Mother Stories | Page 2

round! For corn and wheat must
both be ground, And how to grind I do not know Unless the merry
wind will blow_."
He sighed as he spoke, for he looked down in the village, and saw the
Baker in neat cap and apron, standing idle too.
The Baker's ovens were cold, and his trays were clean, and he, too, was
watching the sky, and saying:--
"_Oh! how I wish the wind would blow, So that the Miller's mill might
go, And grind me flour so fine, to make My good light bread and good
sweet cake! But how to bake I do not know Without the flour as white
as snow_."
Jan heard every word that the Baker said, for he lived next door to him;
and he felt so sorry for his good neighbor that he wanted to tell him so.
But before he had time to speak, somebody else called out from across
the street:--
"_Well! I'm sure I wish the wind would blow, For this is washing day,
you know. I've scrubbed and rubbed with all my might, In tubs of foam
from morning light, And now I want the wind to blow To dry my
clothes as white as snow_."
This was the Washerwoman who was hanging out her clothes. Jan
could see his own Sunday shirt, with ruffles, hanging limp on her line,
and it was as white as a snowflake, sure enough!
"Come over, little neighbor," cried the Washerwoman, when she saw
Jan. "Come over, little neighbor, and help me work to-day!" So, as
soon as Jan had eaten his breakfast, he ran over to carry her basket for
her. The basket was heavy, but he did not care; and as he worked he
heard some one singing a song, with a voice almost as loud and as
strong as the wind.
[1]"_Oh! if the merry wind would blow, Yeo ho! lads, ho! yeo ho! yeo
ho! My gallant ship would gaily go, Yeo ho! lads, ho! yeo ho! In
fresh'ning gales we'd loose our sails, And o'er the sea, Where blue
waves dance, and sunbeams glance, We'd sail in glee, But winds must
blow, before we go, Across the sea, Yeo ho! my lads, yeo ho!"_
[Footnote 1: Air Nancy Lee.]

Jan and the Washerwoman and all the neighbors looked out to see who
was singing so cheerily, and it was the Sea-captain whose white ship
Jan had watched in the harbor. The ship was laden with linen and laces
for fine ladies, but it could not go till the wind blew. The Captain was
impatient to be off, and so he walked about town, singing his jolly song
to keep himself happy.
Jan thought it was a beautiful song, and when he went home he tried to
sing it himself. He did not know all the words, but he put his hands in
his pockets and swelled out his little chest and sang in as big a voice as
he could: "Yeo ho! my lads, yeo ho!"
While he sang, something kissed him on the cheek; and when he turned
to see what it was his hat spun off into the yard as if it were enchanted;
and when he ran to pick his hat up he heard a whispering all through
the town. He looked up, and he looked down, and on every side, but
saw nobody! At last the golden weather-vane on the church tower
called down:--
"Foolish child, it is the wind from out of the east."
The trees had been the first to know of its coming, and they were
bowing and bending to welcome it; while the leaves danced off the
branches and down the hill, in a whirl of delight.
The windmill's arms whirled round, oh! so fast, and the wheat was
ground into white flour for the Baker, who kindled his fires and beat his
eggs in the twinkling of an eye; and he was not quicker than the
Sea-captain, who loosed his sails in the fresh'ning gales, just as he had
said he would, and sailed away to foreign lands.
Jan watched him go, and then ran in great haste to get his kite; for the
petticoats on the Washerwoman's clothesline were puffed up like
balloons, and all the world was astir.
"Now I'm in my proper place," said the kite as it sailed over the roofs of
the houses, over the tree tops, over the golden weather vane, and even
over the windmill itself. Higher, higher, higher it flew, as if it had
wings; till it slipped away from the string, and Jan never saw it again,
and only the wind knew where it landed at last.
[Illustration: "Now I am in my proper place," said the Kite.]

_MRS. TABBY GRAY_
MOTTO