coating over the leaf. "Ah!" said he. "This coating is to keep it safe. I must not harm it." And he went on with his walk. The next day he almost stepped upon the plant before he thought of it. He stooped to look at it. There were two leaves now, and the plant was much stronger and greener than it was the day before. He staid by it a long time, looking at all its parts. Every morning after that, Charney went at once to his little plant. He wanted to see if it had been chilled by the cold, or scorched by the sun. He wanted to see how much it had grown. One day as he was looking from his window, he saw the jailer go across the yard. The man brushed so close to the little plant, that it seemed as though he would crush it. Charney trembled from head to foot. "O my Pic-cio-la!" he cried. When the jailer came to bring his food, he begged the grim fellow to spare his little plant. He expected that the man would laugh at him; but al-though a jailer, he had a kind heart. "Do you think that I would hurt your little plant?" he said. "No, indeed! It would have been dead long ago, if I had not seen that you thought so much of it." "That is very good of you, indeed," said Char-ney. He felt half ashamed at having thought the jailer unkind. Every day he watched Pic-cio-la, as he had named the plant. Every day it grew larger and more beautiful. But once it was almost broken by the huge feet of the jailer's dog. Charney's heart sank within him. "Picciola must have a house," he said. "I will see if I can make one." So, though the nights were chilly, he took, day by day, some part of the firewood that was allowed him, and with this he built a little house around the plant. The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed. He saw how it always bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers folded their petals before a storm. He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seen whole gardens of flowers in bloom. One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out his hand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen—and all for what? He felt that he must write down the doings of his little pet. He spent all his time with the plant. "See my lord and my lady!" the jailer would say when he saw them. As the summer passed by, Picciola grew more lovely every day. There were no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem. But one sad morning it began to droop. Charney did not know what to do. He gave it water, but still it drooped. The leaves were with-er-ing. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant live. Charney knew that there was but one way to save his treasure. Alas! how could he hope that it might be done? The stones must be taken up at once. But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of the prison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highest officers in the land could have such a thing done. Poor Charney could not sleep. Picciola must die. Already the flowers had with-ered; the leaves would soon fall from the stem. Then a new thought came to Charney. He would ask the great Napoleon, the em-per-or himself, to save his plant. It was a hard thing for Charney to do,—to ask a favor of the man whom he hated, the man who had shut him up in this very prison. But for the sake of Picciola he would do it. He wrote his little story on his hand-ker-chief. Then he gave it into the care of a young girl, who promised to carry it to Napoleon. Ah! if the poor plant would only live a few days longer! What a long journey that was for the young girl! What a long, dreary waiting it was for Charney and Picciola! But at last news came to the prison. The stones were to be taken up. Picciola was saved! The em-per-or's kind wife had heard the story of Charney's care for the plant. She saw the handkerchief on which he had written of its pretty ways. "Surely," she said, "it can do us no good to keep such a man in prison." And so, at last, Charney was set free. Of course he was no longer sad and un-lov-ing. He saw how God had cared for him and the little plant, and how kind and true are the hearts of even rough men. And he cher-ished Picciola as a dear, loved friend whom he could never forget. MIGNON. Here is the story of Mignon as I remember having read it in a famous old book. A young man named Wil-helm was staying at an inn in the city. One day as he was going up-stairs he met a little girl coming down. He would have taken her for a boy, if it had not been for the long curls of black hair wound about her head. As she ran by, he caught her in his arms and asked her to whom she belonged. He felt sure that she must be one of the rope-dan-cers who had just come to the inn. She gave him a sharp, dark look, slipped out of his arms, and ran away without speaking. The next time he saw her, Wil-helm spoke to her again. "Do not be afraid of me, little one," he said kindly. "What is your name?" "They call me Mignon," said the child. "How old are you?" he asked. "No one has counted," the child an-swered. Wilhelm went on; but he could not help wondering about the child, and thinking of her dark eyes and strange ways. One day not long after that, there was a great outcry among the crowd that was watching the rope-dan-cers. Wilhelm went down to find out what was the matter. He saw that the master of the dancers was beating little Mignon with a stick. He ran and held the man by the collar. "Let the child alone!" he cried. "If you touch her again, one of us shall never leave this spot." The man tried to get loose; but Wilhelm held him fast. The child crept away, and hid herself in the crowd. "Pay me what her clothes cost," cried the ropedancer at last, "and you may take her." As soon as all was quiet, Wilhelm went to look for Mignon; for she now belonged to him. But he could not find her, and it was not until the ropedancers had left the town that she came to him. "Where have you been?" asked Wilhelm in his kindest tones; but the child did not speak. "You are to live with me now, and you must be a good child," he said. "I will try," said Mignon gently. From that time she tried to do all that she could for Wilhelm and his friends. She would let no one wait on him but herself. She was often seen going to a basin of water to wash from her face the paint with which the ropedancers had red-dened her cheeks: indeed, she nearly rubbed off the skin in trying to wash away its fine brown tint, which she thought was some deep dye. Mignon grew more lovely every day. She never walked up and down the stairs, but jumped. She would spring along by the railing, and before you knew it, would be sitting quietly above on the landing. To each one she would speak in a different way. To Wilhelm it was with her arms crossed upon her breast. Often for a whole day she would not say one word, and yet in waiting upon Wilhelm she never tired. One night he came home very weary and sad. Mignon was waiting for him. She carried the light before him up-stairs. She set the light down upon the table, and in a little while she asked him if she might dance. "It might ease your heart a little," she said. Wilhelm, to please her, told her that she might. Then she brought a little carpet, and spread it upon the floor. At each corner she placed a candle, and on the carpet she put a number of eggs. She arranged the eggs in the form of certain figures. When this was done, she called to a man who was waiting with a violin. She tied a band about her eyes, and then the dancing began. "And then the dancing began." How lightly, quickly, nimbly, wonderfully, she moved! She skipped so fast among the eggs, she trod so closely beside them, that you would have thought she must crush them all. But not one of them did she touch. With all kinds of steps she passed among them. Not one of them was moved from its place. Wilhelm forgot all his cares. He watched every motion of the child. He almost forgot who and where he was. When the dance was ended, Mignon rolled the eggs together with her foot into a little heap. Not one was left behind, not one was harmed. Then she took the band from her eyes, and made a little bow. Wilhelm thanked her for showing him a dance that was so wonderful and pretty. He praised her, petted her, and hoped that she had not tired herself too much. When she had gone from the room, the man with the violin told Wilhelm of the care she had taken to teach him the music of the dance. He told how she had sung it to him over and over again. He told how she had even wished to pay him with her own money for learning to play it for her. There was yet another way in which Mignon tried to please Wilhelm, and make him forget his cares. She sang to him. The song which he liked best was one whose words he had never heard before. Its music, too, was strange to him, and yet it pleased him very much. He asked her to speak the words over and over again. He wrote them down; but the sweetness of the tune was more delightful than the words. The song began in this way:— "Do you know the land where citrons, lemons, grow, And oranges under the green leaves glow?" Once, when she had ended the song, she said again, "Do you know the land?" "It must be Italy," said Wilhelm. "Have you ever been there?" The child did not answer. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIFTY FAMOUS STORIES RETOLD *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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