They all said so,--the daisy, the violet, the oak-tree, the crickets, the bees, and all the things and creatures of the field and forest that had awakened from their long sleep to swell the beauty and the glory of the springtime. And they talked with the child, and the child heard them. And although the grandsire never spoke to the child about these things, the child learned from the flowers and trees a lesson of the springtime which perhaps the grandsire never knew. 1885. * * * * * Rodolph and his King. RODOLPH AND HIS KING. "Tell me, Father," said the child at Rodolph's knee,--"tell me of the king." "There is no king, my child," said Rodolph. "What you have heard are old women's tales. Do not believe them, for there is no king." "But why, then," queried the child, "do all the people praise and call on him; why do the birds sing of the king; and why do the brooks always prattle his name, as they dance from the hills to the sea?" "Nay," answered Rodolph, "you imagine these things; there is no king. Believe me, child, there is no king." So spake Rodolph; but scarcely had he uttered the words when the cricket in the chimney corner chirped loudly, and his shrill notes seemed to say: "The king--the king." Rodolph could hardly believe his ears. How had the cricket learned to chirp these words? It was beyond all understanding. But still the cricket chirped, and still his musical monotone seemed to say, "The king--the king," until, with an angry frown, Rodolph strode from his house, leaving the child to hear the cricket's song alone. But there were other voices to remind Rodolph of the king. The sparrows were fluttering under the eaves, and they twittered noisily as Rodolph strode along, "The king, king, king!" "The king, king, king," twittered the sparrows, and their little tones were full of gladness and praise. A thrush sat in the hedge, and she was singing her morning song. It was a hymn of praise,--how beautiful it was! "The king--the king--the king," sang the thrush, and she sang, too, of his goodness,--it was a wondrous song, and it was all about the king. The doves cooed in the elm-trees. "Sing to us!" cried their little ones, stretching out their pretty heads from the nests. Then the doves nestled hard by and murmured lullabies, and the lullabies were of the king who watched over and protected even the little birds in their nests. Rodolph heard these things, and they filled him with anger. "It is a lie!" muttered Rodolph; and in great petulance he came to the brook. How noisy and romping the brook was; how capricious, how playful, how furtive! And how he called to the willows and prattled to the listening grass as he scampered on his way. But Rodolph turned aside and his face grew darker. He did not like the voice of the brook; for, lo! just as the cricket had chirped and the birds had sung, so did this brook murmur and prattle and sing ever of the king, the king, the king.