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Holidays at the Grange; or, A Week's Delight

by Emily Mayer Higgins · English · Gutenberg #18907 · 554,270 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Holidays at the Grange; or, A Week's Delight

Author: Emily Mayer Higgins


        
Release date: July 25, 2006 [eBook #18907]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

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HOLIDAYS AT THE GRANGE, OR A WEEK'S DELIGHT.

Games and Stories for Parlor and Fireside.

by

EMILY MAYER HIGGINS.







[Illustration: Publisher's logo]


Philadelphia:
Porter & Coates.
Copyright, 1886,
by
Porter & Coates.


[Illustration: WYNDHAM GRANGE.]




CONTENTS.

                              CHAPTER I.
                                                                  PAGE
The Gathering.--Christmas Eve.--"Consequences."--"How do you
like it?"                                                            9

                              CHAPTER II.

Christmas Day.--"Rhymes."--"Cento."--"Genteel Lady."--The
Fairy Wood.                                                         21

                              CHAPTER III.

"The Rhyming Game."--Orikama, or the White Water-Lily; an
Indian Tale.                                                        62

                              CHAPTER IV.

"Proverbs."--"Twenty Questions."--The Spectre of Alcantra,
or the Conde's Daughters; a Tale of Spain.                          98

                              CHAPTER V.

A Skating Adventure.--"What is my Thought like?"--"Questions."--The
Orphan's Tale, or the Vicissitudes of Fortune.                     140

                              CHAPTER VI.

Sunday.--Bible Stories.--"Capping Bible Verses."--Bible-Class.     181

                              CHAPTER VII.

Sequel to the Orphan's Tale.--"Who can he be?"--"Elements."--The
Astrologers.                                                       206

                              CHAPTER VIII.

"Confidante."--"Lead-Merchant."--"Trades."--The Rose of
Hesperus; a Fairy Tale.                                            246

                              CHAPTER IX.

New-Year's Day.--"Characters, or Who am I?"--"Quotations."--"Acting
Charades."--"Riddles."                                             281

                              CHAPTER X.

Whispering Gallery.--Potentates.--Three Young Men.                 295




GAMES AND STORIES.




CHAPTER I.

THE GATHERING.--CHRISTMAS EVE.--CONSEQUENCES.--HOW DO YOU LIKE IT?


Not many miles from Philadelphia, in a beautifully wooded and hilly
country, may be seen a large rambling mansion, whose substantial walls
show that it was built at a time when more attention was paid to the
durability of dwellings than at present. It is, indeed, quite an ancient
house for this part of the world, having been erected by a certain John
Wyndham, a hundred years ago; and it has remained in the family ever
since, the owner of it generally inheriting the name of John, a taste
for rural life, and the old homestead together. It was constructed in
good taste, and with great regard for comfort; the broad hall, the
favorite resort in summer, was ornamented with family portraits of many
ages back, and a complete suit of armor, visor and all, struck awe into
the hearts of young visitors, who almost expected its former occupant to
resume possession, with his gauntleted hand to draw the sword from its
scabbard, and, seizing the flag over his head, to drive the modern
usurpers from the house. Large antlers, bows and arrows, and rusty
fowling-pieces against the wall, intimated that the descendants of the
grim warrior had exercised their valor in the chase; while a guitar with
blue ribbon, in the corner, told that gentler days had come, and spoke
of peace, domestic joys, and woman's influence.

Many were the bright sunshiny chambers in that cheerful home; but I will
describe one apartment only, the sitting-room, with which we are chiefly
concerned. The furniture is quaint and massive; but it is the rich
mellow light streaming through the room that principally attracts the
eye. Is it the western sun, tinted by the colored glass of the
bay-window, or is it the ruddy hickory fire? What a remarkable
chimney-place! few such can be seen now-a-days; they had gone out of
date a hundred years ago; but it was ancient John Wyndham's fancy, as
far as possible, to possess a fac-simile of the family mansion in
England, in which his childish days had been spent. What elaborate
carving upon the huge mantel-piece!--hunters with their guns and dogs;
shepherds and shepherdesses, with crooks and sheep; scriptural scenes
and rural incidents, afford endless amusement to the groups gathered
before the fire. Before, did I say? around, is the right expression; for
so large is the chimney, that while crackling up-piled logs blaze upon
the hearth, a number might be accommodated on the benches at the side,
as well as in front. It is the most sociable gathering-place in the
world, and the stiffest and most formal person would soon relax there;
while fingers are thawed, hearts are melted by that fire--warm and kind
affections are drawn out--sparkles of wit fly about the room, as if in
emulation of the good hickory: it is a chimney corner most provocative
of ancient legends, of frightful ghost-stories, of tales of
knight-errantry and romantic love, of dangers and of hair-breadth
escapes; in short, of all that can draw both old and young away from
their every-day cares, into the brighter world of fiction and poesy. In
the recess on one side is a small library, comfortable enough to entice
the student from the merry group so near him; on the other, is a room
looked upon with great affection by the juvenile members of the family,
for here does Aunt Lucy manufacture and keep for distribution those
delicious cakes, never to be refused at lunch time; and those pies,
jellies, whips, and creams, which promise to carry down her name to
posterity as the very nonpareil of housekeepers.

Three persons are sitting in the room, whom in common politeness I
should introduce to the reader: very pleasant people are they to know
and to visit. Uncle John and Aunt Lucy Wyndham, the master and mistress
of the house, are remarkable for kindness, and make their nephews and
nieces, and whole troops of friends, feel perfectly at home at once;
they are Uncle John and Aunt Lucy to all their young acquaintances, and
delight in the title. Perhaps they would not have been generally called
so, had they any children of their own; but they have none, and the only
young person in the house at present is Mary Dalton--Cousin Mary--an
orphan niece of Mrs. Wyndham, whom they have brought up from a child.
She looks like her aunt, plump, rosy, good natured and sensible; she is
just seventeen, and very popular with the whole cousinhood. She has many
accomplishments: she does not talk French, Spanish, or Italian, but she
knows how to play every game that ever was invented, can tell stories to
suit every age, can soothe a screaming child sooner than any one else,
can rattle off cotillions on the piano-forte of a winter's evening
without thinking it hard that she cannot join in the dance; and lastly,
can lay down an interesting book or piece of crochet work to run on an
errand for Aunt, or untangle the bob-tails of a kite, without showing
any signs of crossness. Self is a very subordinate person with her, and
indeed she seems hardly to realize her separate individuality; she is
everybody's Cousin Mary, and frowns vanish, and smiles brighten up the
countenance, wherever she appears. A very happy looking group they are,
but restless, this afternoon of the 24th of December; Uncle John
frequently goes to the hall door; Aunt Lucy lays down her knitting to
listen; and Cousin Mary does not pretend to read the book she holds, but
gazes out of the window, down the long avenue of elms, as if she
expected an arrival. Old Cæsar, "the last of the servants," as Mr.
Wyndham styles him, a white-haired negro who was born in the house, and
is devoted to the family, always speaking of _our_ house, _our_
carriage, and _our_ children, as if he were chief owner, vibrates
constantly between the kitchen and the porter's lodge, feeling it to be
his especial duty and prerogative to give the first welcome to the
guests.

And soon the sound of wheels is heard, and merry voices resound through
the hall, and cheeks rosy with the cold are made yet rosier by hearty
kisses; it is the young Wyndhams, come to spend their Christmas holidays
at the Grange with Uncle John. There is Cornelia, a bright, intelligent
girl of sixteen, full of fun, with sparkling black eyes. John, a boy of
fourteen, matter-of fact and practical, a comical miniature of Uncle
John, whom he regards with veneration, as the greatest, wisest, and best
of living men, and only slightly inferior to General Washington himself;
and George, his twin brother and very devoted friend, a good boy in the
main, but so very full of mischief! he would get into a thousand
scrapes, if his more sober companion did not restrain him. We must not
overlook little Amy, the sweet child of twelve, with flowing golden hair
and languishing eyes, the gentle, unspoiled pet and playmate of all.
Her cheek is pale, for she has ever been the delicate flower of the
family, and the winter winds must not visit her too roughly: she is one
to be carefully nurtured. And the more so, as her mind is highly
imaginative and much in advance of her age; already does the light of
genius shine forth in her eye. Scarcely are these visitors well
ensconced in the chimney corner, after their fur wrappings are removed,
before the sound of wheels is again heard, and shouts of joy announce
the arrival of the Greens. That tall, slender, intellectual girl, with
pale oval face and expressive eyes, is Ellen. Her cousins are very proud
of her, for she has just returned from boarding-school with a high
character for scholarship, and has carried away the prize medal for
poetry from all competitors; the children think that she can speak every
language, and she is really a refined and accomplished girl. She has not
seen Mary or Cornelia for a couple of years, and great are the
rejoicings at their meeting; they are warm friends already. Her manly
brother Tom, although younger, looks older than she does: a fine,
handsome fellow he is. The younger Greens are almost too numerous to
particularize; Harry and Louis, Anna and Gertrude--merry children all,
noisy and frolicsome, but well-inclined and tolerably submissive to
authority; they ranged from nine years old, upward. Just as the sun was
setting, and Aunt Lucy had almost given them up, the third family of
cousins arrived, the Boltons. Charlie Bolton is the elder of the two--he
will be called Charlie to the end of his days, if he live to be a
white-haired grandfather, he is so pleasant and full of fun, so ready
with his joke and merry laugh; he is Cornelia's great friend and ally,
and the two together would keep any house wide awake. His sister Alice
is rather sentimental, for which she is heartily laughed at by her
harum-skarum brother; but she is at an age when girls are apt to take
this turn--fourteen; she will leave it all behind her when she is older.
Sentimentality may be considered the last disease of childhood; measles,
hooping-cough, and scarlatina having been successfully overcome, if the
girl passes through this peril unscathed, and no weakness is left in her
mental constitution, she will probably be a woman of sane body and mind.
Alice is much given to day-dreams, and to reading novels by stealth; she
is very romantic, and would dearly love to be a heroine, if she could.
The only objection to the scheme, in her mind, is that her eyes have a
very slight cast, and that her nose is _un petit nez retroussé_--in
other words, something of a pug; and Alice has always been under the
impression that a heroine must have straight vision, and a Grecian nose.
Hers is a face that will look very arch and _piquante_, when she
acquires more sense, and lays aside her lack-a-daisical airs; but, at
present, the expression and the features are very incongruous. It is
excessively mortifying! but it cannot be helped; many times a day does
she cast her eyes on the glass, but the obstinate pug remains a pug, and
Alice is forced to conclude that she is not intended for a heroine. Yet
she always holds herself ready for any marvellous adventure that may
turn up, and she is perfectly convinced that there must be concealed
doors, long winding passages in the walls, and perhaps a charmingly
horrible dungeon, at The Grange. Why not? Such things are of constant
occurrence in story books, and that house is the oldest one she knows.
She is determined on this visit to explore it thoroughly, and perhaps
she may become the happy discoverer of a casket of jewels, or a
skeleton, or some other treasure.

Thirteen young people there are in all, with pleasant faces and joyful
hearts; and none of them, I am happy to say were of the perfect sort
you read of in books. Had they been, their Aunt Lucy, who was used to
real children, would have entertained serious fears for their longevity.
They all required a caution or a reprimand now and then, and none were
so wise as not to make an occasional silly speech, or to do a heedless
action. But they were good-tempered and obliging, as healthy children
should always be, and were seldom cross unless they felt a twinge of
toothache. How fast did their tongues run, that first hour! How much had
all to tell, and how much to hear! And how happy did Uncle John appear,
as he sat in the centre of the group, with little Amy on his lap,
leaning her languid head against his broad and manly chest, while a
cluster of the younger ones contended together for possession of the
unoccupied knee.

After the hearty, cheerful country supper, the whole party of visitors
was escorted into a dark room adjoining the hall, while Aunt Lucy and
Cousin Mary were engaged in certain preparations, well understood by the
older guests, who were too discreet to allay the curiosity of the
younger ones, who for the first time were allowed to share the
hospitality of the Grange at Christmas. At last the folding-doors were
thrown open, and the hall appeared to be in a blaze of light; colored
lamps were suspended in festoons from the ceiling, showing how prettily
the old portraits were adorned with evergreens. Even the man in armor
looked less grim, as if his temper was mollified by the ivy wreath wound
around his helmet. But the chief object of interest was a stately tree
at the end of the hall, from whose trunk proceeded thirteen branches,
brilliantly illuminated with wax lights and pendant lamps of various
hues; while gilded fruit, and baskets of flowers and confectionary,
looked to the uninitiated as if the fairies themselves had been at work.
Many were the exclamations of delight, and intense the excitement; the
old hall echoed with the shouts of the boys. Uncle John, ever happy in
the enjoyment of others, declared that he believed himself to be the
youngest child there, and that he enjoyed the revels of Christmas Eve
more than any of them.

When the noise and rapture had somewhat subsided, Cousin Mary proposed
that they should try some games, by way of variety. Chess, checkers,
backgammon, Chinese puzzles, dominoes, jack-straws, etc., were
mentioned, and each one of them was declared by different members of the
group to be exceedingly entertaining; but Charlie Bolton said that
"although he was neither Grand Turk nor perpetual Dictator, he must put
his veto upon all such games as being of an unsocial nature. It was all
very well, when only two persons were together, to amuse themselves with
such things; but for his part, he did hate to see people ride in
sulkies, and play _solitaire_, when they could have such agreeable
society as was there gathered together;" making, as he spoke, a dashing
bow to the girls. "Has not any one wit enough to think of a game at
which we can all assist?"

"Do you know how to play 'Consequences?'" said Mary.

"I never heard of it," replied Cornelia; "how do you play it?"

"With paper and pencils. Here is my writing-desk full of paper, and my
drawing-box with pencils ready sharpened, and you have nothing to do but
all to write according to my directions, and doubling down the paper, to
hand it to a neighbor, so that each time you have a different slip. When
it is finished, I will read them aloud, supplying some words which will
make sense--or, what is much better, arrant nonsense--of the whole. So
begin by writing a term descriptive of a gentleman."

"Now write a gentleman's name--some one you know, or some distinguished
person."

"Next, an adjective descriptive of a lady."

"And now, a lady's name."

"Mention a place, and describe it."

"Now write down some date, or period of time when a thing might happen."

"Put a speech into the gentleman's mouth."

"Make the lady reply."

"Tell what the consequences were."

"And what the world said of it."

"And now allow me to enlighten the company. Here is one specimen:

"The gallant and accomplished Nero met the beautiful, but rather
coquettish Mrs. Wyndham at Gretna Green, that place once so famous for
runaway couples and matrimonial blacksmiths, upon the 4th of July, 1900
A.D. He said, 'Dearest madam, my tender heart will break if you refuse
my hand;' but she replied, 'La, sir, don't talk such nonsense!' The
consequences were, that their names were embalmed together in history;
and the world said, 'It is exactly what I expected.'"

"Are you sure, Mary," said Mrs. Wyndham, laughing, "that you are not
taking any liberties with my name?"

"Here it is ma'am, you can see it yourself; but I think you escaped very
well. Here's another: "The refined and dandified Jack the Giant-Killer
met the modest, retiring Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, at the Pyramids,
(ah! some one peeped!) those wonderful monuments of ages long since
passed away, on Christmas Day, in the year One. He said, 'I never
entertained a very lofty opinion of your ladyship;' she replied, 'I
perfectly agree with the noble sentiments you have just uttered: our
hearts shall henceforward be united in the strictest friendship.' The
consequences were that they parted, to meet no more; and the partial
world remarked, 'What a pair of fools!'"

"Here is another: "The brave, daring, thoughtless King Solomon met the
elegant, fashionable Queen Semiramis upon the top of Mont Blanc, that
lofty mountain, crowned with perpetual snow, on the 30th of February. He
remarked, 'Do you like the last style of bonnets, Madam?' She answered,
'Sir, do not press the matter. I am but young; you can speak to my
papa.' The consequences were, that they took an ice-cream, and went up
to the clouds in an air-balloon; and the amiable world said, 'Who would
have believed it?'"

After reading all the papers, which caused much diversion, one of the
party proposed playing "How do you like it." While Tom Green was waiting
in another room, the remainder of the company fixed upon a word of
double or treble meaning, which it was his duty to discover by the
answers given to three questions he was to ask of all in succession. If
unable to guess the word at the end of the third round, he would be
crowned with the dunce-cap, and must recommence his questions: if, on
the contrary, he hit upon the right word, the person whose answer led
him to conjecture it must take his place.

"Anna," said Tom, "how do you like it? Now, don't tell me you like it
very well, or not at all; give me something descriptive."

"I like it with a large capital."

"You do? Then it may either be a word, a state, a pillar, or a man of
business. Cousin Alice, how do you like it?"

"I like it shady and covered with moss."

"And you, Sister Ellen?"

"With vaults secure and well filled."

"What do you say, Gertrude?"

"I like it covered with violets."

"How do you prefer it, Charlie?"

"With a good board of directors."

"And you, Amy?"

"Covered with strong and skilful rowers."

"What is your preference, George?"

"I like it high and picturesque."

"How do you like it, John?"

"With numerous branches."

"It can't be a tree--how do you like it, Mary?"

"Very green."

"And you, Harry?"

"Of red brick or white marble."

"How contradictory! What have you to answer, Cornelia?"

"I like it steep and rocky."

"And you, Louis?"

"I like it warranted not to break."

"When do you like it, Anna?"

"When I have an account in it."

"When do you like it, Alice?"

"When I am in the country, and feel weary."

"And you, Ellen?"

"When I hold a check in my hand."

"And you, Gertrude?"

"In the spring of the year, when I feel languid and sentimental."

"When do you prefer it, Charlie?"

"When I want a loan, and can give good security."

"And you, Amy?"

"When I am in a boat, and becalmed."

"And you, George?"

"When I am at sea, anxiously looking out for land."

"What say you, John?"

"When I am a merchant, engaged in large transactions."

"When do you like it, Mary?"

"When my eye is weary of a flat, dull country."

"And you, Harry?"

"When I am a stockholder."

"So I should think, if it paid a good dividend. And if I were to ask you
my third question, 'Where will you put it!' one would place it under an
umbrageous tree, another by the sea, a third by a river, and a fourth on
a good business street, near the Exchange. My good friends, I would be
dull indeed if I did not guess it to be a BANK; and you, Sister Ellen,
may take my place; your well-filled vaults first gave me the clue."

After amusing themselves a little longer, they adjourned to the
sitting-room, as the tall, old-fashioned clock in the hall gave warning
of the rapid flight of time; and Mary, as was her custom, brought to her
uncle the large family Bible. When he opened the holy book, the very
youngest and wildest of the children listened with reverence to the
solemn words, and tried to join in the thanks which the good man offered
up to Heaven for bringing them together in health and peace, and
granting them so much happiness.

And then kisses and good-nights were exchanged, and the young group was
scattered; but not without a parting charge to each from Aunt Lucy, "not
to forget to hang up the stocking for Kriss-Kinkle, near the chimney
place; and not on any account to lock their doors--for they might easily
be taken sick in the night."




CHAPTER II.

CHRISTMAS DAY.--RHYMES.--CENTO.--GENTEEL LADY.--THE FAIRY WOOD.


Sound were the slumbers that night at the Grange, notwithstanding the
determination of little Amy to lie awake and catch Kriss-Kinkle for
once; although as she said, "I know it _must_ be Cousin Mary." Those
happy days of innocence and unsuspecting faith have passed away, when
children believed in a literal Kriss-Kinkle, clad in furs, and laden
with presents for the good, and sticks of wood for the naughty little
urchins who refuse to learn their A, B, C's, and to stand still while
mamma combs out their hair. The "infantry" of America have quite given
up their old-fashioned credulity, and as, according to the obsolete
saying of the older philosophers, "nature abhors a vacuum," and there
must be some children in the world, to keep the balance, the
spirit-rappers have kindly stepped into their vacant places, and may be
regarded as the true and only children on this side the Atlantic. The
frightful skepticism of the young ones with regard to Kriss-Kinkle has
come to such a pass, that a little girl of three years old, who had been
kept, as her relations thought, in all the verdure becoming to her
tender years, upon her aunt telling her that she ought not to expect
many gifts that season, as it was such stormy weather that poor
Kriss-Kinkle could scarcely venture out, replied: "But, Aunty! could he
not take grandma's carriage--he would not get wet then!"

If the merry old soul really came down the chimney at the Grange, he
shewed great discernment in the gifts he bestowed, for each found in
the stocking some article that had been ardently desired. Ellen, who was
deeply interested in the study of Italian, found a beautiful copy of
Dante's "Divina Commedia;" Mary, who possessed a fine talent for
drawing, and frequently sketched from nature, discovered that a complete
set of artist's colors and brushes had fallen to her lot; George, who
was devoted to skating, found a pair of skates, "real beauties," as he
said, appended to his stocking; all plainly saw that their individual
tastes and peculiarities had been consulted in a very gratifying manner.
Of course they did not neglect to express their pleasure and gratitude
to their kind friends, requesting them to inform that very worthy old
gentleman, Mr. Kriss-Kinkle, of their delight at his selection. Nor were
Uncle John and Aunt Lucy forgotten: their nephews and nieces had all
provided some little gifts, as expressions of love. Mrs. Wyndham
declared that she was quite set up in crochet bags and purses, for a
year to come; and tastefully worked book-markers, with appropriate
sentiments, were very plentiful. Tom Green made himself exceedingly
agreeable to the whole party, by presenting to each some pretty little
box, thimble-case, or other ingenious trifle, which he had made at his
leisure with the aid of his turning-lathe; whereupon Charlie Bolton
assumed an irresistibly ludicrous air of dejection, and asserted that he
felt quite crushed by Tom's superior gallantry. "Really, a fellow is not
much thought of now-a-days, unless he can do something in the pretty
line. I must get a turning-lathe at once, or else learn to carve
brooches out of marbles, and rings out of peach-stones, and baskets out
of cherry and apricot stones. If I can't get up that much artistic
talent, I might as well resign myself to complete insignificance all my
life." Cornelia Wyndham highly approved of his intentions, and told him
that when he had come to perfection in the fancy business, she hoped he
would remember her devoted and perfectly disinterested friendship; her
cousinly affection was of the warmest and truest quality, especially
when there were any hopes of cherry-stone baskets.

Full of enjoyment as they were, none were too intent upon fun and frolic
to neglect accompanying their kind relatives to the pretty little
country church, for it was their uncle's habit to begin the day with
religious exercises: he said it seemed to him ungrateful to spend it in
unbroken jollity, and to forget entirely the original motive of its
institution. It was a very pleasant custom, and very conducive to mutual
attachment, for friends and relations to give and to receive presents:
but this should be subordinate to the remembrance of God's Great Gift to
the children of men, which was celebrated on that happy day. So the
young people passed a unanimous vote that church-going was as regular a
part of keeping Christmas as presents or mince-pie, and gladly set off
to walk through the frosty air to the ivy-covered church, shaded by
ancient trees. It was situated on a hill, and was approached by numerous
paths running across the fields; and as Ellen gazed upon its spire,
standing in relief against the deep blue sky, she thought of that
beautiful line of Wordsworth,


     "Pointing its taper finger up to heaven!"


The chime of bells, too, joyfully pealing out, appeared to be the voice
of the church calling upon all who heard it, to return thanks to Him who
blesses the families of men; it seemed to say, "Both young men and
maidens, old men and children, let them praise the name of the Lord."
What a mistake it is, to think of religion only as a refuge from sorrow,
and a solace for the disappointments of the world! It is that, truly,
but it is also the sanctifier of joy: the happy young heart should be
laid upon God's altar, as well as the stricken spirit, and the eye
moistened with tears. That the services of the church had not a
depressing effect upon the minds of any, was very evident from the
heart-felt greetings and warm shakes of the hand which were exchanged by
all, as they left the house of prayer. It was a very pleasant sight to
behold young and old, rich and poor, joined together in one common
feeling of brotherhood, under the genial influences of the season. "A
merry Christmas" seemed not only to spring from every tongue, but to
sparkle in every eye.

If I were to attempt to describe the varied pleasures of that day, which
was declared by Charlie Bolton to be the most glorious one he had ever
spent, I should be obliged to dip my pen, not in ink, but in a solution
of rainbow, or dancing sun-beams, or in any thing else that is proved to
be the most joyful thing in nature. At dinner-table, after being helped
the second time to a slice of "splendid" turkey with oyster sauce,
little Louis Green, the youngest of the party, occasioned a general
burst of laughter by laying down his knife and fork, which certainly
deserved a little rest if activity ever can earn it, and leaning back in
his chair, saying with the greatest earnestness: "Uncle, if I were asked
to point out the very happiest time of the whole year, I would fix upon
Christmas day, at exactly this hour--the dinner hour--as the thing for
me!"

"O you gormandizer!" said his sister Ellen, "you don't really think the
dinner the best part of the day?"

"Indeed I do, though," replied Louis; "and I rather guess a good many
people are of the same opinion. And, sister Ellen, if you were a boy,
and just come home from boarding-school, where they always want you to
eat potatoes, I think you'd value turkey and mince-pie as much as I do!
Hurra for Christmas, I say!"

There was some conversation at the dinner-table about the origin of the
different modes of keeping Christmas day in our country. Mr. Wyndham
remarked, that probably the reason why it was so universally kept in
Philadelphia, was from the large mixture of the German element in the
population of Pennsylvania: perhaps the little Swedish colony which Penn
found already settled on the ground when he came over, may have had some
influence, as the nations in the middle and north of Europe have always
celebrated the day, making it a sort of festival of home, and fireside
pleasures. He said that when he was a young man he had passed a winter
in Germany, and was spending some time in the house of a friend, in the
month of December: being very intimate with all the family, he had been
admitted into numerous little secrets, both by young and old. He had
seen beforehand the drawings and the ornamental needle-work which were
intended as a surprise to the parents, and were executed after they had
retired to rest; and he had been allowed to hear the new songs and
pieces of instrumental music, learnt by stealth during their absence
from home; and had even been privileged to hear the little boy of eight,
the pet of the family, recite the verses composed in honor of the joyful
occasion, by his oldest sister. And the parents, also, had their own
mysteries: for a fortnight before the eventful day, the blooming,
comfortable mamma rode out regularly, and returned laden with bundles,
which were immediately transferred to a certain large parlor, the
windows of which were carefully bolted, the door locked, and the very
key-hole stopped up, so that nothing was visible. The children were sent
out of the way, and then there were raps at the door, and the carrying
of heavy articles along the hall, into the mysterious chamber--Blue
Beard's room of horrors was not more eagerly gazed at, than was this
parlor, but its blank walls told no secrets.

At length the long-expected day arrived; on Christmas Eve all were
assembled in a dark room adjacent--you see I have taken a few hints from
my German friends--and at last the doors being thrown open, the mystery
was revealed. The room was ornamented with evergreens and colored lamps,
very much in the style of our hall, and a large tree blazed with light
and sparkled with candied fruits and gilded cornucopias; I made up my
mind then, that if ever I had a house of my own, I would keep Christmas
Eve in the same way. The little children stood a while, awe-struck by
the grandeur of the spectacle: for I can tell you, young people, that
the German children are kept in a state of innocence--what you would
call _greenness_--that would amaze you. The good mother then came
forward, and took them by the hand: "Come in, Carl; come in, Hermann;
fear nothing, little Ida; come in and see if there is any thing here for
you." Encouraged by this invitation, all entered, and the room was found
to be lined with tables, piled with articles both for use and pleasure;
there was a separate table for every one in the house, including the
servants, who in Germany live many years in one family, and even for the
baby. Their guest also was not forgotten; I found upon my table a pair
of slippers, and sundry other gifts, some of which I still keep with
care, as a memorial of that very happy evening.

"That must have been really charming! I think the mystery adds very much
to the pleasure," said Alice. "And, uncle, is not the custom of hanging
up the stocking derived from Germany?"

"I think it is. In Holland there is a little variation, for there the
_shoe_ is placed at the door of the chamber, for adults as well as
children enter into the sport. I heard an amusing story connected with
this practice, when I was in Holland; if you like, I will relate it; the
event is said really to have happened."

"Do tell it, uncle!" said John Wyndham. "I like true stories."

"There was a poor, but very handsome and excellent young minister, a
licentiate, I think they call it, when a young man is not yet settled in
a church; to support himself until he was appointed to a congregation,
he took the place of tutor in a rich burgomaster's family, where he fell
in love with the pretty, amiable, and mischievous daughter. She fully
reciprocated his feelings, and as her parents approved of the match, she
gave the bashful young man all the encouragement she could: she felt
very sure as to the nature of his sentiments towards her, but
notwithstanding all she could do, the young man _would not propose_--as
she rightly concluded, the thought of her superior wealth deterred him;
and meantime the foolish fellow became pale and melancholy, as if he
seriously meditated going into a decline. So the merry maiden thought,
'This will never do; I must take strong measures, or the poor soul will
mope himself to death.' Christmas Eve came round, and the assembled
family were joking about the presents they expected. 'Put your slippers
outside your door to-night, Dominie,' said the father, calling him by
the title commonly applied to clergymen in Holland, and among the
descendants of the Dutch in the State of New York, 'I have no doubt your
friend Caterina has something to put in them.' 'Oh, it is not worth
while--no one cares for me, sir.' 'But, indeed, we do,' replied little
Caterina; 'I have something for you, but I am not at all sure you will
condescend to accept it. 'Have you indeed, Miss Caterina? I shall feel
highly honored; I give you my word that whatever it is, I will accept it
joyfully.' 'Very well: only please to remember this, when you see what
is in your slippers.'

"The next morning, when the young Dominie opened his door, full of
eagerness to see what was in store for him, lo and behold! his slippers
had vanished. 'I might have known that the light-hearted, mischievous
maiden was only laughing at me--and well I deserve it--fool that I am to
dream about one so much above me!' Thus trying to scold himself into
stoicism, the young man went over to the breakfast-table, where all were
gathered together except Caterina. 'A very merry Christmas! but my dear
Dominie, how sober you look!' 'Do I, indeed? that is very improper; but
I've been thinking of going away--I had better do so--that makes me look
rather sad, perhaps; I've spent so many happy hours among you all.'
'Going away! oh, no, you are not to think of that; I cannot allow such a
word. By the way, what have you found in your slippers?' 'To reprove my
presumption, no doubt, my slippers have been spirited away in the night:
it is not for a poor fellow like me to receive gifts from lovely young
ladies.' As he spoke these words, the door opened, and Caterina entered,
bright as the morning, her face covered with smiles and blushes; she
shuffled along in a strange way, and all eyes naturally fell upon her
little feet, which were sailing about in the Dominie's slippers! Amid
the general laughter, she walked up to the diffident youth, who could
scarcely believe his eyes, and said with an air of irresistible
drollery, by which she tried to cover her confusion: 'Here is your
Christmas present, sir; do you hold to your promise of accepting it?' Of
course, the lady having broken the ice, the Dominie could do no less
than speak out, and, all being willing, the two were soon converted into
one; a good church was procured for him by the influence of the
burgomaster, and they lived as happily as possible all their days."

"She was a determined damsel!" cried Cornelia; "I think she had brass
enough to set up a foundry."

"Probably it was leap-year, Cornelia," replied Ellen; "you know it is
then the ladies' _privilege_--great privilege, forsooth!--to pay
attention to the lords of the creation."

"I hope, when women take advantage of their prescriptive rights, they
will wear the Bloomer costume, and make themselves look as little like
the rest of their sex as possible!" said Mary.

"Come, girls," cried Charlie Bolton, "you are too hard on that frank
little Caterina; I approve of such conduct entirely, and some ten years
hence, when I am ready to be appropriated, I shall certainly leave my
slippers outside my door as a hint to whomsoever it may concern. It
would save us men a great deal of trouble, if all girls were as sensible
as Caterina."

"Us men, indeed! How long since?" said Cornelia.

"Ever since I got out of frocks and into trowsers," replied Charlie,
laughing good-naturedly. He and Cornelia were always sparring, but never
quarrelled.

In the evening they played at various games; among others, at writing
rhymes. Each had a slip of paper, and would write a line, then double it
down, and hand it to the next, telling the last word; the second person
then added a line rhyming with the first, the third started a fresh
rhyme, and so it went on. When read, it of course made the greatest
farrago of nonsense imaginable. Ellen then proposed "Cento," a Spanish
or Italian game, which requires great readiness of memory, and a large
acquaintance with poetry. One person quotes a well-known line, the next
another that rhymes with it, and so on, making some sort of connection
whenever it can be done; but after trying it, and finding that only
three or four of the eldest could think of appropriate passages, they
voted Cento _a bore_, Cornelia remarking that there was great stupidity
somewhere; of course they could not think it was in themselves, and
therefore it must be in the game.

Mary said that there was another game requiring a good memory, but the
advantage of it was, that the more you forgot the more merriment you
made; if you were not witty yourself, you were the cause of wit in
others. It was called _Genteel Lady_, and was played by one person
politely bowing to his neighbor, and reciting a certain formula, which
must be repeated, with an addition, by the next, and so round the
circle; whenever the least mistake or omission was made, the person had
to drop the title of Genteel Lady, or Genteel Gentleman, and putting a
horn of twisted paper in the hair or button-hole, could now glory in the
dignity of being a One-horned Lady or Gentleman. Very soon horns become
so plenty that few can claim any gentility; as the description proceeds,
and becomes more complicated, it is perfectly laughable, and the whole
party look ludicrous enough.

"Here is a whole bundle of lamp-lighters," said Cornelia; "let us begin
the game, I think it must be comical."

Mary bowed to Tom Green, and commenced. "Good evening, genteel
gentleman, ever genteel, I, a genteel lady, ever genteel, come from that
genteel lady, ever genteel, to tell you that she owns a little dog with
hair on its back."

Tom bowed to Ellen: "Good evening, genteel lady, ever genteel, I, a
genteel gentleman, ever genteel, come from that genteel lady, ever
genteel (bowing to Mary), to tell you that she owns a little dog with
hair on its back, and a red tongue in its mouth."

Ellen took up the play: "Good evening, genteel gentleman, ever genteel,
I, a genteel lady, ever genteel, come from that genteel gentleman, ever
genteel, to tell you that he owns a little dog with hair on its back, a
red tongue in its mouth, and two ears on its head."

It was now Charlie Bolton's turn: "Good evening, genteel lady, ever
genteel, I, a genteel gentleman, _ever_ genteel, come from that genteel
lady, ever genteel, to say that she owns a little dog with ears on its
back, a tongue in its head, hair in its mouth, and a bone between its
teeth."

"Charlie! Charlie! three horns!"

"All honorable horns! hurra! I'm the only one with horns!"

"You'll soon have companions in misfortune," said Mary, laughing.

"Good morning, genteel lady, ever genteel," said Gertrude, bowing to
Alice, "I, a genteel lady, ever genteel, come from that three-horned
gentleman, ever three-horned, to say that he owns a little dog with hair
on its back, a red tongue in its mouth, two ears on its head, a bone
between its teeth, and a tail a yard long."

"Good morning, she said! that's one horn!" cried the other children.

"Good evening, genteel gentleman, ever genteel," said Alice, reverently
bowing to John Wyndham, "I, a genteel lady, ever genteel, come from that
one-horned lady, ever one-horned, to say that she owns a little dog with
hair on its back, a red tongue in its mouth, a bone between its teeth, a
fell a yard long, and three legs and a half."

"You left out two ears on its head! a horn!"

"I'm resigned," said Alice, "gentility seems to be at a discount."

So the game went on, becoming every moment more difficult and more
ludicrous--as Charlie called it, more _trippy_--and by the time it went
round the second time, none escaped the horns. Any thing will do for the
genteel lady to own, and it makes it more agreeable to vary it each time
it is played: for instance, an eagle with a golden beak, silver claws,
diamond eyes, ostrich feathers, bird-of-paradise tail, a crown on its
head, a diamond ring on its thumb, a gold chain round its neck, a
pocket-handkerchief in its hand, and any other nonsense you can string
together. A lady's étagère or what-not would be a good medium for
collecting together absurdities--Mont Blanc at the top, a gridiron
below, a gold thimble at the side, the poets in a corner, a breakfast
set on one shelf, a card-case above, a smelling-bottle at the side, a
work-box, a writing-desk, a piece of coral, etc. A _genteel_ lady's
description of her mansion--certainly an extraordinary one--would be
suitable; a modern-built house, with a _porto-ricco_ in front, and a
_pizarro_ in the rear, a summer-house _contagious_, and _turpentine_
walks, etc.

Being now weary of games, Amy proposed that they should vary their
pleasures by a tale, which gained the general approval; and Ellen Green
was commissioned to relate it. Ever ready to oblige, she told them she
would, if they chose a subject. "What sort of a story will you have?"

"An Indian story!" exclaimed the younger boys.

"Do tell us about some great historical character--Washington, or King
Alfred, or Napoleon Bonaparte, or some other hero!" cried John Wyndham.

"I go in for a very frightful ghost-story, that will make our hair stand
on end, and make the girls afraid to go to bed!" said his brother
George.

"Tell us a romantic narrative about a knight going to the Crusades, and
his fair lady following him in the disguise of a page!" said Alice
Bolton.

"That's exactly like you!" cried her brother Charlie; "now, I say give
us some exciting adventures by sea or by land; a real fish-story, or
escape from a lion or tiger, or a tale of a bear, or something of that
sort."

"Poor Cousin Ellen! How can she please you all?" said Mary. "As Amy
first proposed it, let us leave it to her to choose the kind of story
she prefers, and so settle the difficulty."

"Agreed! agreed! choose, Amy!"

"As for me, I always like a real fairy-tale," said Amy, her eyes
sparkling with pleasure as she saw with what good nature all had left
the choice to her.

"Then you shall have it; and I don't doubt that Aunt Lucy or Cousin Mary
will contrive to please all in turn, another day."

"Most especially, I hope they will not forget to give Charlie that brush
with the _bear's tail_ that he wants so much!" said Cornelia, with a
saucy glance of her eye.

"Attention, Miss Cornelia! or you will prove that you deserve it
yourself. Don't you see that Ellen is ready to begin?"


The Fairy Wood.

Upon the banks of the Rhine there stand the ruins of an ancient castle,
which still attracts the attention of the passer-by, from its gigantic
remains, and the exceeding beauty of its situation. And if now, when its
glory has departed, the traveller is irresistibly impelled to ask its
name, how imposing must it have been when its dark shadow was thrown
unbroken upon the smooth waters below, and troops of cavaliers and armed
retainers rode over its drawbridge, and mounted its battlements. Here,
in the olden time, dwelt the noble Baron Sigismund; and here, nothing
daunted by the gloomy grandeur of the fortress, his little son Rudolph
romped and frolicked the live-long day. A charming fellow he was, with
eyes of heavenly blue, and a complexion of pure milk and roses; a true
boy, full of activity and vivacity, and with not a slight touch of
mischief in his composition. And yet he was such an affectionate and
good-hearted little soul, that his arms would be about your neck in a
moment, if he thought you were offended by his conduct; and so generous,
that he would take the cake from his own lips to give it to the
beggar--no trifling stretch of charity in a boy.

Is it wonderful, that Rudolph was the idol of his parents, the favorite
of his playmates, and the cherished darling of the whole castle? His
merry spirit and winning ways completely gained the hearts of the
servants and retainers, and many voices in the adjacent cottages were
loud in the praise of the beautiful, golden-haired boy. What a proud man
was Fritz, the old seneschal, when he taught him to manage the horse, to
couch the lance, and draw the bow! and when, for the first time, the
young heir followed him to the chase, who so happy as he? And Rudolph
reciprocated his affection; next to papa and dear mamma, sweet little
black-eyed Cousin Bertha, and the ugly, shaggy mastiff to which he was
devoted, old Fritz came in for his warmest love. And some people were
malicious enough to say that there was a strong resemblance between
these last two favorites, both in countenance and character; certain it
is, that both Bruno and Fritz were faithful, every ready to contribute
to his amusement, and although rough with other people, gentle enough
with their young master.

One day, in the absence of his father, he set out to ride, with Fritz
for his only attendant. It was a splendid afternoon; the sky was of that
pure exquisite blue you sometimes see, rendered deeper by a pile of
snowy clouds in the west; the birds were silent, as if unwilling to
disturb the holy calm of nature; not a leaf stirred, save here and there
a quivering aspen, emblem of a restless, discontented mind. Rudolph was
in excellent spirits, and Saladin, his good Arab steed, flew like the
wind; old Fritz tried to restrain his ardor, but in vain; the impetuous
boy kept far ahead. They were soon some miles from home, and Rudolph saw
before him a point where the road branched off in several directions,
one of them leading back again to the castle, another taking a circuit
of some distance, and a third, a narrow, unfrequented path, entering
into a dark forest. Into this wood the boy had never been allowed to
enter, from the evil name it had acquired in the traditions of the
peasantry. Some said that robbers haunted its deep recesses, for
travellers had entered it, notwithstanding all the entreaties of those
who would have detained them, but had never been seen again; in fact,
none had ever been known to return, who had been fool-hardy enough to
enter into that snare. Others argued that they had been devoured by the
wild beasts, whose savage roar might sometimes be heard at night; or
that, losing their way, they had perished with hunger. But the older and
wiser shook their heads at these suggestions, insinuating that
skepticism on such awful subjects might bring down vengeance upon the
unbelieving; and intimated, more by look and by gesture than by word,
that the whole forest was enchanted ground, and that powers more than
mortal claimed it as their own. All agreed that the Fairy Wood--so it
was called--was a dangerous place, and few, indeed, would venture into
its shady depths. Rudolph's curiosity had been excited in the most vivid
manner by what he had heard concerning the mysteries of the forest, and
he had long determined to seize the first opportunity of gratifying it.
Old Fritz would not have consented to his entering it, if he had given
him his weight in gold, but the worthy seneschal was now out of sight,
and here was a glorious opportunity for the boy--he dashed into the
wood, and urging Saladin onward, was soon involved in the intricacies of
the forest.

On went the fearless boy, determined to explore, and doubting nothing,
although the dark, gloomy shades might well have appalled an older
person, and the numerous, faintly defined paths would certainly have
made an experienced one hesitate. On he went, deeper and deeper into the
wood, until he was suddenly startled by low, prolonged, growling
thunder. He tried to retrace his steps, but was only more entangled in
the maze: the sky had become black as midnight, the rain fell in
torrents, the lightnings flashed fearfully, and all nature appeared
convulsed. Rudolph had never before witnessed such a storm, and brave
boy as he was, his heart quaked with terror--he felt how powerless a
human being is, when, unsheltered, he is brought face to face with the
elements, lashed up to fury. He now realized, in addition, that he had
lost his way, and feared that in his efforts to extricate himself, he
might penetrate still deeper into the wood; so he determined to throw
the reins upon his horse's head, and trust to his instinct, as he had
often heard that travellers had done successfully, when they had
wandered out of their road. He accordingly did so, and speaking cheerily
to Saladin, allowed him to choose his own path: to his surprise his
beautiful Arab left the track, and set off on what he concluded to be a
short cut out of the forest. After about an hour, however, poor little
Rudolph began to doubt the instinct of horses, for the aspect of every
thing around him became wilder every moment; but, happily, the rain had
ceased falling, and as far as he could judge from the occasional glimpse
he got of the sky, it had cleared up. On went Saladin, and did not stop
until they entered an open glade; when, as if his task were quite
accomplished, he came to a dead halt. Rudolph alighted, and looked about
him: all was so still and beautiful, that it had the effect of calming
the agitation of his spirits, and filling his mind with an indescribable
awe,--it looked pure and holy, as if the foot of man had never trod
there, from the foundation of the world. The setting sun, at this
moment, pierced through the clouds, tinting them with purple, crimson,
and gold, and revealing the full beauty of the scene. Rudolph found
himself in a circular opening, around which lofty trees, overgrown with
moss and lichen, seemed planted as a wall of defence. As he approached,
seeking to leave the spot, they tossed their long arms as if warning him
away, and the thick darkness behind appeared to become denser, and to
frown him back. A superstitious fear crept into his heart, and he turned
his eyes to the sweet glade rejoicing in the sunlight, where all looked
smiling and inviting. In the centre, upon a gentle mound covered with a
carpet of the softest, richest green, there towered a majestic oak,
which had looked upward to the sky for centuries, while generation after
generation of men had entered the world, had laughed and wept, grown old
and died. It showed no signs of the decrepitude of age, and raised up
its head proudly like the monarch of the forest; but a deep rent in its
heart showed that decay was at work, and that the lofty tree would, one
day, he laid low in the dust. Led by an irresistible impulse, Rudolph
ascended the mound, and entered the little chamber in the oak. The boy
was exhausted by fatigue and excitement, and, insensibly, his eyes
closed, and his weary frame was wrapt in slumber.

And now a strange thing occurred. Whether he dreamed, or whether he
waked, he scarcely knew; but delicious music stole through his soul, and
he opened his eyes. The little woodland glen was steeped in soft
moonlight; and, if it looked wonderful and beautiful when the sun shone
upon it, how much more so now, when the very light was mysterious, and
suggestive of something beyond! Around the mound there doated--for that
word only can express their motion--like bright and fleecy clouds, a
band of lovely beings, resembling none he had ever seen before. As he
gazed upon them, he thought not of creatures of earthly mould, but of
the most rapturous and fleeting sights and sounds of nature;--of the
rainbow, spanning the sky after a storm; of the dashing cataract,
descending in mist from stupendous heights; of the nightingale, singing
in her hidden nest; of harmless sheet-lightning, suddenly revealing
hills, domes, and castles in the clouds, then as suddenly dispelling the
illusion. As he looked more closely, he found that, as with linked hands
they glided round, their gossamer wings moving through the air waked up
a melody like that of the Eolian harp; while a few, standing apart, made
silvery music by shaking instruments, which looked like spikes of
bell-shaped flowers, and deeper tones were evolved from larger, single
bells, struck with rays of light. As the bells swung to the breeze, and
the cadence swelled and rose, a delicious fragrance of wild-flowers
filled the air, and from the depths of the forest all animated creatures
came forth to gaze upon the spectacle. The glow-worm crept there, but
his tiny lamp was dimmed by brighter fairy eyes; the noisy cricket and
the songsters of the grove hushed their notes, to listen to the harmony.
The wolf and the bear drew near together, but laid aside their
fierceness; the deer and the hare came forward fearlessly, under the
influence of the potent spell. Suddenly, from a hollow in the oak, an
owl with glaring eyes flew down: the music and the dance were hushed,
and all listened to his voice. To his surprise, Rudolph found that he
could understand the language of all animals, which had formerly seemed
to him mere unmeaning sounds.


       "Bright Fairy Queen, shall mortal dare
       On beauty gaze beyond compare;
       Shall one of earth unpunish'd see
       The mazes of your revelry?
     That ancient oak, by your donation,
     For years has been my habitation;
       And now a child usurps my right,
       Sleeping within its heart to-night;
       Nor that alone, but dares to view
       The mysteries of nature too.
     And shall he go, unscath'd, away?
     As Privy Counsellor, I say nay!
       Else man will learn our secrets dread.
       And higher raise his haughty head:
       All nature soon would subject be,
       Nor place be left us, on land or sea.
       E'en now, prophetic, I see the day
       When steam exerts resistless sway--
       And iron monsters, with breath of flame,
       Shall blot from earth the fairy name.
       Then to the beasts that throng the wild,
       Dread Queen, give up the intruding child!"


At this address, to which the wolves howled a dismal chorus of assent,
all eyes were turned upon the chamber in the ancient oak, in which
Rudolph sat, his heart quaking with terror at the thought of the fate
before him. But a sweet voice, clear and piercing, spoke his name, and
commanded him to descend, fearing nothing if his conscience was pure,
and if he had not obtruded through vain curiosity upon the revels of the
Queen of Fairy Land. Rudolph obeyed. The Queen was standing, with the
ladies of her court ranged on either side. They all were beautiful, but
she was like the brightness of the morning and the freshness of flowers.
Dazzling loveliness distinguished her, and a dignity to which all paid
obeisance. Upon her brow sparkled the evening star, her only diadem. She
gazed mildly, yet searchingly, upon the boy, as if she read his very
thoughts; and then she spoke:

"'Tis true, wise Counsellor, that according to our laws of Fairy Realm,
the child should die; and yet my heart yearns to the innocent, blue-eyed
boy. Does no one have compassion upon him? Have none a plea to offer for
his pardon? I solemnly declare that he shall be saved, were my very
crown and life endangered, if but one act of kindness and mercy shown by
him to weaker creatures, can be proved. For to the kind and merciful,
mercy should ever be shown; this law stands higher than any judicial
enactment."

As she spoke these words, a dove with gentle eyes and downy breast flew
to her feet, and thus timidly offered her prayer:


     "I plead for mercy, gracious Queen,
       I pray you to forgive!
     And if my voice were silent now,
       I were not fit to live.
     One day, when absent from my nest,
       A falcon, fierce and strong,
     Seized me, all helpless to resist--
       Soon would have ceased my song.
     Just then, young Rudolph, brave and fair,
       Perceived my urgent need;
     He risk'd his life in saving mine--
       And shall that kind heart bleed?"


"It shall not: he is saved; and you, gentle dove, ever wear this collar
round your neck as a token of my approbation; it shall descend in your
family to the latest generations." The Queen then touched Rudolph with
her golden wand; an electric thrill passed through his frame, and he
fell down senseless to the ground. When he awoke, he found himself lying
upon a couch of purple and gold, in a superb crystal hall, whose
pillars, sparkling with gems, rose upward to a lofty transparent dome of
blue, through which the sun was shining brilliantly. Over him bent the
Fairy Queen, radiant in beauty, and eying him with indescribable
tenderness. At last she spoke, kindly caressing him: "My son, you are
now in my dwelling, where no harm shall befall you; fear nothing. Here
you shall live forever, in splendor and happiness; your every wish shall
be gratified; no more scorching suns, no more dark and gloomy days for
you--all shall be joy, unvaried pleasure, eternal youth and health. One
solitary restriction I must lay upon you, but that is positive; on no
account shed a tear, for on that day when you weep, you must return to
earth--even my power could not keep you here. Tears must never sully the
palace of the Fairy Queen. But why should you weep? I myself will take
care of you, teach you, be a mother to you: when you feel a desire,
mention it to me, and it is already accomplished."

With ardent gratitude and passionate love and admiration, Rudolph
embraced the beautiful Queen, and said, "Is this really true? and is
this splendid place to be my own home?" "It really is; I have adopted
you for my son. It is my intention to educate you myself." "How very
good of you! how I love you! And my papa and mamma, and dear little
Bertha, can they live here too? And may Bruno, and Saladin, and old
Fritz come too?" "Oh no, little Rudolph, you must not talk about those
other people; they belong to the earth--let them stay there. You must
forget about that old home of yours, for all that has passed away; your
home is with me, in Fairy Land. It is much more beautiful here; there is
nothing on earth that can compare with it. I will show you such splendid
things! I will teach you how to paint the flowers, and to make diamonds,
and emeralds, and pearls. You shall see me mix the rainbow, and scatter
the dew upon the flowers at night. I have a thousand pretty things I
want to teach you: do you not wish to learn them?" "Oh, very much
indeed! I should like to do such things; I love dearly to work: mamma
often lets me water her flowers with a little watering-pot; is that the
way you scatter the dew?" "Child, child! How ignorant he is! But under
my tuition he will soon learn to understand the mysteries of nature. On
earth, children are so mismanaged--no wonder they become the sort of men
they do. My Rudolph shall be different; he shall hear no silly nursery
tales, shall waste no time in learning exploded nonsense, but shall
early become acquainted with _things_, and shall learn to value science.
I quite long to begin! It is a grand experiment; the work of education
is a noble one. And when he is a man, and has become under my teaching
a perfect specimen of what a man should be, what then? Shall I let him
return to earth? It is time enough yet to think of that." "May I go now,
and play, pretty lady? You are not talking to me." "True, I forgot
myself; come with me, Rudolph, and I will show you through my palace and
pleasure-grounds: recollect that you are now my son."

What words can describe the sights of beauty that awaited him? All
spectacles that could enchant the eye, all melodies that could ravish
the ear, were collected together, in infinite variety. Nothing that was
exquisite upon earth was unrepresented; but the grossness and the
imperfection which will cleave to every thing earthly, was left out. It
was the very palace of delights. And nothing faded here--the flowers
were ever-blooming, and if picked, were instantly replaced by fairer
blossoms. Delicious fruit, ever ripe, but never decaying, hung from the
boughs; streams of milk, wine, sherbet, and other delicious drinks,
trickled from the rocks into marble basins, and gold cups were suspended
near, to invite the thirsty to partake; while pure, sparkling water rose
high into the air, as if ambitious to greet the kindred clouds, and then
fell into large receptacles, fashioned out of one pearl, emerald, or
ruby. The pleasure-grounds were separated from the gross outer world by
a thick and lofty wall of evergreens, impervious to mortals, which
forbade both ingress and egress: at least, Rudolph's eyes could see no
mode of exit. But what could be wished for beyond? It was a paradise!

Rudolph was allowed to roam undisturbed through the splendid saloons,
vast halls, and pillared galleries of the palace, where at every step he
saw some new subject of wonder. No treasure-house of princes could for
one moment compare with the wealth and grandeur here exhibited, and the
Fairy Queen informed him that all should be his, when by knowledge he
had earned a title to it--it should be the reward of his application to
the noble studies to which she wished to introduce him. "I would do a
good deal to get all these beautiful things: I hope the lessons are not
very hard, for I never did like to study. I love play a great deal
better." "But play is only meant for babies and kittens, Rudolph: it is
unworthy of a being who can think. I know you have great talents, and I
am the one to develop them. I mean to teach you mineralogy and
chemistry, natural philosophy and history, astronomy and geology, botany
and geometry. You shall be wise, and shall learn to look beyond the
surface of things into their natures and constituent parts. You shall
know _why_ every thing was made just as it is, and shall understand the
exact proportions of all things to each other, and to the universe, so
that the whole system goes on in perfect and beautiful harmony. You
shall learn the balancings of the clouds, and the potent spell which
keeps the sun in its place, and makes the moon circle round the world.
You shall go with me into the dark caverns of the earth, and see how
rocks and metals are made in nature's forging shop. You shall witness
the operation of the subterranean forces which have altered the whole
aspect of this planet, and thrown up the lofty mountains, and tossed out
from the treasury below the varied wealth it held, making the world both
beautiful and rich. And I will show you ancient creatures, more huge
than whales, which once frolicked on the earth, before man was made: oh,
I have a thousand wonders to point out to you, and a great deal to
teach." "Thank you; you are very good. But indeed it sounds very hard,
and I don't like such things at all. I'd much rather play ball."

"Silly child!" thought the Fairy Queen, "he has been too long perverted
by the trifling ways of man: I should have taken him younger. I see that
I cannot at once indoctrinate him into the arcana of nature; I must
gradually lead him on, as if in play. Good! a bright idea! that must be
the right way to educate frivolous, frolicksome childhood. Science in
sport! excellent. Yes, I'll teach him the vocabularies in rhyme, and set
them to lively music--that will do; he'll like it nearly as well as if
it were nonsense. I'll lead him on to the knowledge of principles, by
means of beautiful experiments: he'll think I am amusing him, when I am
gravely in earnest in the work of instruction. I will set rewards before
him, to impel him onward: I will excite his curiosity, and make it a
favor to gratify it; and then the boy will swallow knowledge as if it
were cake."

"Come with me, Rudolph, I have something pretty to show you." "That I
will: I love to see pretty things, dear lady." "Call me mamma, Rudolph:
you are now my son." "Indeed I cannot: nobody is mamma but my own dear
mamma who loves me so--oh, I do _so_ wish I could see her!" "Hush,
child, that's silly. Now keep very quiet in this dark room, and you'll
see something. What is this I hold in my hand?" "A great glass jar, like
one of mamma's preserve jars, only much larger." "Do you see any thing
in it?" "Yes, ma'am, ever so much iron wire twisted round and round."
"Is there any thing else in the jar?" "Nothing at all." "Nothing you can
see, but there is a kind of gas we call oxygen, which will burn when I
put in a lighted piece of stick, very carefully. Look!" "Oh, beautiful,
beautiful! how the wire burns! only look at the sparks! that is very
pretty indeed, ma'am. Now it has all burnt out--what a pity!" "Now,
Rudolph, I want to tell you about it. You must know that the air we
breathe is made up of this oxygen, of nitrogen, a very little carbonic
acid gas, and a small quantity of water. If the oxygen was taken out of
the air, you could not live for one moment: I'll show you. You see this
jar? It is full of nitrogen--of air with the oxygen taken out." "But
what are you putting into it? A little mouse, I declare!" "Yes: but you
see it dies instantly; it cannot live because there is no oxygen in the
air." "Poor little mouse, how I wish you had not killed it! It is a
shame! If _I_ did such a cruel thing, my mamma would punish me." "Don't
talk so, child! it's silly. The mouse died without any pain, and if one
principle of science is fixed in your head, it is well worth the
sacrifice of its insignificant life. There will be less cheese eaten in
the world--that's all. Now, do you understand about oxygen and nitrogen,
which chiefly make up the atmospheric air?" "I know that oxygen made the
wire burn beautifully, and I know that horrid nitrogen killed the poor
little mouse; but I don't half believe that they are in the air I
breathe. I like to see pretty experiments, but I do hate explanations.
Now will you let me fly a kite?" "Yes; come out into the open
air--remember it is composed of oxygen and nitrogen--and I'll make you a
kite."

So saying, she led him into the gardens, and waving her wand over a
piece of birch bark, behold three splendid kites! The larger one
resembled an eagle, and as it mounted into the air, and its light wings
flapped in the wind, it seemed about to pounce upon the two smaller
kites, which were in shape like pigeons. Rudolph was enchanted, and
clapped his hands with glee. After allowing him to enjoy the novelty for
some time, the Fairy said to him, "To-morrow I will show you another
kite, more wonderful than these. I will make it so, that it will draw
down the electricity from the sky. Have you ever rubbed a cat's fur the
wrong way, in the dark?" "Oh, that I have! it's great fun. There's our
black cat, at home, I have often done it to her, and I can see the
sparks in cold weather." "Well, that is electricity, and there is
electricity in every thing, only some objects have more than others.
When you see the sparks, it is the electricity leaving a thing which is
overcharged with it, for another which has less, to keep up a balance.
The lightning is nothing but electricity, and to-morrow I'll make a
storm, to show you how to draw down this subtle element from the
clouds." "Oh, don't trouble yourself! I like this kind of kite well
enough: if I have to learn about that old electricity, I'd rather give
up playing kite."

"Rudolph, would you like to play at soap-bubbles?" "That I would! How I
wish Bertha was here--wouldn't she clap her hands and jump, as the large
bubbles fly up into the air!" "I do not wish you to think about little
Bertha. Here are your basin of soapsuds and your golden pipe; now blow
away, my boy!" "Oh, how very pretty! Do you see that big fellow, how he
shines in the sun, and shows all the colors of the rainbow? Isn't it
fine?" "That is the very thing I want to tell you about. The sun,
shining upon vapor and falling water, makes all these beautiful colors.
That is the way I mix the rainbow. The science which teaches about the
rays of light, their reflection and refraction, and the coloring they
give to different objects, is called Optics: it is an interesting study,
and I wish you to be a proficient in it." "Optics, is it? That seems to
me very different from blowing soap-bubbles. I do hate to be cheated
into learning big words, and understanding things, when I am playing."

"The child has no brains for science, I fear!" thought the fairy. "I
almost repent my bargain! However, I will not be discouraged quite yet,
perhaps the proper chord has not been struck." Accordingly, she
invented for him various pretty toys, since then copied by men: the
kaleidoscope, with its infinite variety of shifting figures; the orrery;
the prism; the burning-glass; the microscope and the telescope; and the
magic lantern, with its vast variety of entertainment. Another magic
spell she put into operation, by which, with the aid of an instrument in
a little square box, the sun was compelled to paint landscapes and
portraits, so true to life that they seemed only to lack motion. Rudolph
was very happy, playing with these beautiful and ingenious toys: he
thought them more entertaining than marbles, or battledore and
shuttle-cock. But when the _rationale_ came to be explained, his
preceptress found her labor was all lost--there was no mistaking the
fact that the child had an invincible dislike to science.

"I believe I see my mistake," thought the unconquerable Fairy. "I began
at the wrong end. Children _feel_ before they _think_. I must elevate
his fancy, and train his imagination by communion with forms of beauty.
I see that he cannot yet penetrate into the reason of things around him;
but he can feel the power of the external, and when his nature is
sufficiently exalted and matured, then he will of his own accord seek
knowledge. Yes, sentiment comes first, and reflection will follow in its
train."

Accordingly, the Fairy Queen commenced his poetical training, and for
some time she flattered herself that it advanced charmingly. As the
attraction of novelty had worn off from her extensive pleasure-grounds,
she caused the landscape daily to change, so that all the beauties,
scattered over the wide earth, were in succession placed before him. At
one time, the lofty Alps rose to the sky, filling his soul with the
sense of the sublime; and the chamois, with fleet foot, climbed their
snowy pinnacles; while the deep, frowning precipices and the dark
valleys gave him a sensation of terror, not unmingled with pleasure.
Suddenly the scene would change, and he stood upon an island of the
Pacific, a little emerald gem of the ocean. Around the coral reefs the
waves lashed themselves into fury, and the white surf flew upward; but
one little opening admitted the water gently into a quiet bay, where the
deep blue rivalled that of the sky, and the water-birds swam in peace.
The cocoa-nut, the plantain, and the banana spread their broad leaves to
the sun, and flowers of brilliant hues and exquisite fragrance enlivened
the landscape. Behind, there uprose tall cliffs covered with the richest
foliage, and cascades, like silver threads, dashed downward to the sea.
Again the spectacle changed, and Vesuvius appeared in flames, reddening
the sky, and paling the moon; floods of lava rolled down, and rocks and
ashes were tossed aloft. It seemed as if evil spirits were sporting
beneath, and the mountain shook in agony. In the distance, peacefully
slept the city of Naples, and that broad and beautiful bay, the
admiration of the world. These objects, however, did not last. Rudolph
soon lingered among sweet-scented orange groves, and plucked the golden
fruit by the light of the moon, and rejoiced in perfect beauty; or
wandered off into a magnolia forest, where the huge white flowers shone
forth among the dark glistening leaves, and the air was heavy with
fragrance. Or he paddled his small canoe among the waters of the Amazon,
and saw those magnificent water-lilies, on one of whose round green
leaves, with up-turned edges, he could float with perfect safety; while
the brilliant tropical birds flew around, and monkeys climbed the tall
trees, which were festooned with vines of luxuriant growth. Again did
the scene vary--and Niagara thundered down its cliffs, filling his
heart with delighted awe; resistless and changeless, rolled it then,
when the deer wandered undisturbed upon its shores, as now, when
thousands of visitors marvel at its grandeur, and feel the infinitude of
nature and the insignificance of man.

One day the Rhine was presented to his view--its vine-clad hills, its
frowning castles, its romantic scenery, and the happy peasants coming
from the vintage, with songs of rejoicing. But this struck a chord
untouched before. It brought up home and homely pleasures with a force
and vividness that made the boy, in the midst of all sensual delights,
feel a sudden sickness of the heart, a longing for the fireside, and for
the every-day occupations from which he had been snatched. He thought of
his father and mother, so kind and good; of merry little Bertha, ever so
pleased to frolic with him--and he almost felt her chubby arm around his
neck; he remembered old Fritz, and his rides upon Saladin, with his
arched neck and flowing mane. He thought of the ancient hall, in which
he had played such mad pranks with Bruno--even the black cat came in for
a portion of his regret. And never, never more was he to behold these
objects of his love! So feels the Swiss, when in a foreign land, when
breathing the balmy air of Italy, or wandering amid the gayeties of
Paris, he hears the Ranz des Vaches; the simple notes recall the Alpine
home, the mother and the friends: he sickens and dies.

Rudolph's sad countenance soon attracted the notice of his kind
protectress, who eagerly asked what she could do to promote his
happiness. He told his trouble, and especially dwelt upon his
loneliness; he longed to see his papa and mamma, and little Bertha; and
he wanted companions of his own age--human children, with whom he could
laugh and play, whom he could toss in the snow in winter, and with whom
he could rove the fields in summer, picking the flowers and chasing the
butterflies. The Fairy Queen shook her head: "You ask an impossibility,
Rudolph; my very existence was endangered by bringing you here, and how
can I convey other mortals to the crystal palace, the inner temple of
nature? It cannot be--however, now I think of a plan; yes, to-morrow you
shall have your wish, only you must smile and be happy once more,
Rudolph."

On the morrow, with the early dawn, a troop of merry, rosy children
awaited his waking: how soon they were friends! children, and child-like
hearts, are not long in knowing each other. They were all pretty, but
different, both in appearance and disposition; they were crowned with
flowers and green leaves, of various sorts. "What funny names you have!"
said Rudolph, as they introduced themselves. "Yes; but we did not name
ourselves," they replied; "it is not our fault if we have hard
names--you'll soon learn them." And so he did: there was Cochlearia, a
sharp-witted girl, who made rather biting speeches occasionally; there
was Daucus, a red-headed youngster, and Raphanus, a pretty child of
brilliant complexion, crowned with violet-colored flowers; there was
Brassica, and Zea, and Maranta, and Capsicum, a fiery fellow, and
Nasturtium, crowned with bright orange-flowers, and a great many others.
Rudolph liked most of them very much, but his especial favorites were
little Solanum and Farinacea, brother and sister, both crowned with blue
flowers. He thought they were so good, he could never get tired of them;
perhaps Brassica and Zea were sweeter, and Raphanus was more piquant,
but these two friends of his could never cloy his taste; he should
always love them. As for Cochlearia, he could not abide her: she was so
pert. Several times she came near disturbing the harmony of the little
band by her speeches: she reproached Daucus with his carroty head, and
told Capsicum that his temper was too hot, and called Nasturtium only a
weedy fellow, after all. Hereupon, Solanum, who was a very amiable soul,
told her she was enough to bring tears into anybody's eyes; and at that,
she turned round, and informed him that he was such a mealy-mouthed
fellow, he was no judge at all. At last Rudolph was obliged to tell her
that he had never known a child whose society he relished so little, and
that he would be compelled to complain of her, unless she went away;
accordingly she did so, and then they enjoyed uninterrupted peace. How
happy was that day! how varied the amusements! what joyful shouts! what
heart-felt laughter! Rudolph, long debarred from the company of other
children, was almost out of his wits with excitement.

But the sun now approached the west, and with one accord they hastened
away, notwithstanding all his entreaties. "Why must they go? They could
sleep with him; there was plenty of room in the palace; they should not
leave." "They would return to-morrow, but now they must go; before the
sun set--good-by, good-by." "You shall _not_ go," cried Rudolph, seizing
hold of Solanum and Farinacea, who struggled hard to evade him, while
their companions swiftly passed them, and vanished through a little
postern gate he had never seen before, into the forest beyond. "Why
should you want to go? Do you not love me?" said Rudolph, as the two
struggled yet more earnestly to escape his grasp. "I assure you we
_have_ hearts, but we cannot now stay," was all they could utter, for at
that moment the sun sank below the horizon, and the beautiful children
vanished from his sight: in their place, there fell to the ground--two
potatoes! Scarcely believing his eyes, he quickly opened the little
gate, calling to his friends to return; but no voice replied, and no
children were to be seen. Instead, scattered about upon the ground, were
radishes, carrots, turnips, parsneps, cabbages--all that remained of his
playmates. The disappointed child burst into a fit of passionate
weeping. Was all deception, illusion? Was there nothing real, naught to
satisfy the heart? Was he ever to be alone, consumed by vain longings
for affection he was destined never to receive? What did _he_ care for
all that beauty and grandeur--one heart-given human kiss was worth it
all.

The child was still sobbing bitterly when the Fairy Queen drew near. Her
starry crown was dim, like the evening star seen through a mist; the
sparkle had gone out of her eye and her face. She was sad, for she knew
that she must lose her little protégé; she was vexed, for she had been
completely baffled. "And cannot I make you happy?" she said. "Is all the
power, and the grandeur, and the wisdom, and the beauty you see in Fairy
Land, insufficient to satisfy that foolish heart of yours? Silly boy! he
longs for human love. Go then--even if I _could_ keep you, I think I
scarcely would; I can teach you nothing." "And may I really go? Go to my
own dear, sweet mamma? Oh, how happy I am!" "You little ungrateful
wretch! is that all the thanks I get for the pains I have taken to make
a man of you?" "Of course you are very good: but indeed I always told
you I wanted to remain a little boy." "Out of my sight!" said she,
stamping her tiny foot upon the rock on which she was
standing--sympathizing with her passion, it threw out sparks, which
hardened into diamonds when they cooled. "My experiment has proved a
signal failure; I see a child will be a child, in spite of all the
charms of science: if ever I take another--if ever I try again to bring
up a philosopher, may I lose my crown!"

Rudolph, affrighted, had run through the little gate, which immediately
closed behind him. He looked around; the scene was strangely familiar.
He found himself at the border of a wood, in a place where three roads
crossed. "It was there," thought he, "that, a year or two ago, I dashed
into the forest on Saladin, and got lost: and since then I have been in
Fairy Land." At that moment he lifted up his eyes, and saw old Fritz
approach, leading Saladin; he ran forward to meet him, and Fritz, on his
part, seemed overjoyed at seeing his young master. "You dear old soul!
how glad I am to see you! Why, you don't look a day older than when we
parted!" "It would be queer if I did, as we only parted company an hour
ago, when you rode off and left your poor old Fritz. How you have
frightened me! I thought you had gone home the nearest way, and rode
there to see: but no, you were not at the castle. So I came back again,
very much worried about you on account of the shower that came up so
suddenly, and met your horse, quite near the wood. I'm glad to find you
at last!" "Is it possible it was only an hour ago? I can hardly believe
it." "Oh yes, no more, though it has seemed longer to me, I have been so
anxious." Rudolph laughed. "I do believe I have been asleep! and I have
had the funniest dream! Do you know, I thought I was in Fairy Land? It
was all so sweet, and so grand, and learned, and tiresome--Oh, I am glad
it was only a dream. I did want so much to get home again, and have some
fun."


"How could he wish to leave such a charming place, where there was every
thing that was lovely on earth?" cried Gertrude. "I think he had very
little taste."

"There was all there," said Aunt Lucy, "but the very things he
wanted--his father and mother, his playmates, kind old Fritz, and his
horse and dog--not to speak of a very important thing in a boy's eyes,
liberty to play without being pestered with continual lectures."

"I think your Fairy Queen has a tart temper of her own, sister Ellen,"
said Tom. "When she was rating the poor little fellow for ingratitude, I
thought of that passage in Virgil, where the rage of the gods is spoken
of--'Tantæne animis coelestibus iræ!'"

"Do translate, for the benefit of the unlearned. It is so _mannish_ to
quote Latin," said Cornelia.

"'Can such anger dwell in celestial souls?' You see I am all obedience,"
answered Tom.

"You should remember, my dear critic, that fairies never yet claimed to
be perfect beings. They are very far from being angels, and are
decidedly of the earth, earthy. You know that the inferior specimens of
the race--the vulgar fairies--delight in playing tricks upon careless
housekeepers, spilling their cream and spoiling their butter: that is
not very angelic, I'm sure. Of course, the Queen would be too dignified
and too spiritual for such frolics; but she could not understand much
about human nature, or child-nature, and especially she would think the
affections to be great nonsense. But she has bought her experience now,
with Rudolph."

"One comfort is, that she does not intend to take another child to
educate--she has had enough!" said Amy.

"She could not, if she would," replied Mary. "I think the day has now
come, foreseen by the prophetic owl,


     'When iron monsters, with breath of flame,
     Shall blot from earth the fairy name.'"


"Steam engines and locomotives?" said Louis.

"Nothing else," replied Ellen. "I do not doubt in the least that the
whole of that Fairy Wood has been carefully surveyed and graded, and
iron tracks run directly through the palace itself."

"Oh what a shame!" cried Harry.

"'Tis very sad, indeed, to have all romance spoiled in this way," said
Mrs. Wyndham. "But we have a modern substitute for the magic of
Elfdom--this very steam-engine, which works such wonders; the electric
telegraph, which beats time itself, making news depart from Philadelphia
for St. Louis, and reach its destination an hour before it started, if
you may believe the clock. And some of those toys, originally invented
by the Fairy Queen, if we may credit Ellen--the telescope, bringing down
the moon so near to you, that you feel inclined to take a long step, and
place yourself in another planet--and photography, which enables you in
one moment to possess upon metal or paper an exact fac-simile of your
friend. If these things do not surpass all we read of in Fairy Land, I
know nothing about it."

"I have one very serious objection to your Fairy Queen, Cousin Ellen,"
said Charlie Bolton, trying to keep a long, sober face.

"What is that? Poor Queen, how she is criticised! If she were here, she
would show her temper now, I think!"

"She is such a horrid _blue_. It's all very well for her to dance, and
mix the rainbow, and sprinkle the dew upon her flowers, and wear the
evening star on her forehead, if she does not find its weight
oppressive--that's all feminine enough. But when she tries to come over
us as an _esprit fort_--a strong-minded woman--it's rather too much.
Oxygen and hydrogen, and all the _ologies_--I never can stand that sort
of thing in a woman."

"Just as if we had not a right to knowledge as well as the lords of the
creation! And besides, I want to know, Master Charlie, which is the most
disgusting--for a woman to lisp learning, or for a man to talk politics,
as the creatures will do!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon--I very humbly retract, my dear Coz. I must use
the words of that sensible 'Coon, who has earned immortality by meeting
his death like a philosopher--'Is that you, Captain Scott?' 'Yes.' 'Then
you need not fire--don't take the trouble to raise your rifle--if it's
you, Captain Scott, I might as well come down.' So, if it's you, Miss
Cornelia Wyndham, you can spare your shot, for I'll come down at
once;--I would rather face the Woman's Rights' Convention, in full
conclave assembled, than my Cousin Cornelia, when she stands up for the
rights of her sex to be pedantic and disagreeable!"

"I was quite amused at the Queen's experiments in education," said Mr.
Wyndham. "She is not the only one who has tried to force knowledge upon
unwilling minds, and to develop children as we would spring peas and
asparagus, by subjecting them to hot-house stimulants. These fancy
methods of training the young idea do not appear to succeed very well;
to see some of the cards used in infant schools, and to read occasional
school advertisements, you would deem it quite impossible that any
dunces could escape the elevating processes now applied to the
unfortunate little ones--yet, happily, the constitutions of most
children are very elastic, and there are not as many instances of dropsy
on the brain as we might expect."

"I wonder the Fairy did not take a hint from the bees," remarked Mary.

"How is that? Have they any particular mode of training?"

"Very much so: when they want to rear up a sovereign who shall be fitted
to govern the hive with wisdom, they take any one of their hundred
little grubs at random, and put it under tutors and governors. These
cram it, not with lectures on political economy, books on international
law, or any thing of that sort, but with food much more to its
taste--the very best honey, and a kind of _royal food_, which I suppose
it is considered high treason for a subject to touch. Day by day, the
grub becomes more and more the princess, and finally expands into
queenly magnificence, when, of course, she must have a hive of her own,
or do as Dido of Tyre--colonize, and found a Carthage."

"Quite amusing! But is it true?"

"Yes, actually; and if only some such process could be applied to
children, would it not save trouble?"

"And wouldn't we like it!" cried George Wyndham, "Ah, but I'd make a
bonfire of my Euclid and Virgil, and all the other worthies, or bury
them, as the fellows do yearly at Yale College--I had much rather be fed
with some essence of knowledge, like the bees."

"This talk about fancy modes of mental culture," remarked Mr. Wyndham,
"reminds me of a Life I lately read of Mr. Day, the author of that
delightful book, Sandford and Merton. He was a remarkably benevolent and
excellent man, but visionary, and had some peculiar crotchets about
education. When quite a young man, he took charge of two poor, pretty
orphan girls, and had them trained up in accordance with his own ideas,
intending to make one of them his wife. Both grew to be fine women, but
to spoil the romance, fell in love with other men! so that he enjoyed
the pleasure of sedulously educating good wives for two worthy
tradesmen, and being left in the lurch himself. A second experiment
turned out yet worse, for it cost him his life: he had doubtless had
enough of girls, so he took another animal, which he thought might be
tamer and more tractable--a horse. He would not allow it to be broken in
the usual method, which he considered very cruel: he would talk to it,
caress it, make it his friend, win it by kindness. But unfortunately for
his experiment, the horse killed him, by a kick, I believe, before it
had succeeded."

"Poor Day! Uncle, you remind me of the cow that the man wanted to train
so as to consider eating a superfluity--she was coming on admirably, but
unfortunately for the full success of the experiment, she perversely
died, the very day her owner had reduced her to one straw."

"How very unlucky!"

"Aunt Lucy," said Alice, "when Ellen gave us the Queen's theorizing in
education, I could not help thinking of the old saw, 'Bachelors' wives
and old maids' bairns are always the best guided.' It's very easy to
manage _dream_ children; but when you come to real flesh and blood, it's
quite another matter. It does not appear to me that all this
systematizing and speculation does much good."

"Not a bit of it," cried George Wyndham. "We boys must be boys to the
end of the chapter; and I tell you, some of us are pretty tough
subjects! The only hope is that we may turn out not quite so horrid,
when we grow up."

"I once heard a plan proposed for getting rid of boys of your age,
brother George," said Cornelia.

"Much obliged; what was that?"

"To bury them at seven, and dig them out at seventeen; how do you like
it?"

"'Tis a bad plan. There would be nobody left in the world to run errands
for older sisters--it would never do."

"When little Rudolph was so fond of his vegetable friends," said Mary,
"and found them so good, so sweet, so much to his taste, I thought of an
account I had somewhere read, written, I think, by the witty Sydney
Smith, of a conversation a new missionary in the South Sea islands held
about his predecessor, who had been eaten by the cannibals. He asked the
natives if they had known him--we will call him Mr. Brown, as it's
rather fabulous. 'Mr. Brown? Oh yes! very good man--Mr. Brown! very
good.' 'And did you know his family?' 'Oh yes! such sweet little
children! so nice and tender! But Mrs. Brown was a bad woman--she was
_so very tough_.' She was not to their taste."

"But, Cousin Ellen," said Amy, "I want to know about those vegetable
friends of Rudolph. I know that Capsicum is a kind of pepper, and I have
often met Nasturtium, crowned with his orange-flowers; I suppose, of
course, that Solanum and Farinacea are potatoes--but who is that sharp
Cochlearia, who told Solanum he was a mealy-mouthed fellow?"

"Horse-radish--which Solanum thought enough to bring tears into
anybody's eyes."

"And Daucus--was he a carrot?"

"Yes; and Raphanus, with his brilliant complexion, was a radish. Maranta
was arrow-root, Zea was Indian corn, and Brassica, a turnip--we often
enjoy their society at table."

"I shall always think of Cochlearia when I eat horse-radish on my beef,"
said Charlie Bolton. "Especially when I take too much, by mistake."

"And when I find, to my sorrow, that potatoes have hearts I shall think
of Solanum."




CHAPTER III.

THE RHYMING GAME.--ORIKAMA, OR THE WHITE WATER LILY, AN INDIAN TALE.


Great was the chagrin of our young party on the following morning, to
find that a storm had set in, giving no prospect of amusements out of
doors for the day: the rain came down in a determined manner, as if it
had no intention of clearing up for a week, and the winds whistled and
scolded in every variety of note; even the boys, who prided themselves
upon a manly contempt for wind and weather, agreed that the chimney
corner was the best place under the circumstances, and that they must
try to make themselves as agreeable as possible at home. Cornelia
quoted, for the benefit of the rest, a receipt she had somewhere met
with for the "manufacture of sunshine," which she thought would be
especially valuable on such a darksome day: "Take a good handful of
industry, mix it thoroughly with family love, and season well with
good-nature and mutual forbearance. Gradually stir in smiles, and jokes,
and laughter, to make it light, but take care these ingredients do not
run over, or it will make a cloud instead of what you wish. Follow this
receipt carefully, and you have an excellent supply of sunshine,
warranted to keep in all weathers."

Accordingly, it was resolved to make sunshine, and Aunt Lucy offered to
provide the industry, if they would furnish the other materials. Soon
were heaps of flannel and other stout fabrics produced from her "Dorcas
closet," as she called it, in which her provisions for the poor were
laid up, in nice order; for even in our happy land does it hold true
that "the poor ye have always with you, and whensoever ye _will_ ye may
do them good," and kind Aunt Lucy was not one to neglect this duty. On
the day preceding Christmas, according to her principle of making as
many happy as possible, she had ordered a barrel of flour to be baked
into cakes and pies, and had distributed them, along with a turkey and a
bushel of potatoes to each, among all the poor families of the
neighborhood; and this was only one specimen of the numerous kindly acts
by which she drew together the hearts of all around her, and made them
realize the Christian brotherhood of man. Where there were children, she
made them happy by the present of a few penny toys; a very cheap
investment, yielding a large return of rapture! She could never deny
herself the pleasure of giving these little offerings of love with her
own hands, and wishing her poor neighbors a "Happy Christmas;" and on
this occasion she had learnt the destitution of a poor widow, who
struggled hard to support her young family and to maintain a decent
appearance, but who was now laid up with sickness, and unable to provide
clothing and fuel for herself and her little ones. Mr. Wyndham had
immediately sent her a load of wood, and his wife was now anxious to
furnish the necessary garments. The young girls were rejoiced to aid in
the good work, and soon all fingers were busy, and needles were in swift
operation; while the boys took turns in the entertainment of the sewers,
by alternately reading aloud from a pleasant book. Tom Green was an
excellent reader; his agreeable tones of voice made it a pleasure to
listen to him, and his clear articulation and varied expression added
greatly to the interest of the narrative. Why is it that this desirable
accomplishment, which promotes so much the happiness of the home
circle, is not more cultivated?

After dinner, Charlie Bolton proposed some games, as he said that quite
enough of industry and gravity had been put into the preparation, and he
feared the sunshine would not be properly made without the smiles,
jokes, and laughter spoken of in the receipt. "How do those lines of
Milton run, Ellen, in L'Allegro? my favorite piece--before the old
fellow got to be so very sublime, as he is in the Paradise Lost."

"You irreverent jackanapes! to speak so of the immortal bard! I suppose
you mean,


     'But come, thou goddess fair and free,
     In Heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
     And by men, heart-easing mirth;
     Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
     Jest, and youthful jollity,
     Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
     Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,
     Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
     And love to live in dimple sleek:
     Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
     And Laughter, holding both his sides.'"


"That is the passage I mean, and that is the very company I should like
to invite, if the rest have no objection."

All approved of the suggestion, and soon the whole party was busily
engaged in various lively games, "Graces," "Battledore and Shuttlecock,"
"Hunt the Slipper," etc., which combined bodily exercise with healthful
excitement of the mirthful organs, which some philosophers assert to be,
after all, the distinguishing trait of mankind. Some call man a
"thinking animal," but this is so self-evident a slander upon the great
majority of the species, that no words are needed to refute it: one
attempted to define him as "a biped without feathers," but when a
plucked fowl was brought forward as a specimen of his man, he was
obliged to give up that definition. Others again describe him as "a
cooking animal," but while dogs can act as turnspits, and monkeys can
roast chestnuts, he cannot claim this lofty epithet as peculiarly his
own; besides, some savages have been found so degraded as to be
unacquainted with the use of fire. But wherever man is found, whether
under the heats of an African sun, or shivering in the cold of a Lapland
winter, upon the steppes of Tartary, or the pampas of South America, his
joyful laughter shows that he is a man, intended for social life and for
happiness. 'Tis true, we read of the _hyena laugh_, but we protest
against such a misapplication of terms: the fierce, mocking yell of that
ferocious creature has nothing in common with hearty, genial, human
laughter: other animals can weep, but man alone can laugh. And how great
a refreshment is it! It relieves the overtasked brain, and the heart
laden with cares; it makes the blood dance in the veins of youth, and
gives a new impetus to the spirits; work goes on more briskly, when a
gay heart sets the active powers in motion. Well did the Wise King say,
"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine:" it keeps off gray hairs and
wrinkles, better than any cosmetic that ever was invented. The ancient
Greeks realized its value, when they placed a jester in the society of
their gods upon Olympus: as their deities were clothed with human
attributes, they did not omit to provide for their amusement.

The young ladies were not too dignified and fastidious, nor Aunt Lucy
too wise to join in the sports, and the old lady's spectacles and cap
did not feel at all insulted when the handkerchief was tied round them
in "Blind Man's Buff," and the hall rang with the jocund shouts of the
children, whose greater activity eluded her grasp. When even the
youngest acknowledged that they had enjoyed enough romping for one day,
Mary proposed a new amusement of a quieter character, which she had just
heard of, entitled "the Rhyming Game." As it was found very pleasant, I
will give a specimen, that the reader may try it of a winter's evening.
One person thinks of a word, but instead of naming it, mentions another
with which it rhymes; the next thinks of another rhyme, which is to be
_described_, not spoken, and then the leader of the game, guessing from
the description what word is meant, says it is, or it is not, such a
thing. And so all round the circle.

"I've thought of a word that rhymes with _sat_," said Mary.

"Is it that sly animal of the tiger species which is domesticated by
man, and delights to steal the cream and to torture poor little mice?"
said Amy.

"No, it is not a _cat_."

"Is it that useful article which covers the floor in summer, that is on
the dinner-table every day in the year, and may be seen behind or before
almost every front door?" said Cornelia.

"No, it is not a _mat_."

"Is it that nondescript winged quadruped, something like a bird,
something like a mouse, something like a kangaroo, which troubles us
sometimes of a summer's evening, by flying about the room and entangling
itself in our hair?" said Ellen.

"No, it is not a _bat_."

"Is it that other agreeable creature, which infests old houses, but is
prudent enough to leave them when they begin to fall down: that is very
voracious, and sometimes eats babies' noses off?" said Tom.

"No, it is not a _rat_."

"Is it a very gentle slap, indicative of love?"

"No, it is not a _pat_."

"Is it one of the wooden pieces of which blinds are composed?"

"No, it is not a _slat_."

"Is it a manly covering for the head?"

"No, it is not a _hat_."

"Is it that word sometimes applied to a disagreeable child?"

"No, it is not a _brat_."

"Is it the opposite of leanness?"

"No, it is not _fat_."

"Is it that covering for the head occasionally worn by young misses, and
also a frequent quality of their conversation?" said Charlie Bolton.

"No, insulting sir, it is _not_ a _flat_."

"Is it that amiable insect, so anxious to discover whether all are made
of the same blood, which pays such particular attention to visitors
among pine forests?"

"No, it is not a _gnat_."

"Is it a large receptacle used in the brewery and tannery?"

"No, it is not a _vat_."

"Is it an ornamental way of dressing the hair?" said Gertrude.

"Yes, it is a _plait_. Now it's your turn, Gertrude."

"I've thought of a word that rhymes with _rock_."

"Is it an important part of woman's attire?"

"No, it is not a _frock_."

"Is it an article of infants' clothing?"

"No, it is not a _sock_."

"Is it the thing that brokers buy and sell?"

"No, it is not _stock_."

"Is it a common weed, and also the place where ships are built?"

"No, it is not a _dock_."

"Is it a collection of sheep?"

"No, it's not a _flock_."

"Is it a German wine, highly prized by connoisseurs?"

"No, it is not _hock_."

"Is it a rap at the door?"

"No, it is not _knock_."

"Is it a curious instrument that has hands, but no eyes or ears, and
that always weighs its actions, but never does any thing but reprove
other people's laziness?"

"No, it is not a _clock_."

"Is it that word, which followed by head, shows what we all are, for not
guessing it sooner?"

"Yes, you are right, it is a _block_."

In the evening, Mary was appointed by general consent to tell that
eagerly-desired Indian story.

"And mind you give us scalping enough," said Charlie Bolton; "I'm a
little afraid you are too tender-hearted to give your story the proper
dramatic effect. It's worth nothing unless there is a great deal of
blood spilt, and a whole string of scalps."

"Horrible, Charlie! how can you bear such things! However, I needn't be
afraid, if Cousin Mary is to tell the tale," said Amy.

"How can I possibly please the taste of both?" replied Mary; "I plainly
see that only one way is left for me; to suit myself--so, if you'll
excuse me, that's the thing I'll do."

"We'll be compelled to excuse you, I suppose," said Charlie with a
shrug: "well, go on then, and be as merciful as your weak woman's nature
compels you to be."

Accordingly, with this encouraging permission, Mary began her story,
which she called


Orikama, or the White Water-Lily:

AN INDIAN TALE.

Nearly a hundred years ago, when the greater part of Pennsylvania was
still covered with forests, and was peopled chiefly by wild deer and yet
wilder Indians, there might have been seen, upon the banks of the
beautiful Susquehanna, a log cottage of very pretty appearance. It
consisted of two stories, and was surrounded by a piazza, whose pillars,
trunks of trees unstripped of their bark, were encircled by a luxuriant
growth of ivies and honeysuckles, which ran up to the roof, and hung
down in graceful festoons. The house was situated so as to command the
finest prospect of the river and the distant hills, and gave the
traveller the impression that it was erected by people of more
refinement than the common settlers of that region, rough backwoodsmen,
who thought of little else than the very necessary work of subduing the
wild, planting corn and potatoes, and shooting bears and deer. And so it
was: James Buckingham, who with his young wife had settled there, having
purchased land in that vicinity, was a man accustomed to a more polished
state of society, and had received a college education in New England.
But having become deeply attached to a young girl whose parents refused
consent to their union, the impetuosity of his character prevailed over
his sense of filial piety, and he persuaded the beautiful Ellen
Farmington to leave her home and duty, and to give him a husband's right
to protect her. In all probability, patience and submission might have
prevailed upon her parents to give up an opposition, which was in
reality unreasonable and groundless, as Buckingham was a young man in
every way calculated to make their daughter happy; but this rash act of
youthful folly had embittered their feelings, and the young couple were
forbidden ever to show their faces in the old homestead, lest a parent's
curse should light upon their heads. Too proud to show any repentance,
even if he felt it, James Buckingham determined to settle in another
State, where nothing should recall the past, and where his small amount
of capital, and large stock of energy and industry, might be employed to
advantage; accordingly, he fixed his lot among the pioneers of Penn's
colony, and chose a romantic situation upon the Susquehanna for his
dwelling.

Very toilsome were the first years of their settlement, and great their
privations; but they were young and happy, and willing hands and loving
hearts made toil a pleasure. In a few years, woods were cleared, fields
inclosed, barns built, and then, agreeably to Solomon's advice, the
Buckinghams thought of building a commodious dwelling. "Prepare thy work
without, and make it fit for thyself in the field, and afterwards build
thy house." The aid of neighbors, ever ready for such an undertaking,
was called into requisition, and soon they removed from the small and
only too well ventilated hut, through the chinks of which the sun shone
in by day and the moon by night, and the rain penetrated whenever it
would, to the ample, pleasant home already described. Here it was that
little Emily Buckingham, their only child, first saw the light; and then
the cup of their happiness seemed only too full for mortals to quaff. As
the child daily grew in beauty, and her engaging ways filled their
hearts with delight, then first did they realize the absorbing nature of
a parent's love, and regret that _they_ were separated from those who
had so felt to Emily's mother, when she lay, a helpless infant, in their
arms. Yet pride prevailed, and no overtures were made to those whom they
still thought severe and unrelenting.

Few, and scattered far, were the farmers in that region, for they were
on the very outskirts of civilization. At a short distance rose a
primeval forest, untouched by the axe of the settler, where the deer
roamed freely, unless shot by the Indian hunter; and many were the
friendly Indians who visited the cottage, and exchanged their game,
their baskets, and their ornamented moccasins, for the much-coveted
goods of civilized life. Frequent among these guests was Towandahoc,
Great Black Eagle,--so called from his first boyish feat, when, riding
at full gallop, he had shot down an eagle on the wing, so unerring was
his aim; and its feathers now adorned his head. Towandahoc was a great
hunter, and did not disdain to traffic with the "pale faces," not only
for rifles and gunpowder, but for many domestic comforts to which most
Indians are indifferent. But Great Black Eagle, although fearless as the
bird whose name he bore, was a humane man, more gentle in character than
most of his race, and a great friend of the whites, the brethren of the
good Onas, as the red men called the man who laid the foundations of our
commonwealth in peace, by a treaty which, in the language of Voltaire,
"is the only one never confirmed by an oath, and never broken."
Especially was Towandahoc attached to the Buckingham family, who ever
treated him kindly, and to the little girl who played with his bow and
arrows, and tried in her artless prattle to pronounce his name. Unbroken
peace had hitherto prevailed between the red men and the pale faces,
owing to the just and friendly treatment the natives had experienced;
but symptoms of another spirit began now to appear. The war waged
between England and France had extended to the colonies, and the French
were unremitting in their efforts to gain the Indians to their side. A
line of fortifications was erected by them, extending from Canada to the
Ohio and Mississippi, and they were strongly intrenched at Fort Du
Quesne, the site of the city of Pittsburg. Braddock's expedition and
memorable defeat had just taken place; and it was thought by many that
the Pennsylvania tribes, enraged by the honorable refusal of the
Assembly to accept their tomahawks and scalping-knives in the war, and
courted, on the other hand, by the French, were cherishing a secret, but
deep hostility. Many of Mr. Buckingham's neighbors erected blockhouses,
protected by palisades, to which they might retreat in case of an
attack, and stored them with arms, ammunition, and provisions; but his
confidence in the good disposition of the aborigines was too great to
allow him to appear suspicious of those who came backward and forward to
his dwelling in so much apparent friendship.

Such was the posture of affairs when Emily had reached her fourth year:
dear as she was to her parents, the return of her birthday found her
unspoilt, and as sweet and well-trained a child as any in the colony. It
was worth a walk to see her: her golden curls fell upon a neck of
alabaster, and her delicate, regular features were illuminated by dark
vivacious eyes: she strongly resembled her mother, who had one of those
faces which once seen, are never forgotten, and that seem to ripen
merely, not to change, from youth to old age. But this extreme
loveliness of person formed but the setting of the gem; Emily herself
combined so much sweetness and liveliness of disposition, was so
affectionate, gentle, and docile, that it was no wonder her parents made
her the centre of all their plans and enjoyments. It was she who must
always outstrip her mother, in welcoming her father in from the field,


     "And climbed his knee, the envied kiss to share,"


and to listen to the delightful tale, that could never be repeated too
often: she must bring his slippers, and place his seat near the fire in
winter. And she must "help mamma" in all her concerns; and although such
help was only a delicious kind of hindrance, her bright face and winsome
ways made all tasks light and pleasant. Never had she looked so lovely
in her mother's eyes as she did on the evening of her birthday, when in
her little white night-slip, with bare feet and folded hands, she knelt
down to recite the simple prayer she had been taught that day, as a
reward for good conduct; the setting sun streamed in at the window, and
as its rays lingered among her curls, as if they belonged there, and
were reluctant to leave, the mother thought of a kneeling cherub, with a
glory encirling her head--but blessed God that her child was yet upon
the earth. Long did that picture dwell upon her memory.

After singing her to sleep with a gentle lullaby, such as a mother only
can employ, she imprinted a tender kiss upon the sleeping child, and
having seen that all things were well and safely arranged in the house,
she and her husband left, intending to spend the evening with Mr.
Markley and his family, who lived at a distance of five or six miles.
They were on more intimate terms with them than with any other
neighbors, and took back with them Roland Markley, a boy of ten, who had
spent the day with little Emily, his especial friend and pet, whom he
was never weary of assisting and amusing. It was a pleasure to see the
children together: the little girl looked up to him as almost a man, and
he made her every whim a law. For her he would make the trip little
vessel, and launch it upon the water; for her he would construct the
bridge of stones across the brook, and guide her little feet safely to
the other side.

The conversation at Mr. Markley's house was of an alarming character; it
was said that sure information had been received of a speedy rising of
the Indians, and the Buckinghams were urged instantly to remove to that
more thickly settled spot, where a large blockhouse was erected, and all
preparations were made to give the enemy a warm reception. The addition
of even one able-bodied man to their force was desirable, and they
strove to impress upon their neighbors the imminent peril of their
exposed situation. So earnest were they, and so probable did the news
appear, that Mr. Buckingham resolved to comply with their wishes, and to
remove on the morrow; and with hearts heavier than when they left home,
they started to return to it.

"Do you perceive the smell of smoke? If it should be our cottage!" said
Ellen Buckingham, first breaking the silence in which they rode along.

"The woods may be on fire again: do not be alarmed; the conversation
this evening has unnerved you," replied her husband; but he could not
conceal the tremor of his own voice, as a horrible fear entered into his
heart; a fear, soon to become a more horrible certainty!

As they drew near, the air became thick with smoke, and when they
entered the cleared ground and looked for their home, no home was there!
Instead, burning rafters and smoking ruins: around, the ground was
trodden down by many feet of moccasined men. Partly consumed by the
fire, lay the bodies of two farm-servants who had been in Mr.
Buckingham's employ; a tomahawk, smeared with fresh blood, lay among the
smoking embers; and a golden curl singed by fire, was near it--all they
could discover of little Emily!

The murderers had left, doubtless disappointed that, their prey was so
small; and in the first moments of agony, the bereaved parents wished
that they too had fallen victims to their fiendish rage. Emily was dead,
certainly dead! The fresh blood, the lock of hair, proved it only too
clearly; her body had been consumed by the flames. The light of their
lives had been put out, the glory had passed away from their sky, and
they must now go mourning all their days; they felt as did a parent in
the olden time, whose words are recorded in Scripture, "If I am bereaved
of my children, I am bereaved." One little hour had changed the aspect
of the whole earth to them.

And yet, broken-hearted as they were, they must act: not now could they
fold their hands in despair. Soon was the news of the Indian rising
spread among the settlers; and while all flew to arms, and joined in the
necessary preparations, tears fell from eyes that were never known to
weep before, and rough men spoke soothing words to the mourners; for
little Emily was known and loved by all for miles around, and many said
"she need not change much to be made an angel." It was agreed that with
the earliest dawn, when the women and children were safely disposed of,
they should meet at the ruins of the Hopedale Cottage, so was it called,
and follow the trail of the savages through the woods; some sanguine
spirits, chief among whom was little Roland Markley, still asserted that
Emily might live, and have been carried away into captivity; but her
parents could not so deceive themselves--that lock of hair had convinced
them of her death; hope could not enter their hearts, it had died with
Emily.

One entire day did the Indian-hunters follow in the trail and came upon
the spot where their enemies had encamped; and there, three trails in
different directions, looked as if the savages had scattered. What was
to be done? To follow all was impossible, as their own force was a small
one; and meantime night had come on, wrapping all things in her mantle
of secrecy, and fatigue required them to rest their weary frames.
Setting a watch, and lighting a fire, with loaded rifles within reach,
they slept; such a sleep as men can take, when they dream of a red hand
at their throats, and a tomahawk glancing before their eyes. Light
hearts make heavy sleep; but such a deed as had been committed in the
midst of them, makes men start from their slumbers if but a cricket
chirps, or a withered leaf falls to the ground.

During the night, heavy rains began to fall, and when morning light
appeared, all traces of the pathway of their enemy had disappeared; the
leaves fell abundantly from the trees, and no mark was left upon the
earth to show where they had passed. The baffled party did not give up
the search for several days, but nothing transpired to throw any light
upon the subject; and they were obliged reluctantly to return, in order
to defend their own homes and families from a similar fate. Few doubted
little Emily's death; but some still clung to the hope that she was in
the land of the living, and might yet be recovered.

But her father and mother hoped nothing: grief entirely filled up their
hearts. And with the grief arose a new feeling--bitter and poignant
remorse. "This is the just punishment," they thought, "that offended
Heaven has inflicted upon us, for having wrung _our_ parents' hearts
with anguish. Now we feel a parent's agony: now can we realize what we
made them suffer. This was the tender spot on which a wound would
penetrate to the heart; and here it is that a retributive Providence has
struck us. The arrows of the Almighty have pierced us--shall we any
longer strive against our Maker? We will humble ourselves in the dust, O
righteous Judge, and will return to duty: if it be not yet too late--if
our parents still live--incline their hearts to forgive!"

And their pitying God heard their prayer, and brought them in safety to
their childhood's home, and prepared for them pardon and peace of
conscience. For Ellen Buckingham's father had been brought to the brink
of the grave by sudden illness, and the stern old man wept like a child,
when the village pastor, a faithful minister of the Gospel, told him
that the most faultless creed would not avail him if he cherished a
hardened, unforgiving spirit, and exhorted him to pardon and bless his
exiled son and daughter. His iron heart was subdued within him, and when
his wife, whose gentler nature had long since pined for a
reconciliation, joined her entreaties to the commands of religion, then,
like the sudden breaking up of the ice upon a noble river, his feelings
gushed forth beyond control; all coldness and hardness vanished. At this
moment it was that James and Ellen Buckingham arrived: they had come in
the spirit of the Prodigal Son, not thinking themselves worthy to be
called the children of those they had offended; and they were greeted
with the same tenderness and overflowing affection described in the
parable--their confessions of guilt were stopped by kisses and embraces,
and soon they were weeping and recounting their loss, with arms
encircling their long-estranged parents.

When the doctor paid his next visit, he said that a greater physician
than he had interfered, and had administered a new medicine, not very
bitter to take, which threw all his drugs into the shade: it was called
_heart's ease_, and nothing more was wanting to his patient's recovery,
than very tender nursing, and daily applications of the same dose. And
tender nursing indeed did he receive from his daughter Ellen, and
proudly did he lean on the strong arm of his son, when sufficiently
convalescent to venture abroad: it seemed as if the affection,
restrained within their bosoms for so long a time, now gushed forth more
fully and freely than if there had never been a coldness. And thus did
sorrow on one side, and sickness on the other, guided by an overruling
Providence, join together long severed hearts, purify affections too
much fixed upon the earth, and lead all to look upward to Him who ruleth
in the affairs of mankind. Truly, "he doth not afflict _willingly_ nor
grieve the children of men."

At the earnest request of Ellen's parents, her husband agreed to
continue with them, acting in all respects as their son, and taking off
from them the burdens of life: and their latter years were made happy by
religion and filial piety. After their death, the Buckinghams removed
once more to their farm upon the Susquehanna, and rebuilt their cottage,
in all respects as it was before its destruction. Soon again did the
vines clamber up the pillars, and hang in beautiful festoons from the
roof; but where was she, the beloved one, who had so wound herself round
their feelings, that death itself could not unclasp the tendrils? Joy
had vanished with her, and no portion remained for them in this life but
peace, which will ever follow the diligent discharge of duty: the hope
of happiness they transferred to that better world, where little Emily
awaited to welcome them.

What, meantime, had been her fate? On that eventful evening she lay upon
her little crib, in a darkened corner of the room, buried in the sweet
slumber of childhood and innocence. The savage yells did not disturb
her, she peacefully slept on; angels must have guarded her bed when a
fierce Indian, with bloody tomahawk in hand, rushed into the room, but
saw her not in her little nest, and returned to his comrades, reporting
that all the rest of the inhabitants had fled. Determined to do all the
mischief in their power, they set fire to the house and barns, and then
pushed off into the woods, to seek new victims in the unoffending
Moravian settlement of Guadenhutten. Little Emily was first awakened by
a suffocating heat and smoke, and by the crackling of the flames: she
screamed aloud to her father for help, and tried to approach the stairs,
but the blinding smoke and the quickly spreading fire drove her back.
Just then, a tall and noble form, arrayed in Indian garb, forced a
passage through the raging flames and among the falling rafters, and
guided by her cries, sought her chamber, caught her in his arms, and
rushed down to the outer air. Not without peril to both: the arm which
encircled her was burnt so as to bear the scar ever after, but still it
sustained its precious burden, and the little girl was unharmed, save
that some of her long golden tresses, hanging loosely behind her, were
severed from her head by the fire: hence the lock of hair that remained
unconsumed, convincing her friends of her death.

And who was her brave preserver? Towandahoc, Great Black Eagle, the
friend of the pale faces! The secret plans of his tribe had been kept
from his ears, from the fear that he might betray them to the
unsuspecting whites; and it was not until after the expedition had
departed for the banks of the Susquehanna, that he learned their hostile
intentions towards his friends. He lost no time, but followed rapidly in
their steps, hoping by his representations to induce his people to give
up their murderous purpose, or perhaps, by a short but difficult route
through the mountains, to reach the cottage of Hopedale before them. But
hate is as swift as love in its flight, and as he approached the spot,
and saw the flames mounting up to the sky, he thought himself too late,
and the work of murder and of destruction complete. Just then he heard
little Emily's cries, and rushed in at the peril of his life, to save
the child.

Supposing her parents to be dead, he resolved to take the helpless
little one to his wigwam, and to adopt her as his own. His home was at
the distance of several days' journey from the Susquehanna, in a retired
valley of the Alleghany mountains, and thither, through a dense forest,
he bent his steps. The greater part of the way he carried the child, her
white arm wound round his dusky neck, her fair head lying upon his
shoulder; he dried her tears, he picked berries in the wood to refresh
her, and strove to comfort her little heart, which was very heavy with
sorrow. At last they arrived at his wigwam; his wife Ponawtan, or Wild
Rose, ran out to meet her husband, and great was her wonder at the sight
of his beautiful burden. He said to her:--

"Ponawtan, I have brought you home a child, as the Great Spirit has
taken away our own, and sent them to the good hunting grounds, where
forever they hunt the deer. Take good care of the child, for she is like
a white water-lily, encircled by troubled waters: in our wigwam may she
find rest and peace."

Ponawtan, with a woman's tenderness, took into her arms the trembling,
weeping child, who, with the quick instinct of childhood, soon learned
that she was a friend. The Indian woman understood not even the few
words of English by which Towandahoc made his kind intentions
intelligible, but the language of the heart is a universal one, and in
that she was a proficient. Well was it for little Emily--or Orikama,
White Water-Lily, as she was henceforth called, that she had fallen into
such good hands. Ponawtan was a kind, affectionate being, who had deeply
mourned the loneliness of her cabin; and now that a child was given her,
that a little motherless, homeless outcast was thrown upon her love, she
was happy, and her sweet voice was again heard singing snatches of wild
Indian melodies at the door of her hut, and about her work.

For some weeks Orikama drooped her head, and her pale cheek looked
indeed like the flower whose name had been given her; and Ponawtan
grieved when she beheld her languid step, and the sad expression in her
large speaking eyes, or when she found her weeping in a corner of the
hut. But childhood is happily elastic in its feelings, and again the
merry glance came back to her eye, and the little feet danced upon the
green grass, and the soft baby voice caught up the Indian words she
heard, and learned to call her kind protectors by the holy name of
father and mother.

And was the memory of the past blotted out from her mind? Not
so--indelibly painted there, was the image of a whitewashed cottage,
overgrown with vines, near which a noble river rolled, seen through an
opening of the trees; and of a kind father, who wore no plumes in his
hair, who bore no bow and arrows, whom she had run to greet, and on
whose knee she daily sat, listening to beautiful tales. And of a sweet,
pretty mother, in whose face she loved to look, who taught her to say a
prayer, kneeling with clasped hands; especially did she think of her as
she appeared on that last evening, when she kissed her good-night, and
sang her to sleep with a gentle lullaby. And never did she forget to
kneel down, before she lay upon her bed of sweet grass, and with folded
hands and reverent look to recite her evening prayer. What though the
full meaning of the words did not enter into her mind--with childlike
piety she looked upward to her Maker, and impressions of purity and
goodness were made upon her heart. In the beautiful language of Keble,


     "Oh, say not, dream not, heavenly notes
       To childish ears are vain,
     That the young mind at random floats,
       And cannot reach the strain.

     Dim or unheard, the words may fell,
       And yet the heaven-taught mind
     May learn the sacred air, and all
       The harmony unwind.

     And if some tones be false or low,
       What are all prayers beneath,
     But cries of babes, that cannot know
       Half the deep thoughts they breathe.

     In his own words we Christ adore,
       But angels, as we speak,
     Higher above our meaning soar
       Than we o'er children weak:

     And yet His words mean more than they,
       And yet he owns their praise:
     Why should we think, He turns away
       From infants' simple lays?"


Towandahoc and Ponawtan wondered when they saw her kneeling in prayer,
but did not interfere with the lovely child; and doubtless this daily
habit not only kept up within her mind purer notions of God and duty
than she could otherwise have entertained, but enabled her to cherish a
more vivid remembrance of the parents she believed to be dead, and of
the beautiful home of her infancy. Never hearing aught spoken but the
Indian tongue, the little girl would soon have entirely forgotten her
native language, had it not been for this daily practice, which kept at
least some words of English fresh in her memory.

Among the indistinct, but most pleasing recollections of the home of her
early childhood, was one of a boy with curly black hair and smiling
face, who brought her beautiful flowers, and made for her rabbits out of
his handkerchief, and pretty little boats out of nut-shells. She
remembered eagerly leaning over the water, watching the tiny bark till
it got out of sight, while he held her hand tightly, for fear she should
fall into the water. Another scene, of a different character, was
imprinted upon her mind, never to be erased--that fearful waking, when
the flames crackled and roared around her, and the thick smoke filled
the air, when she called upon her father for help, but no father was
there; and when her dark-skinned father Towandahoc rushed in to her
rescue. When she thought of this night of horror, she instinctively
clasped her hands before her eyes, to shut out the fearful sight.

These remembrances, however, did not hinder the bright and lively child
from being very happy in her new life. And why not? True, here were none
of the conveniences or refinements of civilized life, but the little
girl grew up without the feeling of their loss, and


     "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."


No mirrors reflected her erect and graceful figure, unspoiled by corset
or by long, wearisome hours of confinement at the school-bench; it was
lithe and well-proportioned as one of Diana's nymphs; but instead, she
arranged her golden tresses, and decked her head with a wreath of
wild-flowers, bending over a small mountain lake, which she had
appropriated to her own use, and which served her as bathing-house,
dressing-room, and looking-glass, all in one. No Turkey or Persian
carpets were spread upon the floor, no sofa with rich carving and velvet
seat invited her to indolence; but instead, she trod upon soft green
moss, sweet grass and flowers, and when weary, reposed upon such seat as
Dame Nature provides for her children in her beautiful mansion--the old
stump, the mossy bank, the well-washed rock, or the tree prostrated by a
storm. No sparkling fountain rose into the air, and fell into its
ornamented basin, to please her taste; but the mountain waterfall, of
which this is but a feeble imitation, rushed down the rocks in
snow-white foam, near her cabin; and she would gaze upon it for hours
with delight. To the imaginative mind, to the eye and the ear open to
the impressions of beauty, nature has many school-books, unopened in the
great city, and amid the busy haunts of men; and her ready scholars may
gain many a lesson from the great common mother, undreamt of amid the
cares of business, the dreams of ambition, and the bustle of fictitious
wants. To Orikama the world was one vast temple: instead of marble
pillars with Corinthian capitals, instead of Gothic aisles and dark
Cathedrals, her eye rested with admiration upon the nobler, loftier
columns of trees that had grown for centuries, crowned with graceful
spreading foliage; upon long avenues, whose overlapping branches formed
a natural arch, imitated long since by man, and called an invention;
upon the deep recesses of forests, with their "dim religious light," or
with their sudden, glorious illumination, when the last rays of the sun
stream in lengthwise, with coloring as rich as any painted window can
furnish. Her choristers were the birds; her incense the sweet perfume
which the grateful earth and her innocent children the flowers
continually offer up to their Maker: instead of the gaudy chandelier,
she gazed upon the full-orbed moon, hanging like a silver lamp from its
dome of blue, and forcibly recalling the Divine Hand which placed it
there. All nature had a voice and a meaning to her, and in the absence
of the ordinary means of education, and of the invaluable aids of the
Christian ministry, her pure and religious soul


     "Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
     Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."


Living thus constantly in the open air, while her mind expanded in
tranquil beauty, she grew up a blooming, healthful maiden, whose kindly,
candid nature shone out through a countenance of rare loveliness.


     "Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self."


None were there to flatter the young girl, and to awaken that uneasy
vanity which fills the mind with the consciousness of observation, and
gives awkwardness to the timid, and affectation to the self-possessed.
Seeing herself so different from those she loved the best, the fair
Water-Lily often wished she could darken her skin and hair, that she
might more resemble others. Nor think that Orikama was totally
unaccomplished; her kind mother Ponawtan taught her all she herself
knew--to fear and love the Great Spirit; to be obedient, kind, and
patient; to speak the truth, and to bear pain without a murmur. She
learned that important part of the Indian woman's duty, to raise the
vegetables needed for their simple repasts, and to prepare savory dishes
of venison and other game; to fabricate their garments, ornamenting them
with uncommon skill and taste, and to manufacture baskets of exquisite
workmanship. These were her tasks: and when they were accomplished, how
joyfully did she bound off to the woods, or up the hills, to gather
herbs and barks, such as observation and tradition taught the children
of the forest to employ in the cure of diseases: she knew all the
trees, shrubs, and roots which grew in that region, and was skilled in
domestic surgery, such as woman has ever practised where medical
colleges are unknown. In her frequent and distant excursions for this
purpose, she had attained one accomplishment not to be taught in
schools; her voice was one of exquisite tone and great compass,
peculiarly rich and mellow; and she had learned to imitate the birds in
their varied warblings, so that frequently answers would be returned to
her from the deceived songsters of the wood. Then, louder still would
ring the notes, and the feathered tribe were excited to emulation by the
young girl, singing in the gayety of her heart.

Thus passed the early youth of Orikama, in intercourse with sweet
nature, under the kind protection of two of the best specimens of the
Indian tribes, and almost debarred from any other society. Seldom did a
moccasined hunter enter their wigwam, yet seldomer did a squaw pass
through that lonely valley; and a white man, never. When she had
attained the age of thirteen, a change occurred, which threw a shadow
over her young life, and was greatly regretted by Towandahoc and
Ponawtan. A detachment of their tribe having determined to migrate,
fixed upon that beautiful and fertile vale for the place of their
settlement, and soon an Indian village arose, where before had rested
the holy, maiden calmness of a region almost untrod by man. Now, all was
dirt, confusion, discord: the vices of civilized life were added to
those of the savage, without the decency or refinement which seeks to
throw a veil over their deformity. Orikama woke up as from a beautiful
dream, to find that those whom she would love to think of as brethren,
were vile and degraded: she saw lazy, drunken men, lounging about at the
doors of smoky huts, or administering chastisement to yelping curs, or
to women as noisy, reduced by ill-treatment and domestic drudgery to be
the cunning, spiteful slaves they were. Every thing shocked the noble
and pure spirit of Orikama: there were none here that she could make
companions and friends, nor would Towandahoc and Ponawtan have been
pleased to have her associate with them. It could not be expected that
she should be a favorite with the young girls of the tribe, who were
jealous of her superior attractions, and hated her for her reserve; and
their conduct made her feel sensibly that she was of another race, and
of another nature. Their malice was perhaps quickened by the fact, that
some slight hostilities had again arisen between the red men and the
pale faces, in which their tribe had been very prominent.

So unpleasantly changed did the whole family find their beautiful
valley, that it was resolved to remove to some distant spot, where they
should not be crowded out by uncongenial companionship. Accordingly,
Towandahoc departed for an absence of some weeks, to choose a situation
for settlement; the less reluctantly, as all the warriors of the tribe
had already left upon an expedition, which he had reason to suspect was
aimed against the whites. None remained behind but old men, squaws, and
pappooses, not to forget the Indian dogs, ever ready by their snarl to
recall their unwelcome existence to your mind. One day during her
husband's absence, Ponawtan departed early in the morning, with a view
to gather some herbs which grew upon one spot alone, a marsh at a
considerable distance: she left Orikama to take charge of the wigwam
till her return, which would not be before nightfall. Soon after she had
left, the crack of the rifle was heard, and the Indian village was
startled from its repose by the shout of the white man, and armed
backwoodsmen rushed in, expecting to meet their enemies: but the
warriors were absent, and the rough but generous foe disdained to wreak
vengeance upon old men, women, and children. All were taken prisoners,
and the cabins were fired: but how great was their amazement, upon
coming to the larger, handsomer wigwam of Towandahoc, which they
concluded from its appearance to belong to a sachem, to see there,
shrinking back with terror, a fair young girl of their own blood! Few
words could she speak in English, and but little could she understand of
that tongue which for ten years she had not heard spoken, except by
herself in prayer; she had even forgotten her own former name. Great was
the excitement when the news flew through the band, that a lost or
stolen child was recovered, and all rushed eagerly to see her. And she,
what mingled feelings filled her heart! Childish memories of just such
men crowded into her mind. She was lost in wonder and vague remembrance.
Just then, full of ardor, there rushed forward a youth of twenty, who
exclaimed the moment his eyes fell upon her, "It _is_ she! I knew she
was living! It is little Emily Buckingham!" As she gazed upon his open
brow, round which the crisp black curls were clustered, and heard the
long-forgotten name, she was troubled--she thought of the boy who held
her hand as she leaned over the edge of the stream to watch the mimic
boat, and with faltering tongue she repeated her name.

"The voice and all! Do you not see, comrades, how she resembles her
mother, Ellen Buckingham? Oh, hasten homeward, to give joy to the hearts
of her father and mother!"

"Father, mother, dead. Towandahoc, Ponawtan, Indian father, mother."

After some difficulty, Roland Markley, for it was really he, succeeded
in explaining to her that her parents still lived: and against her tears
and prayers, determined at once to break all bonds with her Indian
home, they tore her away, without waiting for the return of Towandahoc
and Ponawtan; but left their wigwam standing, out of gratitude for the
care they had taken of the child. The Indians had made an incursion into
the territory of the whites, and committed many ravages, and it was with
the intention of breaking up their villages, and driving them away, that
this expedition had been undertaken. The prisoners they had captured
were ransomed on condition of their removal, and the whole tribe passed
to the other side of the Alleghanies.

As the band travelled homeward, and first came across the beautiful
Susquehanna, Orikama--or Emily, as we should again call her--started,
and gazed eagerly around her: the broad stream called up memories of the
past. And when they arrived at the cottage of Hopedale, and she beheld
the house and grounds, the river and the woods, and the distant hills,
she recognized her home, and her earliest recollections were vividly
recalled. Soon was she folded in the arms of her mother, who so long had
mourned for her; and by her father she was welcomed back as one from the
grave. The news spread far and wide, and great was the gathering of
friends and neighbors to wish joy to the parents, and to welcome back
the pride of Hopedale: much to the confusion and distress of poor Emily.
All noticed the strong likeness she bore her mother, in person, voice,
and countenance; and if now she resembled her, how much more was this
the case when she had exchanged her Indian garb for one more suitable to
the American maiden! Soon were the bonds of love knit together most
closely between the parents and their recovered treasure; her tongue
relearned the lost language of her childhood, and happiness again
brightened the hearth at Hopedale; the birds sang more sweetly to her
mother's ears, and the sun shone more cheerfully than it had done for
years. Amidst all her new joys, Emily very often thought of her beloved
Indian parents, Towandahoc and Ponawtan, and longed to see them again;
but Indian life, as developed in the village, was abhorrent to her very
soul, and here she enjoyed all the freedom and communion with nature she
had once so highly prized, with society, and advantages for mental
cultivation she was now at an age to appreciate. All were delighted to
teach the docile and intelligent girl, so ready to take up ideas, so
judicious in the application of them; but Roland Markley, the playmate
of her childhood, installed himself as head tutor, and soon every
setting sun saw him on the way to the cottage, eager to apply himself to
the task.

Ten other years have passed; and near the cottage of Hopedale stands
another, within whose porch, overgrown by the Prairie rose, at her
spinning wheel, sits a beautiful young matron; perfect contentment is
enthroned upon her brow, and happiness beams out from her radiant smile;
golden curls cluster gracefully around her well-shaped head, and dark,
lustrous eyes follow lovingly a little girl at play, although her
skilful fingers do not forget their task.

"What is the matter, my little Ellen?" she said, as the child ran to
hide her face in her lap.

"An Indian, mamma! An Indian, coming out of the wood!"

At these words Emily springs up; she will ever love the red man for the
sake of those who nourished her childhood, and never will a son of the
forest be sent away uncheered from her door. But times have greatly
changed since her father built the neighboring cottage: seldom now does
the Indian visit that comparatively thickly settled spot; his course is
still westward, and ever onward, with the setting sun. When Emily
emerged from the thickly shaded porch, she saw indeed a red man approach
from the forest; he was old, but his majestic figure was still erect,
his eye bright and piercing; black eagle plumes adorned his stately
head--it was Towandahoc!

He was soon clasped in the embrace of his long-lost Water-Lily, and
Indian though he was, the old man wept over his recovered darling. He
told her how Ponawtan had returned by nightfall, to find her daughter
gone, and the village in ashes: their own wigwam had caught fire from
the flying cinders, and was entirely consumed. She had lingered around
the spot of her former happiness till his return; after a little time,
as they could hear no news of Orikama, they had removed far away from
the scene of desolation, to the valley of the Mohawk. Grief for the loss
of her daughter had injured the health of Ponawtan, although time had
now somewhat reconciled her to it: but Towandahoc said that the Wild
Rose was drooping, that her leaves were withered, and her flowers
falling one by one; and much he feared that another winter would lay her
low in the dust.

When little Ellen understood that this was the dear Indian grandpa of
whom she had so often heard, her shyness passed away, and soon she drew
near to the aged hunter, handling his bow and arrows, and even presuming
to climb up and scrutinize the feathers, that were at once her
admiration and her dread. The old man took her upon his knee, and was
showing her his bow, when Roland returned home; he eagerly seconded his
wife's persuasions, to induce Towandahoc to remain with them for some
time, and then to return for Ponawtan, that both might pass the remnant
of their days within their daughter's dwelling. But the aged hunter
shook his head:

"It cannot be," he said; "the Great Spirit has made the pale faces to
dwell in houses, to plough the fields, and to listen to the voice which
comes from the printed book, held up before his eyes; but he has made
the red man to hunt the deer, and to live alone in the open air. When
the Great Spirit created man, he made his red child first, out of the
best clay: he then made the pale faces; and lastly, out of what was left
he made the black man. And he placed before them three boxes; and
because his red child was the favorite, he told him to choose which he
would have. So he chose the box containing a bow and arrows, a tomahawk,
and a pipe. Then the pale face chose; and he took the box which held a
plough, carpenters' tools, a gun, and a book. And the black man took
what was left: in his box was an overseer's whip, a spade, and a hoe.
And this has been the portion of each ever since. I am a red man, and I
cannot breathe where men are thicker than trees: to me belong the bow
and arrows, the wild deer, and the open sky. The old man has returned to
visit the graves of his ancestors; but soon, far away from them, he will
drop to the ground, like the ripe persimmon after a frost. Orikama has
returned to the ways of her fathers, and I do not blame her, for she is
a pale face. But the old man cannot change, like a leaf in October; soon
will his sun set in yonder western heaven, and he must now keep on his
course. I have said."

When the moon arose, Towandahoc left the house, bending his steps to the
forest: but he did not go without passing his word that he would bring
Ponawtan to see her daughter. Before the winter set in, they arrived,
and Emily's tender heart was grieved as she gazed upon the wasting form
of her who had so often sheltered her in her arms: it was only too
evident that another summer would not see her upon the earth. Ponawtan
was greatly cheered by her visit; but could only be prevailed upon to
stay for a few days, when she departed, never more to return. In the
spring, Towandahoc came alone; his sorrowful face and drooping form told
the tale of sorrow before he opened his lips: his energy and vital
powers seemed to have died with Ponawtan. He never came again; and
doubtless he soon found a resting-place by the side of her who had been
his life-long companion.


"So, you didn't kill any of your people off, but the two farm-servants,
for whom we do not care a fig!" cried Charlie Bolton.

"Not I," replied Mary; "I'm not very partial to blood and murder; I
would not have put them out of the way, except to please you; I lay the
manslaughter at your door, Cousin mine."

"I'm very willing to bear the penalty: if it's a hanging matter, please
to imagine that my neck has paid the forfeit--just consider me hung--as
the man said at the crowded dinner table, when an irritable fool took
offence at something he had spoken, and being too far off to throw his
glass of wine in his face, told him '_to consider the wine as thrown at
him_.' 'Very well, I will,' replied the first; 'and do you consider this
sword as run through your body.'"

"A very good retaliation! And what did they do then? Did they fight?"

"Not they! They did much better--they laughed, shook hands, and were
good friends ever after."

"And their honor was as well satisfied as if they had made targets of
their bodies, I dare say: it was much more sensible."

"But, Cousin Mary," said Amy thoughtfully, "I've been trying to find out
the reason why Towandahoc did not take little Emily to the nearest white
settler, instead of carrying her off into the wild woods; I think it
would have been much better for the poor child."

"What do you think was the reason?" replied Mary.

"I know!" cried George. "The Indians are such dunces, that old
Thunder-Gust, or whatever his name is, hadn't the sense to do such a
straightforward thing as that, but must drag the child off through the
woods, scratching her finely with the blackberry and whortleberry
bushes, no doubt. I'll warrant she screamed and tried to get away,
although Cousin Mary does try to made her out so gentle--I know I
would."

"I declare you do not know how to appreciate my fine sentiment! Are you
boys made of different stuff from us, I want to know?"

"I rather suppose we are," said George, laughing. "Well, am I right in
my explanation?"

"Not in the least; some one else must try."

"I concluded," said Alice, "that it was the natural kindness of his
heart, and his fondness for the little girl, which made him wish to have
her for his own child. Of course, he did not realize that he was only a
savage, and not fit to bring her up rightly."

"That's nearer the truth than the other guess," rejoined Mary. "But none
of you have mentioned the great reason why Towandahoc carried her off."

"What can it be?"

"Simply this--if he had not, what would have become of my story, I'd
like to know? I made him take her home with him, on the same principle
that novel writers place their heroines in a thousand distressing
situations--that they may extricate them from their difficulties, and
make a longer tale."

"But what's the moral of your story?" said practical, matter-of-fact
John. "I don't see much use in a tale, unless there's a regular drawn
moral in it, that everybody can discover at once."

"Oh nonsense! I do hate morals!" said Cornelia. "Just as if we were to
be instructed the whole livelong day, and never to have amusement
without a good reason being given! That's too tiresome! I always skip
the morals and the _good talk_, when I read stories--if they're
pleasant, that's enough: I hate to be cheated into a sermon when I want
a story. I feel something as the man did who was fishing for a pike: he
caught a cat-fish instead, and throwing it back into the river,
exclaimed, 'When I go a-catting, I go a-catting; but when I go a-piking,
I go a-piking.'"

"I'm afraid a good many people think as you do, Cornelia," said Mrs.
Wyndham, laughing. "But perhaps we can find a moral for John, if we look
sharply enough. Let's see--there are good, kind people in every race, of
every complexion; and if we only make the most of our opportunities,
there are means of education open to all who have eyes and ears, and
willing minds. Do you see any other moral?"

"Oh yes, indeed!" replied Ellen. "When the Buckinghams were deprived of
their child, it was a sort of punishment to them for disobedience to
their parents; and they understood it in that way."

"True enough," said Mr. Wyndham. "And I have often noticed that
disobedient children are punished in after life, by means of their own
offspring: either by their suffering or death, or, still more
frequently, by their ingratitude and disrespectful conduct. And then
they feel themselves, as their parents did before them,


     'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
     To have a thankless child!'"


"I have often remarked this also," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham. "And it
appears to be consistent with all the dealings of the Disposer of
events: He himself says that He will treat us as we treat our
fellow-creatures: 'With the merciful thou wilt show thyself merciful,
and with the just thou wilt show thyself just, and with the froward thou
wilt show thyself froward.'"

"And, when we notice these coincidences, is it not an argument for a
superintending Providence?" said Tom Green.

"Undoubtedly it is," replied his uncle; "and although evil conduct here
is frequently unpunished, being left for the more perfect retributions
of eternity, yet it is so often followed by unhappiness, and by a reward
in kind, that no thinking mind can doubt the moral government of God.
And it appears to me that of all the commandments, that one which says
'Honor thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee,' is the
one taken under the especial protection of Providence. I have ever
noticed that dutiful children are honored by the world, and honored in
their own family circle, and that, on the other hand, it is ill with the
rebellious and unthankful."

"Then there is another thing I was thinking of," said Amy; "the good
uses of sorrow: you know it brought the Buckinghams to repentance; and
Ellen's father being taken ill, he repented too--I think he had as much
need of it as they. I'm glad my father is not cross and severe."

"So am I, heartily. Would you run off, Amy, if he were?" said Cornelia.

"Oh! I hope not! I should think


     'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
       To have a thankless child.'


I shall not forget that passage, uncle, as long as I live: who wrote
it?"

"Shakspeare: and as a general rule you may conclude, when you meet a
particularly striking passage, that it is either in Shakspeare or
Milton. But it is getting late: will Mary be kind enough to bring the
Bible, for it will then be time to say, Good-night to you all!"




CHAPTER IV.

PROVERBS.--TWENTY QUESTIONS.--THE SPECTRE OF ALCANTRA, OR THE CONDE'S
DAUGHTERS, A TALE OF SPAIN.


Brightly and joyfully did the sun arise after the storm, like a prisoner
released from dungeon and chains, again to look upon the faces of those
he loved; and all nature put on a holiday garb to greet him. Every tree
and bush was sparkling, as if with rapture. If a magician of superhuman
power had waved his wand over the earth, it could not have been more
changed. Long icicles were suspended from the fences and the overhanging
roofs, and even the sheds looked brilliant and beautiful in their icy
covering; but the trees! what words can describe them? The pines
bristled themselves up like stiff warriors arrayed in steel, their armor
making a clanking sound when the cold winds whistled by; and the
sycamores, with their little dependent balls, looked like Christmas
trees hung with bon-bons and confectionery for good children. Every
stray leaf that had resisted the storms of winter, every seed-vessel
upon the shrubs, shone with beauty; the ground was one glittering sheet,
like a mirror; the sky was of a deep blue, washed from all impurities,
and the sun smiled down upon the beautiful earth, like a crowned king
upon his bride, decked with sparkling diamonds. It was one of nature's
gala-days, in which she appears to invite all her children to be happy;
one of those scenes which forbid us to call winter a dreary time, and
which outshine in brilliancy all the verdure of the tropics.

At any time we enjoy the clear sky after a sullen rain, or a driving,
impetuous storm, and young people especially feel the truth and beauty
of Solomon's expression, "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing
it is for the eyes to behold the sun;" but when, in addition, such a
spectacle as this is presented to those long pent up within city walls,
how does the heart swell with rapture! No introduction at court, no
coronation, no theatrical exhibition, can for a moment compare with it
in splendor; nature has shows more beautiful by far than any that man
can produce, and all she asks for in exchange is the seeing eye and the
feeling heart. Truly, the best gifts of heaven to man are free and
universal, bestowed without money and without price, and maybe enjoyed
by the penniless as well as by the millionaire, if the spirit be only
opened to the impressions of happiness they were intended to convey--the
Good God is daily blessing and feasting his creatures with impartial
liberality. What exclamations of delight were heard in The Grange when
the fairy scene was first beheld! Every room in the house was visited,
to see which presented the finest prospect, and soon, with feet well
provided with gum-elastics, and with old-fashioned socks, still better
preservatives from falling, all sallied forth to enjoy the spectacle
more fully. The clear sky and the keen air raised their spirits, and an
occasional slip and tumble was only an additional provocative to
laughter; youth and health, and merry hearts, that had never yet tasted
of sorrow, made life appear to them, not a desert, not a valley of
tears, as it is felt by many to be, but a paradise of sweets, a joyful
festival.

To combine duty and pleasure, Mrs. Wyndham proposed that they should
bend their steps to the humble home of Mrs. Norton, the poor widow for
whom their fingers had been so busily plying the preceding day.
Accordingly, laden with bundles, and with a basket of comforts which
would prove very acceptable to a sick person, they walked towards her
little cottage. The boys, after a private consultation, declared that
they did not intend to allow the girls to do all the charitable, and
that they wished to invest some of their surplus Christmas cash in a
pair of large warm blankets, for the widow's benefit. Their aunt
heartily approved of the suggestion, and all agreed that a far better
interest would accrue from a capital so laid up, than from shares taken
in the confectioner's or the toymaker's stock; and the walk was
considerably prolonged by a visit to the country store, where the
desired purchases were made. Joy lighted up the sick woman's eyes when
she saw this unexpected provision for her wants, and witnessed the
kindly interest of the young people of The Grange: she thanked them with
few words, but with overflowing eyes and heart. She was an interesting
woman, kind and motherly, and looked as if she had seen better days: her
little black-eyed children also were well trained, with manners much
superior to their station. One little girl of about twelve attracted
Mrs. Wyndham's particular notice; she appeared to have installed herself
into the office of chief nurse, and the younger children seemed to look
to her for help and advice: when not engaged in waiting upon them or the
sick mother, she seated herself near the window, busily occupied with a
piece of needlework. She was a very pretty child, of fair complexion and
deep blue eyes, with the beseeching look that you sometimes see in the
young face, when trouble and hard treatment have too early visited the
little heart--like an untimely frost, nipping the tender blossoms of
spring. Sad indeed it is to see that look in childhood, when, under the
sheltering wings of parents and friends, the body and mind should expand
together in an atmosphere of love and gentleness--such is the great
Creator's will. Mrs. Wyndham observed to her mother,

"That oldest child of yours does not resemble you and the other
children."

The sick woman smiled: "No, ma'am, she is an adopted child, although I
love Margaret as much as any of my other children."

"Indeed! with so many little ones, could you take another?"

"Yes, ma'am, she was thrown into our keeping by Providence, at a time
when we wanted nothing; my husband was then living, and in excellent
business as a saddler, and we enjoyed every comfort. Times are now sadly
changed, but Margaret shall share our last crust; but indeed she is our
main stay--I should be obliged to give up entirely, and perhaps to go to
the Almshouse, if it were not for her help."

"I am glad to see that she makes herself so useful; is she any relation
to you?"

"None at all. I will tell you her story, if you will hear it, some time
when we are alone: it is rather a long one."

The young people left Mrs. Wyndham still conversing with Mrs. Norton,
and returned homeward. After tea, various games amused the fleeting
hours, and among them "Proverbs" was played as follows: While one is
absent from the circle, all fix upon some well-known old saw or proverb;
the absentee then returns and asks a question of every individual, to
which an answer must be returned, embracing some one word of the
sentence, care being taken not to emphasize it. The first proverb was
this: "When the cat's away, the mice will play." Cornelia had been out
of the room.

"Cousin Mary, didn't you enjoy the clear-up to-day?"

"Yes, _when_ it clears after a storm, one always does."

"Charlie, are you tired from your long walk this morning?"

"O no, _the_ day was so fine, _the_ walk so pleasant, and _the_ company
so agreeable, that I did not feel _the_ fatigue."

"Ellen, didn't you pity poor Mrs. Norton?"

"Yes, and I pitied her _cats_, they looked so thin."

"Cats! I thought she had only one. Cats? Hum! Tom, don't you hope we'll
have a story to-night?"

"Yes, I enjoy it vastly, and will take care not to be _away_ when it's
told."

"Gertrude, don't you think _the mice will play_ to-night?"

"Yes--but from whom did you take the idea? Who let that cat out of the
bag?"

"Ellen, to be sure, with her plural number for Mrs. Norton's cat, which
does not look starved at all--so go into the hall, Miss Ellen, while we
think of a proverb."

"Let's have 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,'" said Amy, "I
thought of that to-day at Mrs. Norton's."

"Very well, that will do. Come in, Ellen; Cornelia will bring in the
first two words, as they are small."

"Cornelia, have you finished your crochet purse?"

"_It is_ almost done."

"Amy, are you not almost roasted in that hot corner of the chimney?"

"It would be _more_ pleasant further from the fire."

"George, you are so fond of skating, don't you hope to enjoy the sport
to-morrow?"

"Yes indeed--I think we'll have a _blessed_ cold night, and then we'll
have skating."

"John, how many miles did you walk to-day?"

"_Two_," said John.

"That's not fair! That's not fair!" cried some of the younger children.
However, it was agreed that playing upon words, where the sound was the
same, was quite allowable.

"Tom, do you like to ask questions?"

"Yes, I like to _give_ a question to be answered."

"Aunt Lucy, what shall be our story to-night?"

"That is more easy to ask _than_ to answer."

"Charlie, are you fond of mince-pie?"

"Yes, and of cherry pie _too_."

"Alice, are you not almost tired of this game?"

"Yes, I'd _receive_ pleasure from a change."

"Let me see--George's _blessed_, and John's _two_--blessed too--Oh, I
know, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' Now let's play
'Twenty Questions.'"

"How is that played? It is quite a new game to me."

"It used to be a favorite game in distinguished circles in England;
Canning, the celebrated minister, was very fond of it; and it really
requires some knowledge and skill in the lawyer-like craft of
cross-examination, to play it well--so have your wits about you, young
people, for the more ready you are, the better you'll like it. One
person thinks of a thing, and by a skillful questioning on the part of
one, two, or the whole party, as you prefer it, your thought can always
be found out. Twenty questions and three guesses are allowed. If
Cornelia will think of something, I'll discover what it is, to show you
how it is played."

"I have a thought," said Cornelia, "but you never can find it out."

"We'll see: does it belong to the animal, vegetable, mineral, or
spiritual kingdoms?"

"The animal."

"Is it biped or quadruped, fish, flesh, fowl, or insect?"

"Biped."

"Man, monkey, or bird?"

"Bird."

"Wild or tame?"

"Tame."

"Is it the species you think of, or one individual of it?"

"One particular individual."

"Is it used for the table?"

"The species is--but I doubt that this individual was ever used for
food."

"Did this bird live in ancient or modern times--before or after the
Christian era?"

"Very ancient; before the Christian era."

"Does this ancient bird belong to the goose, duck, chicken, peacock, or
turkey tribe?"

"Turkey."

"Was it very thin?"

"Very, indeed--to a proverb."

"Job's turkey?"

"You've guessed it, and with ten questions too. Now you can think,
Ellen, and the rest of us will question you, in turn."

"I have a thought," said Ellen.

"Treasure it then," said Charlie Bolton; "thoughts are very rare things
with me. Animal, vegetable, mineral, or spiritual?"

"Vegetable."

"In its natural or prepared state?"

"Natural."

"Is it the whole, or only a part of the plant?"

"A part."

"Is it a part of a tree, a shrub, a vine, or is it of the grass kind?"

"A vine."

"Is it the root, stem, leaf, flower, or fruit?"

"Fruit."

"Is it used for food?"

"The species is--this one was not."

"Is this fruit pulpy like the grape, or mealy like the bean?"

"Mealy like the bean."

"Is it a bean?"

"Yes--that's one guess."

"Was this bean an ancient or modern one?"

"Very ancient."

"I know!" cried Amy; "it was the bean Jack the Giant Killer planted,
which grew up to the moon in one night, and fastened itself round one of
the horns."

"You are right--eight questions and two guesses; that's pretty well.
Now, Amy, 'tis your turn to think."

"I have a thought."

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"Animal."

"Quadruped or biped, fish, snake, or insect?"

"None of these; it is the production of a biped."

"In its natural or prepared state?"

"Natural--but a slight alteration was made in its shape at the time to
which I refer."

"What time is it--before or after the Christian era?"

"After."

"Before or after the year 1500?"

"Very much about that time."

"Had it any thing to do with Columbus?"

"Yes; at least Columbus had something to do with it."

"Was it Columbus' egg?"

"The very thing. And now, shall we not vary the scene by having a
story?"

"Agreed, we are all ready to listen; but who shall tell the tale?"

"It is Alice's turn; and do give us a ghost story, for once, a nice
frightful one that will make our teeth chatter and our hair stand on
end--do, Alice!"

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, but I'll tell you some sort of a
tale, and hope that you will make allowances for a young beginner. I'm
no Scheherezade."

"No _what_?" said Amy.

"Is it possible you have not read the Arabian Nights? Scheherezade was
the princess who saved her life by telling such interesting stories; the
tyrant of a Sultan intended to put her to death in the morning, but she
left off in such an important part of her tale, that his curiosity led
him to spare her head till she had finished the narrative. Of course she
took good care to tell what the sailors call 'long yarns,' and the
Sultan found out he could not live without her to divert him."


The Spectre of Alcantra, or the Conde's Daughters.

A SPANISH TALE.

The Conde de Alcantra was a Spanish nobleman, universally esteemed by
those who knew him, as a man of high honor and moral worth. In person he
was tall, dark, and commanding, in manner grave and dignified. The
grandee of Spain is never one with whom you feel inclined to take a
liberty, but the noble Conde was uncommonly reserved and serious, even
sad, in the expression of his countenance. He was a widower, with two
lovely children, daughters, of the ages of sixteen and eighteen. Clara,
the elder, a very handsome girl, strikingly resembled her father in
appearance, save that a bright, hopeful, energetic spirit was displayed
in her face and in almost every motion. Magdalena, the younger, and the
cherished darling of both father and sister, scarcely looked as if she
belonged to the same family: she inherited from her mother the
transparent, delicate complexion, azure eyes, and fair, clustering
curls, sometimes seen in Spain and Italy, and always so highly prized
from their rarity. Gentleness, and an up-looking for love and
protection, were the characteristics both of her face and mind; and
doubtless her timidity and dependence upon others was much fostered by
the loving cares and constant vigilance of her father.

Their ordinary residence was in Madrid, where the Conde was much engaged
in affairs of state; his strict integrity, political wisdom, and
fidelity in the discharge of duty, caused business of the highest moment
to be committed to him by his sovereign. But, as is only too frequently
the case, public cares engrossed him to the detriment of his private
concerns, and some little entanglements in money matters made him
resolve to look more closely into his account books, and see where the
difficulty lay. It was certainly surprising, that the hereditary estates
which brought in so large an income till within fifteen years, had so
unaccountably decreased in value, and that the castellan, or mayordomo,
who managed them, was continually complaining of the difficulty he found
in raising from the peasantry the comparatively small sums he yearly
transmitted to his master. But so it was: and although the Conde carried
his confidence in his dependents, and his easiness of disposition, to
such an extent as almost to become a fault, yet as he examined the
accounts of some years' standing, a strong suspicion arose in his mind
that somehow he had been most egregiously cheated, and that while he
had so skilfully managed the finances of the country as almost to double
her revenues, he himself had been as completely managed by a cunning
knave. Being a kind and a just man, he was anxious not to run the risk
of wronging a faithful servant, who was always profuse in expressions of
attachment to the family, and he determined to keep his suspicions
within his own breast, until he had given the matter a personal
investigation.

Great was the astonishment and delight of Clara and her sister when he
announced to them his intention of paying a visit to the castle of
Alcantra. It was there that Magdalena first saw the light, and it was
there that her mother closed her eyes upon the world, leaving her
husband almost distracted; he immediately removed with his little
children from the scene of this great affliction. It was soon after this
sad event that the old and faithful mayordomo died; he had long been
intrusted with the entire control of the estate, and was greatly beloved
by his fellow-servants and by the peasantry. The Conde gave orders that
the sub-steward, who had lately come into his service, and who was
acquainted with the duties of the office, should take his vacant place;
his feelings were at that time too much engrossed with his recent loss
to institute the proper inquiries into his character and capabilities,
and from that time it was that, from some cause, either from misfortune,
negligence, or corruption, the entanglement of his affairs was to be
dated. The Conde had never before been willing to revisit the castle;
and his daughters, with the ardent curiosity of youth, longed to behold
the place in which a long line of their ancestors had lived, and eagerly
availed themselves of his invitation to accompany him. Their
imaginations were fired by all they had heard of the old chateau; and
the ruinous condition into which it had fallen of late years, only added
fuel to the flame. Clara remembered, or fancied that she remembered, a
vast dark building, with huge towers and buttresses; she often tried to
picture to her mind the home of her infancy, and to describe it to
Magdalena, but these vague remembrances were all that she could recall.

Don Alonzo informed his daughters that the journey was to be commenced
on the morrow, without much preparation, or any thing like an
ostentatious style of travelling; they themselves would set out in the
old family coach, accompanied by his secretary, Señor Roberto, and would
be followed by another carriage containing their maid, Fernando, his
valet, and Anselmo, a trusty servant. He intended to take with them a
supply of comforts indispensable to persons of their condition, as it
was probable that the castle might be destitute of them, having so long
been without the presence of its master; and this was the more needful,
as the castellan had received no intimation of the proposed visit. On
the following morning they set out: the castle of Alcantra was situated
in the north of Spain, among the wildest mountains, and as they
travelled onward, scenery of the most diversified kind passed before
their eyes. It was the time of the vintage; and the noble peasants of
Castile, in their picturesque costume, came homeward laden with the rich
purple grapes, singing the romantic lays of love and chivalry, which
have passed down from one generation to another. The ballads of the Cid,
and the laments of the Moors, formed the chief burden of their song.
Every now and then they could distinguish some well-known passage in
"Admiral Guarinos," "Baviaca," or "Don Roderick," or that sad-chorus,
which sounds like a Moorish sigh,


     "Woe is me, Alhama!"


At sunset, they would see the peasants seated at the doors of their
cottages, cheerfully feasting upon bread and fruit, varied by the light
wine of the country, preserved in goat-skins, as it is in the East: one
leg of the skin forms the mouth of the bottle; and they noticed, what is
generally reported by travellers, that even in this time of rejoicing,
intoxication was nowhere to be witnessed. Many were the groups they met
dancing upon the grass by the light of the moon; and a pleasant thing it
was to see the white-haired grandsire looking on, and occasionally
joining the merry band of his descendants in innocent sport and
festivity, keeping a young heart under the weight of years. Clara and
Magdalena were particularly struck by the native grace displayed by the
youths and maidens in the bolero, a dance originally introduced by the
Moors: with castanets in their hands, accompanying their steps with
unpremeditated music, they would alternately advance and retreat, fly
and pursue, until, exhausted by the exercise, they would rest upon the
rustic bench or the green bank, and while away the hours with song and
guitar. What noble-looking men are the peasants of Spain! Every one of
them, from the dignity of his deportment, might well pass for a hidalgo
in disguise; and the feeling of self-respect is so common, that it has
passed into a proverb among the people that they are "as good gentlemen
as the king, only not so rich." Proud and independent, and jealous of
any encroachment upon their rights, they are yet scrupulously polite to
others, and pay marked attention to strangers. While in Italy the
foreigner will meet with imposition at every step, the Spaniard disdains
to take advantage of his ignorance, and the significant reply, "Señor, I
am a Spaniard," is sufficient answer to any suspicion of meanness or
duplicity. Their tall, manly forms, wrapped in the ample cloak which the
Spaniard wears with unequalled grace, their oval faces, dark
complexions, and flashing eyes, make them most interesting features in
the landscape. Probably in no country does man, in the humbler walks of
life, appear so universally clothed with the majesty suitable to his
rank as lord of the creation, as he does in Spain. As they travelled
through Castile, the scene was occasionally varied by meeting a band of
strolling Gitanas, or Gipsies, whose swarthy hue, slender forms, and
wild appearance, clearly pointed out their foreign origin; of course,
they were anxious to tell the fortunes of the beautiful Señoritas, and
on one occasion their father consented to gratify their curiosity. But
he repented of his compliance, when he heard the woman predict to the
timid and somewhat superstitious Magdalena, a speedy and imminent danger
as about to befall her, and he noticed with concern the changing color
with which she heard these hints of peril: but Clara, whose fearless and
joyful spirit could not be daunted by such prophecies, soon laughed the
roses back again into her sister's cheeks, and made the wrinkled hag
retreat, full of rage at her incredulity. They also met some of those
immense flocks of sheep, which form such an important item in the
national wealth of Spain, and which are led southward early in the
autumn, to enjoy the rich pasture grounds of Estremadura and Andalusia.

As they proceeded towards the north, the country became more rugged and
mountainous, and changes in the costume of the peasantry showed that
they had passed into another province: the black velvet cap of the
Castilian, ever worn so as to display to advantage his noble, lofty
forehead, was replaced by one of woollen material, of a brilliant red,
long, and hanging down behind. The scenery every moment became more
grand and sublime, and the young girls, who had spent their lives
chiefly in Madrid, were full of delight and admiration. "How can people
live in the city," they exclaimed, "when such a free and happy life is
before them? How can they prefer brick and stone to the everlasting
hills, the soft green turf, and the majestic forests? Here, you can
really behold the sky, with its beautiful fleecy clouds, ever changing
in shape and hue, and you can see the starry universe spread out before
you; there, you can perhaps catch a glimpse of a few stars, and a small
piece of a cloud, but the rest is hidden by dead walls. In the city, our
time is taken up, and our hearts are frozen, by ceremonious visits,
stately dinners, and the rules of etiquette; here, in the country, a
real, true life could be spent, free from insincerity and busy idleness.
Dear father, will you not give up your offices at court, and live
henceforth at Alcantra?" Their father smiled at their enthusiasm, and
felt himself almost rejuvenated, as he listened to their raptures,
flowing fresh from young and ardent hearts; but told them that they had
not yet seen their ancestral castle, and that perhaps their expectations
might be grievously disappointed; he would wait until they had spent
some time there, before he gave them his answer.

As they approached the termination of their journey, the country became
yet wilder, and the villages were more thinly scattered; while here and
there a wooden cross appeared upon the roadside, with some simple
inscription, calculated to inspire terror in proportion to its very
simplicity. "Here they killed Iago," or "Here the robbers killed Señor
Jose Blanco." They noticed, on their last day of travel, when they had
entered into the territory of the Conde, that the roadside crosses
became more frequent, and the cottages of the peasantry assumed a look
of poverty they certainly did not bear in former times, when the lords
of the manor resided upon their estate, and were able to see to the
welfare of the people. When they entered the little inn of the village
of Alcantra, about four miles from the castle, the garrulous old
landlord greeted the Conde most warmly.

"And a good thing it is for the country that your Excellencia has
returned once more to his estates. Now we may hope to have a little
peace; now the peasants will not be ground down to the dust, as they
have been; now some villanous upstarts I know of, will not dare to ride
over them rough-shod, and to treat them as if they were beasts of the
field. Viva! viva! The illustrious Conde has returned!"

The Count was much affected by the representations of this man, whom he
knew to be an honest and worthy fellow, and was full of regret for what
he now felt to be criminal negligence on his own part; and promised him
that full investigations should take place, and that perfect justice
should be done. The innkeeper asked him if his servants were well armed;
"For," said he, "the nearness of the castle is no protection to you from
robbery. Many travellers have left this inn, in high health and spirits,
and with trunks laden with merchandise, but have never arrived at their
destinations. The road is, as you well know, rough and precipitous,
over-hung by huge rocks and dark forests, and the banditti have taken up
their quarters somewhere in this neighborhood, though where it is none
can discover. Many murders have been committed here, and many a poor
fellow lies buried in unconsecrated ground, Heaven have mercy on their
souls! but the murderers have never yet been caught. It is not thought
that the band can be a large one, but they are very daring; it is now
more safe than usual, for an atrocious murder occurred a few miles from
this place within the last week, and a company of soldiers is expected
here every moment; they will stay a week, and will try to capture them,
but unless the Saints defend us, and all the Martyrs, Heaven only knows
what will become of us all."

Don Alonzo assured him that he feared nothing, as including the coachmen
they were six well-armed men, upon every one of whom he could entirely
depend. "And," said he, smiling, "if matters come to a bad pass, I could
count upon my daughter here, my brave Clara, as my seventh soldier; I
have taught her to fire a pistol without shrieking, and to hit the mark,
too, and with her protection Magdalena and I need fear nothing."

After this conversation, it is not wonderful that all were on the qui
vive as they ascended the mountain road leading to the castle of
Alcantra. Magdalena started at every sound, and even Clara, fearless as
she was, felt relieved when she saw the lofty turrets and extensive
battlements she had dimly remembered, spreading out before her, their
dark outline relieved against the blue sky. If the approach was romantic
and alarming, it was a good preparation to their minds for the castle
itself; it was built in the times of feudal power and intestine wars,
and its massive walls had well performed their part in the defence of
its inmates during many sieges. And yet, strong as it was, and built, as
it appeared, for eternity, a portion of this noble structure was going
to decay; one wing had been very much battered in the last siege it had
sustained, and the cannon-balls had done the work of centuries; but the
main building looked very imposing, as if able to resist the lapse of
ages, and appeared, from its elevation, to frown down upon intruders,
and to scorn the very idea of danger. It was exactly such a place as was
calculated to fire the imaginations and to win the hearts of young
girls, brought up in a gay metropolis, from the very contrast to all
they had ever seen before; there was a romance about its very gloom
that was attractive to them. Associated as it was with much historic
interest, and with many family traditions, they had ardently longed to
behold it, and now that they saw it rise, in its dark grandeur, before
them, they acknowledged that their expectations were more than realized.

There were no signs of life to be seen about the castle, and it was long
before the loud, imperious knocking at the gate-way brought any one to
open it; and then a man appeared, whose hesitating manner and vacant
countenance plainly showed that he had never been gifted with a large
share of mother-wit. With some difficulty he was made to understand that
the party had a right to admittance, and the carriages entered within
the courtyard. The rest of the household was by this time aware of an
unusual arrival, and came forward to receive them; but it was very
evident that their visit was not only unexpected, but undesired,
although the castellan and his wife strove very hard to throw into their
hard, dark countenances, an expression of welcome. Señor Don Juan
Baptista--so was the castellan called--was a man of most repellant
countenance; his eye had a sinister, cunning look, and there was
something in his large, shaggy, overhanging brow, that was really
appalling; it was to be supposed that he had now put on his most amiable
expression, but unless his face greatly belied him, fierce, ungoverned
passions were accustomed to rule his being. His wife, Francisca, had one
of those countenances that appear to dare you to find them out: hard,
silent, and sullen, she looked as if the rack itself could not force her
to speak unless she willed it; and her face reminded you constantly of a
_wooden mask_, which not even the strongest emotions could make
transparent, and allow you to catch a glimpse of the soul behind. Both
were loud in their expressions of regret that their dear lord and the
sweet, beautiful señoritas had not let them know, beforehand, of their
visit, that they might have had things more fit for their reception; the
castle was rather disarranged, and not anticipating this honor, they had
allowed most of the servants to depart, to enjoy a holiday for a few
weeks--their household was at present very small. Don Alonzo cut short
their apologies by telling them that he had attendants with him
sufficient to supply the wants of himself and his daughters, although it
was certainly unfortunate that it should have occurred just at this
juncture; and entering the castle, he tenderly embraced Clara and
Magdalena, welcoming them to their ancestral home. The girls almost
shuddered, as they gazed upon the the huge hall, with its lofty carved
ceiling, and its dark oak panelling. In ancient times, when it was
crowded by armed retainers, or echoed to the joyful chorus of the feast
and the minstrel's song, it must have been admirably suited to its
purpose; but now it looked solitary and desolate, like a fit abode for
the owl and the raven. At one end, a wide, substantial stone staircase
led to the upper regions of the castle, branching off above in many
directions; a long oak-table, capable of accommodating more than a
hundred guests, extended for some distance along the hall, but it was
scarcely noticed in the vast apartment. A large chimney, surrounded by
stone settles, and richly ornamented with curious antique carving,
formed a prominent feature in it; the tapestry on the wall, from which
hunters and grim warriors appeared to look down upon our little party
with surprise and displeasure, hung loosely, in many places was
completely tattered, and waved in the wind as the keen air of the
mountains whistled through, making Clara and Magdalena shiver with cold.
Don Alonzo looked round with concern; "It is indeed many years since I
have been here," said he, "and things look considerably altered; but
now, my daughters, let me advise you, with the aid of your
waiting-woman, to make yourselves as comfortable as possible in your own
rooms, and meanwhile Señor Baptista will be kind enough to have a large
fire built in the hall, for it will really prove very acceptable."

Francisca showed them to their rooms: large, magnificent chambers,
fitted up with massive furniture of the richest description; but the
tapestry was faded and worn, and every thing showed neglect and
desertion. Francisca, after escorting them to these apartments, told
them that she would send Maria, the housemaid, to make up fires, bring
water, and provide every thing else that they wished, but the girl was
always out of the way when she was wanted, and was really not worth the
salt she ate. Maria speedily appeared, however: a pale young girl of
dejected aspect, with black hair drawn off from a forehead of marble
whiteness, and large, sad eyes cast upon the ground. Her appearance
greatly interested the kind feelings of Clara and Magdalena; she looked
sorrowful and reserved, as if her heart had been chilled, and her spirit
broken by harsh treatment; and the girls, who were very much of her own
age, felt an instinctive pity, and resolved to win her confidence. They
learned by their questions that she was an orphan, and had been brought
up in the castle. She had never known any other home, and had no
relations in the world, so it was not wonderful that she appeared
unhappy.

As their maid appeared to be quite unwell from the journey, they
dispensed with any further services from her for the day, and descended
to the hall. Its aspect was considerably changed by a large, sparkling
fire which blazed upon the hearth; and, after supper, Don Alonzo and his
daughters drew around it, with a feeling of comfort they had not
experienced since they had entered the castle. As the Conde wished to
discover the character of the castellan as much as possible from
personal observation, he ordered him to be sent for, and invited him to
a seat with them by the fire; and they were soon engaged in interesting
conversation. Señor Baptista was undoubtedly a person of quick
intelligence, and endowed with the gift of imparting a vivid, dramatic
interest to any narrative: he told several ancient legends connected
with the castle, in such a manner as to enchain the attention of his
hearers. One story excited the deepest interest in Magdalena: we will
call it


DOÑA INEZ; OR THE CASTELLAN'S TALE.

Several centuries ago, as my lord the Conde and the noble Señoritas very
well know, this castle was in the possession of an older branch of the
Alcantra family, long since extinct; and at that time the lord of the
manor was a certain Don Pedro, a dark, stern man, whose portrait, clad
in armor, the señoritas may see on the morrow in the old
picture-gallery. Don Pedro was a man of unflinching bravery, and
indomitable will; his word was law. His vassals obeyed his very looks,
and flew to execute his behests. Accustomed from infancy to command, he
became absolute and tyrannical; his gentle wife was all submission, and
his fair daughter Inez was educated in the practice of the strictest
obedience, so as scarcely to know that she had a mind of her own, when
her father was nigh. Is it wonderful that when the unnatural constraint
was removed by his absence, her innate gayety of disposition broke out
with all the impulsiveness of youth, and her young affections clung to
the nearest object? Such an object was found in Bernardo, a handsome
and noble young man, an orphan, and distant relative, who had been
reared in the castle: he had been the playmate of Inez in childhood; her
comforter, companion, and teacher in girlhood; and now, as she advanced
to woman's estate, they made the discovery that their hearts were knit
together by a love which had grown with their growth and strengthened
with their strength, till it had become a part of their very souls. But
how dare to reveal their affection? Bernardo, although of noble lineage,
and in himself every thing that the fondest father could desire for his
daughter, had his fortune yet to win by his good sword; and Inez was
heiress to broad lands, and might well aspire to a princely alliance.
But love scorns all such distinctions: humble thoughts of herself, and
proud thoughts of her Bernardo, filled the heart of Inez, and as she
plighted her troth to him, she vowed she would wed none but him, and
would patiently wait until the time should come when her betrothed could
claim her as his own. Bernardo went to the wars, and greatly
distinguished himself against the Moors: Ferdinand conferred upon him
various marks of favor, and the noble and lovely Queen Isabel girded on
the sword presented by the king with her own jewelled fingers.

And now, with a heart beating high with hope, and with the prospect of
great advancement before him, the young man returned to visit the home
of his childhood: it was his purpose, with the sweetness of a few weeks'
holiday, to repay himself for all the toils, dangers, and privations of
a year. But when he arrived, how changed was the whole aspect of the
castle! Inez was in disgrace, and was ordered by her tyrannical father
to be shut up in her room, and to be fed with the bread of affliction
and the water of humiliation. Bernardo was deeply distressed: he at
length succeeded, through the pity of the servants, in obtaining an
interview, and the poor girl, weeping upon his breast, where she had so
often been comforted before, told him the sad tale of her trials.

Soon after he had left, a noble Marquis, of great wealth, had made
overtures for her hand, which Don Pedro, without consulting her, had at
once accepted, and promised that within a year the bridal feast should
be celebrated. When he informed his daughter of her fate, she besought
him with tears not to send her from her home; but his only reply was
that the matter was determined, and that all she had to do was to submit
and to prepare for the wedding. Dreading as she did her father's wrath,
she dreaded yet more this hateful, compulsory marriage, and kneeling
down at his feet, with streaming eyes, she prayed him in the humblest
manner to spare his only child; she could never survive the union--it
would break her heart--she was young, and wished still to remain for
some years under the paternal roof. But tears and entreaties were
unavailing. Don Pedro commanded her, in the most peremptory manner, to
obey. Rising, with a dignity and composure of manner he had never seen
in her before, for she had ever appeared in his presence only a timid
and frightened child, she professed her readiness to make his will her
law in every other point; she would serve him like a slave, die for him;
she would never marry against his wishes, but would ever strive to
approve herself a dutiful daughter. But in this point she must imitate
his own firmness, and prove herself his child; a vow was upon her soul
that she must not break, and she could not, she would not, marry the
Marquis de Oviedo. As she stood there, so young and so determined, with
all the pride of her race and all the dignity of womanhood rising up to
aid the true love which beat in her heart, even her father was struck
with admiration, and for a moment hesitated. But vindictive passion
triumphed over better feelings, and he ordered her to be placed in her
chamber, under strict confinement. Once a month, since then, had he
visited her apartment, to ask her if she were now ready to yield her
submission; and, upon her reply that she would rather die than wed the
Marquis de Oviedo, with an angry scowl he would leave her room. Poor
Inez looked thin and care-worn, but was greatly comforted by seeing her
betrothed; and they agreed that it was better, whatever the consequences
might be, to inform her father of their engagement, and to endeavor to
mollify his heart. As Bernardo had returned from the wars with such
distinction, he had some slight hope that the crime of loving Don
Pedro's daughter might possibly be forgiven.

They were still engaged in these discussions, when the door opened, and
Don Pedro appeared; his face was wild with passion, black with rage. He
roughly snatched Doña Inez from the arms of her lover, to whom she clung
with all the energy of despair, as the shipwrecked mariner holds fast to
the mast or beam which is his only hope of safety, or even to the anchor
which will surely sink him to the lowest depths. Turning to his
followers, who were trained to obey his every command without a
question, he ordered them to convey Don Bernardo to the deepest dungeon
of the castle, and to chain him to the wall; and then to bring the key
to him. Doña Inez, in a phrensy of terror, knelt at his feet, and begged
that all his anger might be visited upon her; but spurning her from him,
he told her that she should feel enough of it yet, and need pray for no
more--he had a punishment still in store for her, and in due time she
should realize what it was to defy his power. He left her in a swoon,
and did not see her again until after ten days, when he entered her
apartment, and grimly smiling, commanded her to accompany him, as he
wished to conduct her to her lover; adding, with a peculiar look, that
if it were her wish, as he was all devotion to her slightest whim, he
would never henceforth separate them. Scarcely knowing what to think,
but dreading the worst from the ironical tone of mock gallantry with
which he spoke, she followed him with faltering steps, a vague terror
dimming her eyes and chilling her heart. He led her through many winding
passages, opening heavy iron gates, until they at length reached the
deep dungeons which are found beneath this castle. There, in a damp
cell, heavily chained to the wall, she beheld, by the light of the torch
Don Pedro carried, her own Bernardo! But, oh, how changed! how
emaciated! He seemed to be asleep. Her father told her to awake him; she
took his hand, but started back--that icy touch had told her all--he was
dead, starved to death by her own father!

That moment reason forsook the agonized mind of Doña Inez; the vaults
were filled with her shrieks, and so awful was the spectacle of her
despair, that even her father was terrified. He tried to soothe her, but
it was too late; he carried her back again to her room, a raving maniac.
A brain fever ensued, of the most violent description; and happily for
the distracted girl, in a few days she was released by death from all
her sufferings. And now it was that, in the consequences of his own
actions, Don Pedro found his punishment; as he witnessed the agony of
his afflicted daughter, as he heard her ravings, as he saw her toss her
white arms and pitifully cry out for Bernardo, or tear her long, black,
dishevelled tresses, horror and despair filled his heart. His
conscience, so long torpid, at length awoke, and remorse preyed upon his
soul like a vulture. And when he beheld that form, lately so lovely and
blooming, stretched out, pale and motionless, upon the bed of death,
anguish seized upon him to such a degree that, rushing into his own
chamber, he put a perio

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