One day, the grandfather was standing alone, before his house, looking far down at the people, and out at the sea, when, suddenly, he saw something very strange far off where the sea and sky meet.  Something like a great cloud was rising there, as if the sea were lifting itself high into the sky.  The old man put his hands to his eyes and looked again, hard as his old sight could.  Then he turned and ran to the house.  “Yone, Yone!” he cried, “bring a brand from the hearth!”

The little grandson could not imagine what his grandfather wanted with fire, but he always obeyed, so he ran quickly and brought the brand.  The old man already had one, and was running for the ricefields.  Yone ran after.  But what was his horror to see his grandfather thrust his burning brand into the ripe dry rice, where it stood.

“Oh, Grandfather, Grandfather!” screamed the little boy, “what are you doing?”

“Quick, set fire! thrust your brand in!” said the grandfather.

Yone thought his dear grandfather had lost his mind, and he began to sob; but a little Japanese boy always obeys, so though he sobbed, he thrust his torch in, and the sharp flame ran up the dry stalks, red and yellow.  In an instant, the field was ablaze, and thick black smoke began to pour up, on the mountain side.  It rose like a cloud, black and fierce, and in no time the people below saw that their precious ricefields were on fire.  Ah, how they ran!  Men, women, and children climbed the mountain, running as fast as they could to save the rice; not one soul stayed behind.

And when they came to the mountain top, and saw the beautiful rice-crop all in flames, beyond help, they cried bitterly, “Who has done this thing?  How did it happen?”

“I set fire,” said the old man, very solemnly; and the little grandson sobbed, “Grandfather set fire.”

But when they came fiercely round the old man, with “Why?  Why?” he only turned and pointed to the sea.  “Look!” he said.

They all turned and looked.  And there, where the blue sea had lain, so calm, a mighty wall of water, reaching from earth to sky, was rolling in.  No one could scream, so terrible was the sight.  The wall of water rolled in on the land, passed quite over the place where the village had been, and broke, with an awful sound, on the mountain side.  One wave more, and still one more, came; and then all was water, as far as they could look, below; the village where they had been was under the sea.

But the people were all safe.  And when they saw what the old man had done, they honoured him above all men for the quick wit which had saved them all from the tidal wave.

THE STORY OF WYLIE[1]

[Footnote 1:  Adapted from Rab and his Friends, by Dr John Brown.]

This is a story about a dog,—­not the kind of dog you often see in the street here; not a fat, wrinkly pugdog, nor a smooth-skinned bulldog, nor even a big shaggy fellow, but a slim, silky-haired, sharp-eared little dog, the prettiest thing you can imagine.  Her name was Wylie, and she lived in Scotland, far up on the hills, and helped her master take care of his sheep.