FROM MY ARM-CHAIR1

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE

WHO PRESENTED TO ME, ON MY SEVENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1879, THIS CHAIR MADE FROM THE WOOD OF THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH'S CHESTNUT-TREE.

Am I a king, that I should call my own

This splendid ebon throne?

Or by what reason, or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
It may to me belong;

Only because the spreading chestnut-tree
Of old was sung by me.2

Well I remember it in all its prime,

When in the summer-time

The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,

Its blossoms white and sweet

Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,

And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,

Tossed its great arms about,

The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, Dropped to the ground beneath.

1 Copyright, 1880, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and 1908, by Ernest W. Longfellow.

2 In the poem, The Village Blacksmith.

80 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
Shaped as a stately chair,

Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide,

But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of Time.

I see again, as one in vision sees,
The blossoms and the bees,

And hear the children's voices shout and call,
And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow.

I hear the bellows blow,

And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat!

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
This day a jubilee,

And to my more than threecore years and ten
Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
And in it are enshrined

The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood,

And make these branches, leafless now so long,
Blossom again in song.1

1 Contributions for the purchase of the chair came from some seven hundred children of the public schools. Mr. Longfellow had this poem, which he wrote on the day the chair was given him, printed on a sheet, and was accustomed to give a copy to each child who visited him and sat in the chair.

THE CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

THERE were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers, for they had all been born of one old tin spoon. They held guns, and looked straight before them; their uniform was red and blue, and very fine. The first thing they had heard in the world, when the lid was taken off the box, in which they lay, had been the words "Tin soldiers!" a little boy spoke up and clapped his hands. The soldiers had been given to him, for it was his birthday; and now he put them on the table. Each soldier was exactly like the rest; but one of them was a little different; he had one leg because he had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others on their two; and it was just this soldier who became worth talking about.

On the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings, but the toy that most took the eye was a neat castle of cardboard. Through the little windows one could see straight into the hall. Outside stood some small trees and a little lookingglass, which was made to look like a clear lake. Swans of wax swam on this lake, and looked at themselves in it. This was all very pretty; but the prettiest of all was a little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she was cut out in paper, but she had a dress of the clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue

ribbon over her shoulders, that looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining tinsel rose, as big as her whole face. The little lady stretched out both her arms, for she was a dancer, and then she lifted one foot so high in the air that the Tin Soldier could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself, she had but one leg.

"That would be the wife for me," thought he; "but she is very grand. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty of us in that. It is no place for her. But I must try to make friends with her."

And then he lay down at full length behind a snuffbox which was on the table; there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who still stood on one leg without losing her balance. When the evening came, all the tin soldiers were put in their box, and the people in the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play at "visiting," and at "war," and "giving balls." The tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they wanted to join, but could not lift the lid. The Nut-cracker went head over heels, and the Pencil played games on the table; there was so much noise that the Canary woke up, and began to speak too, and even in verse. The only two who did not stir from their places were the Tin Soldier and the little Dancer; she stood straight up on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out both her arms, and he was just as firm on his one leg; and he never turned his eyes away from her.

Now the clock struck twelve- and, bounce! the lid flew off the snuff-box; but there was not snuff in it, but a little black troll; you see, it was a Jack-in-thebox.