Happy Days for Boys and Girls
by Various · English · Gutenberg #30720 · 837,727 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Happy Days for Boys and Girls
Author: Various
Release date: December 20, 2009 [eBook #30720]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HAPPY DAYS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sam W. and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
HAPPY DAYS
FOR
BOYS AND GIRLS.
[Illustration: {Three children playing}]
136 ILLUSTRATIONS
CONTRIBUTIONS BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT, ALICE AND PHOEBE CAREY, C. A. STEPHENS,
MARY N. PRESCOTT, WILLIAM M. THAYER, F. CHESEBORO,
J. G. WOOD, S. W. LANDER, and others.
PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES,
822 CHESTNUT STREET.
Copyright, 1877,
BY HORACE B. FULLER AND PORTER & COATES.
PRESS OF
HENRY B. ASHMEAD.
PHILADELPHIA.
[Illustration: YOUNG FISHERS.]
[Illustration: {A bird and nestlings}]
CONTENTS.
PROSE.
PAGE
Accident, The _Louisa M. Alcott_ 280
Adventure in the Life of Salvator
Rosa _L. D. L._ 84
African Elephant, The _J. G. Wood_ 319
Animal in Armor, The 75
Aunt Thankful _M. H._ 253
Barn Swallows _W. Wander_ 194
Birds _F. F. E._ 25
"Bitters" 203
Books and Reading 36
Bruin at a Maple-Sugar Party _C. A. Stephens_ 313
Camels _J. G. Wood_ 339
Cave at Benton's Ridge _F. E. S._ 350
Charley 368
Charlie's Escape 109
Charlie's Christmas 79
Crippled Boy, The _S. W. Lander_ 374
Daisy's Temptation 111
Daring Feat 183
Davy Boys' Fishing-Pond _L. M. D._ 130
Envy Punished 271
Every Cloud has a Silver Lining 31
Faithful Friends _X._ 237
Fairy Bird, The _Louisa M. Alcott_ 207
Fred and Dog Stephen 205
Giraffe, The _J. G. Wood_ 188
Going for the Letters 198
Good Word not Lost 308
Gratitude of a Cow 196
Haunts of Wild Beasts _C. A. Stephens_ 355
Help Yourselves _Wm. M. Thayer_ 46
Holiday Luck _Sara Conant_ 296
How a Good Dinner was Lost _Fannie Benedict_ 256
How Maggie paid the Rent 227
[Illustration: {Children sledding}]
How Sweetie's "Ship came In" _Margaret Field_ 96
Hunting Adventure 362
If; or, Bessie Green's Holiday 176
Iron Ring, The _A. L. O. E._ 76
It takes Two to Make a Quarrel 306
John Stocks and the Bison _Author of "Drifting
to Sea"_ 138
Kindness Rewarded 28
Kindness to Animals _Robert Handy_ 284
Lace-making 44
Lame Susie 261
Lion the Fire-dog _Benjamin Clarke_ 38
Lion on the Threshold 190
Marcellin 82
Merry Christmas _E. G. C._ 166
Monkeys _L. B. U._ 301
Motherless Boy, The 49
Mouse and Canary, The 287
Mrs. Pike's Prisoners _M. R. W._ 123
My Mother's Stories _E. E._ 303
My Story _S. P. Brigham_ 332
Nearly Lost 365
Neddy's Half Holiday 121
Nicolo's Little Friend _H. A. F._ 390
Nino _Sara Conant_ 244
Orchard's Grandmother _S. O. J._ 9
Parsees, The 371
Polly Arrives _Louisa M. Alcott_ 282
Ponto 310
Puppet _Mary B. Harris_ 162
Puss _Robert Handy_ 293
Que _Mary B. Harris_ 144
Reason and Instinct _Flaneur_ 60
Reginald's First School-Days 384
Rough _M. R. O._ 17
Sally Sunbeam 251
Saved by a Fiddle _Sir Lascelles Wraxall_ 211
Song of the Bird 323
Squanko _F. Cheseboro_ 274
Squirrels 160
St. Bernard Dog 53
Stitching and Teaching _E. G. C._ 152
Stories about Dogs 137
Strange Combat, A _C. A. Stephens_ 116
Sweet One for Polly _Louisa M. Alcott_ 277
[Illustration: {Two children having a picnic}]
Thorns 347
Tim the Match-Boy 268
Truant, The 393
Two Friends. A Story for Boys 288
Two Gentlemen in Fur Cloaks 107
Uncle John's School-Days 234
What Nelly gave Away 115
White Butterfly 63
Wings 273
Working is Better than Wishing 65
Young Artist, The 218
POETRY.
All among the Hay 286
Annie 175
Answer to a Child's Question 113
Bird's Nest, The _Mary. N. Prescott_ 216
C--A--T 186
Cherry-Time 128
Child's Petition 392
Child's Prayer 137
Children 62
Children's Song 141
Cleopatra _Edgar Fawcett_ 388
Common Things 249
Coral-Workers, The 37
Counting Baby's Toes 345
Dinner and a Kiss 381
Dream of Summer, A _Mary N. Prescott_ 29
Erl King _Mary N. Prescott_ 241
Faithful unto Death; or, The Sentry
of Herculaneum _W. B. B. Stevens_ 230
Flight of the Birds 56
For the Children 58
Forced Rabbit, The 180
From Bad to Worse _Alice Cary_ 331
Frost, The 22
Good-Humor 35
Good Shepherd, The 52
I am Coming 110
Kind to Everything 68
Let him Live _Mary R. Whittlesey_ 300
Little Helpers 73
Little Home-body _Geo. Cooper_ 119
[Illustration: {Two figures walk through a snowy landscape}]
Little Red Riding-Hood _L. E. Landon_ 224
My Little Hero 92
My Mother 382
Minutes 196
My Picture 23
Music Lesson, The 22
Nothing to Do 105
Now the Sun is Sinking 206
Our Daily Bread 157
Preparing for Christmas 143
Rich and Poor _Ellen M. H. Gates_ 42
Rigmarole about a Tea-Party 206
Robin Redbreast 95
Rustic Mirror, The _M. R. W._ 222
Sailing the Boats _George Cooper_ 305
Secret _Mary R. Whittlesey_ 264
Shakspeare _Richard H. Stoddard_ 389
Sheep and the Goat 328
Silly Young Rabbit, The 242
Silver and Gold _Ellis Gray_ 265
Smiles and Tears 390
Snow-Fall 151
Snow-Man, The _Marian Douglas_ 192
Song of the Rose _T. E. D._ 41
Sparrow, The 122
Spring has Come 202
Story of Johnny Dawdle 47
Summer 78
That Calf _Phoebe Cary_ 70
To the Cardinal Flower _M. R. W._ 40
Touch Not 61
Two Mornings _Mary N. Prescott_ 267
Under the Pear Trees 349
Up and Doing 182
Vacation _Beverly Moore_ 232
War and Peace 126
Way to Walk _M. R. W._ 337
We should hear the Angels singing _Kate Cameron_ 91
What so Sweet _Mary N. Prescott_ 344
What the Clock says 149
Why 24
Willie's Prayer 159
World, The _Lilliput Lectures_ 185
Worship of Nature 361
HAPPY DAYS.
[Illustration: {Settlers run from the native inhabitants}]
THE ORCHARD'S GRANDMOTHER.
I must ask you to go back more than two hundred years, and watch two
people in a quiet old English garden.
One is an old lady reading. In her young days she was a famous beauty.
That was very long ago, to be sure; but I think she is a beauty
still--do not you?
She has such a lovely face, and her eyes are so sweet and bright! and
better than that, they are the kind which see pleasant things in
everybody, and something to like and be interested in. I hope with all
my heart yours are that kind, too.
The other person is a little child. She was christened Mary Brenton,
like her grandmother; but she was called Polly all her days, for
short; and we will call her so.
She is sitting on the grass with a little cat in her arms, which she
is trying to put to sleep. But the kitten is not so accommodating as
a doll would be, and just as Polly does not dare to move for fear of
waking her, she makes up her mind that a run after a leaf and a play
with any chance caterpillar which may be so unlucky as to cross her
path, will be very preferable, and tries to get away.
It is one of the most delightful days that ever was. September, and
almost too warm, if it were not for the breeze that brings cooler air
from the sea. Once in a while some fruit falls from the heavily-laden
trees, and the first dead leaves rustle a little on the ground. The
bees are busy, making the most of the bright day; for they know of the
stormy weather coming. The sky is very blue, and the flowers very
bright. Two swallows are playing hide-and-seek through the orchard,
and chasing each other in great races, now so close to the ground that
it seems as if their feet might catch in the green grass, and now away
up in the air over the high walls out towards the hills; and just as
one loses sight of them, and turns away, here they are again. And in
the kitchen the girls are clattering the dishes and laughing; and do
you hear some one singing a doleful tune in a cheery, happy voice?
That is Dorothy, Polly's dear Dorothy, who waits upon grandmother,
with whom she has been to France, and Holland, and Scotland, and who
can tell almost as charming stories as grandmother herself.
The house is large and old, with queer-shaped windows, all sizes and
all heights from the ground, and a great many of them hidden by the
ivy. That is the outside; and if you were to go in, you would find
large, low rooms, filled with furniture that you would think queer and
uncomfortable. And there are portraits in some of them, one of Polly,
probably painted not very long before, in which she is attired after
the fashion of those days, and looks nearly as old as she would now
if she were living!
Now let us go back to the garden. The kitten has escaped, and Polly is
wishing for something to do.
"Where's Dolly?" says grandmother. "Find her, and then gather some
apples and plums, and have a tea drinking."
The doll had been very ill all day; it was strange in grandmother to
forget it. She had fallen asleep just before dinner, and been put
carefully in her bed; it would never do to wake her so soon. And
besides, a tea party was not amusing when there was no one to sit at
the other end of the table. This referred to Tom, Polly's dearest
cousin, who had just left her after a long visit; and she missed him
sadly.
"And," says Polly, "I do not think I should care for it if he were
here, if I could have nothing but apples. I'm tired of them. I have
eaten one of every kind in the garden to-day, even the great yellow
ones by the lower gate. I think they're disagreeable; but I left them
till the very last, and then I was afraid they would feel sorry to be
left out. I think I will eat another, though; and I will not have a
party--it's a trouble. Which kind would you take, grandmother?"
"One of the very smallest," says the old lady, laughing; "but stop a
moment. I have one I'll give you;" and she took a beauty from her
pocket, and threw it on the grass by Polly.
"That's the very prettiest apple I ever saw," says the child. "Where
did you get it? Not off our trees. 'Father gave it to you?' and where
did he find it?"
Grandmother did not know.
[Illustration: LITTLE POLLY.]
After admiring her apple a little more, Polly eats it in a most
deliberate manner, enjoying every bite as if it were the first she had
eaten that day, and when she has finished it, gives a contented little
sigh, and sits looking at the fine brown seeds which she holds in
her hand. Presently she says, earnestly,--
"Grandmother!"
"What now, Polly?"
"I wish I had that dear little apple's two brothers and two sisters,
and I would put them in the doll's chest until to-morrow; I wouldn't
eat them to-day, you know."
"I will tell you what you can do," says grandmother. "Are those seeds
in your hand? Go find Dorothy, and ask her to give you the empty
flower-pot from the high shelf at my window; and then you can fill it
with dark earth from one of the flower-beds, and plant them; then by
and by you will have a tree, and can have plenty of your apple's
children."
That was a happy thought. And Polly puts the seeds carefully on a
leaf, and runs to find Dorothy. Now she comes back with a queer little
Dutch china flower-pot, and sits down on the grass again, and makes a
hole in the soft brown earth with her finger, and drops the fine seeds
in.
For days she watered them, and carried them to sunny places; but at
last she grew very impatient, and one morning, when she was all alone
in the garden, very much provoked that they had not made their
appearance, took a twig and explored; and the first poke brought to
light the little seeds, as shiny and brown as when they left the
apple. It was a great disappointment, and Polly caught them up, and
threw them as far away as she could, and with tears in her eyes ran in
to tell grandmother.
"Ah," said the dear old lady, "it was not time! Thou hast not learned
thy lesson of waiting; and no wonder, when there are few so hard, and
thou art still so young."
Then she sent Polly back to the garden, and the pot was put in its
place, again. And a week or two after, as grandmother was just going
to make room in the earth for a new plant, she saw growing there a
little green sprig, which was not a weed. She listened a moment, and
heard the child's voice outside.
"Polly, my dear, are you sure you scattered all the seeds of your
pretty apple the day you were so provoked at their not having begun to
grow for you?"
The child reddened a little, and turned away.
"I don't know, grandmother. I think so; I wished to then."
How delighted she was when the old lady showed her the treasure, and
how carefully it was watched and tended! For one little seed had been
buried deeper than the rest, and now in the sunshine of grandmother's
wide window it had come up. Every pleasant day it was placed somewhere
in the sun, and at night it was always carried to Polly's own room.
Her dolls and other old play-house friends, formerly much honored, and
of great consequence, were quite neglected for "the apple tree," as
she always called the tiny thing with its few bits of leaves.
And now we must leave the Brentons' old stone house and the garden.
All this happened in the days of King Charles I., when there was a
great war, and the country in a highly discordant state. Polly's
father was on the king's side, and one day he did something which was
considered particularly unpardonable by his enemies, and at night he
came riding from Oxford in the greatest hurry he had ever been in; and
riding after him were some of Cromwell's men. It was bright moonlight,
and as he rode in the paved yard the great dogs in their kennels began
to bark, and that waked Polly's mother, in a terrible fright at
hearing her husband's voice, and sure something undesirable had
happened.
Squire Brenton hurried in to tell her, in as few words as possible,
what he had done, and that he was followed, and had just time to say
good by, and take another horse, and rush on to the sea, where he
hoped to find a fishing-boat, by means of which he could escape.
"And you," said he, "had better take Polly and one of the men, and
ride to your cousin Matthew's; for in their rage at my escape, they
may mean to burn my house. I little thought a month ago,--when he
offered you 'a safe home,' and I laughed in his face, and said, 'Give
your good wife the same message; for she may not find your house so
safe as mine by and by,'--that you would need to accept so soon."
"But I cannot go there now," said Mistress Brenton; "for cousin
Matthew is away with the Roundhead army, and his wife and sister have
gone to the north. I'll go with you. Listen: I heard one of the maids
say to-day that a ship sails to-morrow at daybreak from the bay by
Dunner's with a company of Puritans for Holland, on their way to one
of the American colonies. We will go for a time to our friends in
Amsterdam, and be quite safe."
Anything was better than staying where he was; and Squire Brenton,
bidding her hurry, went to the stables with his tired horse, and
waking one of his men whom he could trust, told him why he was there,
and to say, when the men came, that he was in Oxford yesterday, when
they had a letter, and that Mistress Brenton had gone north to some
friends. He gave him some messages for his brother, and then, sending
him out to a field with the horse he had been riding, which would
certainly have betrayed him, he went back to the yard, trying to keep
the two fresh horses still, while he listened, fearing every moment to
hear his pursuers coming down the road.
Presently out came Mistress Brenton, carrying some bundles of
clothing, and a few little things besides, and wrapped in a great
riding cloak; and at her side walked Polly, very sleepy, and looking
wonderingly in the faces of the others, and asking all manner of
childish questions.
Suddenly she ran back to the house, just as her father was going to
lift her on his horse; and when she came back, what do you think she
had? Together in a little bag were her doll and kitten, and one arm
held tightly her little apple tree, wrapped in some garment of her own
which she had found lying near it.
And then they rode away. The poor child, after begging them to go to
her uncle's, so she might say good by to grandmother, fell asleep,
holding fast her treasures all the while.
There was a faint glimmer of light over the sea as they neared the
shore, and they saw anchored at a little distance a small ship, and
could see the men moving about her deck; for the wind had risen. Mr.
Brenton found a man whom he knew, in whose charge he left the horses,
and then a fisherman rowed them to the vessel.
The captain was nowhere to be seen, and the sailors paid no attention
to them as they came on deck in the chilly morning twilight; and they
went immediately below, and hid themselves in a dark corner, thinking
they might have to go ashore if discovered, and that it was best to
keep out of sight until it was too late to turn back. In the darkness
they fell asleep. This may seem very strange; but remembering the long
ride, and the fright they had been in, and that now they felt safe, we
can hardly wonder. At any rate, it was the middle of the afternoon
before Colonel Brenton--I think I have never given him his title
before--made his appearance on deck, to the great astonishment of the
captain and all the other people, who knew him more or less. He told
the captain what had happened, saying at the end he would pay him
double the usual passage money to Holland, where he meant to stay for
a while; and at this the rough man really turned pale.
"Holland, _Holland_!" said he; "do you not see we're going down the
Channel? We are bound direct for America."
The story says that Colonel Brenton was almost beside himself, and
offered large sums of money to be taken back, or to France; but the
captain would not consent, saying that they had made good progress,
and it was late in the year. The ship would come back in the spring,
and he must content himself.
Those of the ship's company who knew our friends had great wonderings
at their having turned Puritans, until they knew the true state of
affairs. Must not it have been dreadful news to Mistress Brenton, and
was it not really a dreary prospect--a dreary journey in that frail
ship, and at the end a cold, forlorn country? and all the stories of
the Indians' cruelties to the settlers came to her mind. They could
not, in all probability, return for many months. No one whom she cared
particularly for would be there to welcome them. Polly did not take it
very much to heart, though she cried a little because she was not to
go to Holland, which she had heard so much of from her grandmother and
Dorothy. It was a great many days before they gave up their hope of
falling in with some vessel to which they might be transferred; and
the first two weeks were sunshiny and pleasant, with a good wind. But
soon it grew bleaker and colder, and they suffered greatly. All
through the pleasant days, Polly had been having a very enjoyable
time. There were several children on board, and they had games around
the deck and in the cabin.
It was delightful to have the kitten, who had a cord tied around her
neck; and when she was not in Polly's arms, she was generally anchored
for safety in the cabin. Every day she had part of her little
mistress's dinner; and though she missed the garden, and the dead
leaves that nestled about the walks, and made such nice playthings,
and the sedate old family cat, her mother, and her mother's numerous
poor relations who lived in the stables, she was by no means unhappy.
And the doll's expression was as complacent as ever, though she had
worn one gown an astonishing length of time. But if you could have
seen the care the little tree received! It was carefully wrapped in
the same little cloak Polly put round it the night they left home, and
only on the warmest days it was taken on deck to have the sunshine;
and every day it had part of Polly's small allowance of water; and
when the kitten had had its share, there would often be very little
left.
The weary days went slowly by. The ship was slow at the best, and the
winds were contrary. The provisions grew less and less, and the water
was almost exhausted. Two people--a man, and a child Polly had grown
very fond of--died, and were buried in the sea. The sky was cold and
gray, and it snowed and rained, and every one looked sad and
disheartened. It was terribly desolate. Polly could not often go on
deck, for the frozen spray and rain made it very slippery and
dangerous there; and her mother told story after story, and did her
best to shorten the longest December days she had ever known. And soon
there came a terrible bereavement. One night there was a great storm,
and the dearly-beloved kitten, frightened to death by the things
rolling about, and the pitching of the ship, broke the cord and rushed
out in the darkness, and never was seen any more. I think a little cat
has never been so mourned since the world began. That night, the Dutch
flower-pot, with its leafless twig, went rolling about the cabin
floor, and half the earth was scattered in the folds of its
wrappings, and carefully replaced next morning.
But at last the voyage was ended; they saw land, and finally came
close to it and went ashore, Polly with her dear doll and something
else rolled up in a little gray cloak. The ship was to stay until
spring; and there seemed no hope of getting back to England until
then. It was hard to decide what to do; but at last Colonel Brenton
heard of some men whom he had known, who had been made prisoners in
some of the battles in the north of England and sent to the
Massachusetts colony by Cromwell, who had feared to imprison them.
They had been sent to the settlement in York.
So the Brentons joined a party going there, or to places beyond. It
was the last of January that they came to York, and were warmly
welcomed at the great garrison, where they lived till spring. Polly
found a very nice child to play with. There had been a good harvest,
and the Indians were uncommonly peaceable. They had great log fires in
the wide fireplace in the east room; and for a winter in those times,
it was very comfortable. The flower-pot was deposited in a chink of
the great chimney. Polly had insisted upon bringing it with her; and
though "the tree" at that time was a slender little straight stick,
she had firm faith that spring time would give it leaves again. And
strange to say, she was not disappointed; for all the exposure had not
destroyed it. The first of June came, and they were still living in
the garrison-house, looking every day for a messenger to tell them the
ship was ready to go back. Some people on their way to one of the
eastern settlements, early in April, had told them there were no signs
of her sailing; and since then they had heard nothing. How dismayed
they were, early in June, to find the ship had sailed nearly two
months before! It seemed as if everything was against them; and they
could live no longer in the garrison. So the Brentons had a little log
house near by, and "the squire" worked every day in the great field
down towards the river. It must have been such a strange life for
them! and I suppose their thoughts often went back to the dear English
home. When Mistress Brenton looked from the small window in her log
house out over half-cleared fields, and saw the garrison-house, and
her husband working among the hills of corn with his gun close by,
every now and then looking anxiously about him, she would remember the
wide window, with its cushioned seat, in her own room at home, and the
sunny garden, with the flowers and bees, and the maids and men singing
and chattering in the distance, and the dear voice of grandmother
singing the old church hymns. It was a great change; but days much
more forlorn than these were yet to come.
The Indians came around the settlement in large numbers, and no one
dared to be out alone. At night the people waked in fear at the
slightest noise; and in the daytime it was after the same fashion.
News came of whole settlements having been murdered or made captives,
and some of their own neighbors disappeared finally; and then the
suspense was terrible. At last, one day Mrs. Brenton had gone up to
the garrison to see one of the women, who was ill, and most of the men
were in the field. Polly went with her mother; but the women were
talking over something about the king and Parliament, which she found
very uninteresting, and soon she unfastened the great outer door, and
unwisely ran out with her doll in her arms, and went down to the field
to see the men at work. But on her way, she bethought herself of a
charming stump she had seen out at one side of the path, and went to
visit it. None of the men happened to see her. She talked to the
doll, and made a throne for her of the soft moss growing around her,
and had been playing there some time, when suddenly she heard shouts,
and thought they must be killing a snake, and looked up to see all the
men running up the hill to the garrison, with a great many Indians
chasing them; and she heard a gun fired, and saw one of the men who
had petted and been very kind to her, and told her stories, fall to
the ground. Ah, how frightened she was!
The doll was snatched from her throne, and the poor little girl ran
towards the garrison, too, right towards the Indians. It was weary
work running over the rough ground,--and the tall grass was not much
better,--and then on, up the hill. By this time the men had succeeded
in getting in; and the wicked-looking Indians, after a yell of
disappointment, turned to go back to the one who lay dead on the
hill-side, and to escape the bullets which would come in a moment from
the loopholes. O, if she could only get by them!
Up the hill she hurried as fast as the poor tired little feet could
carry her, hugging the doll, almost breathless, with the great tears
falling very fast, and still crying, "Wait, father!"
I am glad I know one kind thing the Indians of those days did. As they
turned, they saw her coming, and some hurried forward a little to
seize her; and it would have been so easy. But one spoke, and they all
stopped, and laughed, and shouted, and the child got safely in.
Then the Indians went to the Brentons' house, and some others, and
burned them; but luckily the apple tree was at the play-house, by a
large rock, at a little distance, and the wind was not in that
direction; and after they disappeared, it was brought up to the fort,
safe and sound.
It soon grew tall and strong, and in a little while was entirely too
large for its pot; and finally Polly was forced to put it in the
ground. It was hard to do it; for she had cared for it, and loved it
so long, and this was giving it up, in a measure. And I think if she
had understood that now it must be left behind, it would have been
almost impossible to have persuaded her. Her father comforted her by
telling her he could get quantities of the apples not very far from
home, and she could plant more seeds as soon as she liked, or, far
better than that, he would graft a tree.
In September, news came that a ship was going to the east coast of
England; and they were all heartily glad, in spite of the long,
dangerous voyage; and leaving the York friends, who had been so kind,
and whom they would probably never see any more, Polly gave the little
tree to a Masterson child, her great friend, who promised to wrap it
in straw for winter, and to be very kind to it and fond of it. And I
think she must have been faithful to her charge. Mistress Brenton laid
some of the leaves in the little book she had had in her pocket that
night, almost a year ago, when they left home. So they went to Boston,
and sailed for the old country.
I know nothing more of them; but we will hope their voyage was a short
and easy one, and that they reached home on a pleasant, sunny day, and
grandmother was there, and Dorothy, and all the people, and Polly had
stories to tell as wonderful as Dorothy's, and all true, and that they
were all happy forever after.
A while ago I stood on the hill with an old farmer, eating one of a
pocketful of apples he had given me, and said how very nice it was,
and that I had never seen any like it.
"There are none of my apples sell half so well," said he. "I've forty
young trees that have been bearing a few years; and over to the right
you see some old ones. Mine were grafted from those and my father
took his grafts from an old tree I'd like to show you;" and as we
walked towards it, he said, "It looks, and I guess it is, as old as
any around here. My father always said it was brought from England in
a flower-pot by some of the first settlers. Perhaps you have heard the
story. It's very shaky. The high winds last fall were pretty hard on
it. It will never bear again, I am afraid. I set a good deal by the
old thing. The very first thing I can remember is my father's lifting
me up to one of the lower limbs, and I was frightened and cried. I
believe I think more of that tree than of anything on my farm. My wife
always laughs at me about it. Well, it has lasted my time. I'm old and
shaky, too; and I suppose my sons won't miss this much, and will like
the young orchard best."
"And you and I like your orchard's grandmother," said I.
S. O. J.
ROUGH.
He was a donkey, and we called him Rough. He belonged to Gerald and
me. We didn't keep him for his useful qualities, and we certainly
didn't keep him for his moral qualities; and I don't know what we did
keep him for, unless, for the best reason in the world, that we loved
him.
He was always getting us into scrapes, the most renowned of which was
one Rough's enemies were fond of alluding to.
We were bidden to a christening one fair spring morning; and we not
only accepted the invitation, but promised to bring apple-blossoms, to
fill the font and make the church look gay. We had an old apple
orchard, that bore beautiful blossoms, but worthless fruit; and of
these blossoms we had leave to pick as many as we chose.
So we filled the donkey-cart with them, and set forth for the
christening, which was to be at a little church about a mile or more
distant from our farm. Rough's enemies will tell how we arrived when
the christening was all over, and our apple blossoms faded.
We were never so happy as when we had a whole leisure afternoon to go
off with Rough in the donkey-cart, and our little sister Daisy by
Gerald's side, on the board that served as seat, and I lying on my
back on the bottom of the cart, with my heels dangling out of it. So I
would lie for hours, whistling and looking up at the drifting clouds,
or with my hat over my eyes to keep out the sun.
One afternoon, early in March, when the roads were almost knee deep in
mud, and the last of the melting snow made a running stream on either
side of the road, we were slowly travelling along after the manner I
have described. We were going to take a longing look at the skating
pond, two miles from our farm. We were forbidden to try the dangerous
ice, but meant only to look upon the scene of our winter's delight.
"Some one's in the pond!" cried Daisy.
"How do ye know?" said I, not removing my hat from my face.
You see Daisy was only six years old, and I hadn't much faith in her
observation.
"Cos I sees 'em with my own eyes."
I jumped up and looked. It was only a hat I saw. Gerald meanwhile
said nothing, but had pulled up Rough (who not only stopped, but lay
down in the mud), and looked. I watched him, to see what he thought,
or proposed to do.
[Illustration: {A child collecting flowers together}]
People had a way of trusting to Gerald's judgment rather than their
own, and were generally better off for it.
"It _is_ some one in the pond," said Gerald; and then followed a short
discussion as to whether we should leave Daisy alone to the mercies of
Rough, which resulted in our leaving Rough, and taking Daisy along
with us down to the pond.
We could see a boy, apparently about Gerald's age, swimming and
striving to keep up, and catching at the ice, which broke as he clung
to it. He swam feebly, as if benumbed and wearied.
"Keep a brave heart!" roared Gerald; "we'll save you!" and then began
to take off his boots and coat. The boy sank--under the ice, this
time. We could see it bobbing up and down as he swam beneath it.
"Stay here till I call you," said Gerald to me, as he stepped from the
shore on to the ice, and walked out towards where the swimmer was
hidden by the ice. I stood breathless, with my eye on Gerald.
The ice began to crack under him. He lay down on his stomach, and
pulled himself forward with his hands. Up came the swimmer not far
from him.
"Keep up! Gerald will save you!" cried Daisy.
The poor fellow cast one despairing look at Gerald, and sank again.
Gerald had gone as far as was practicable on the ice. I could hear it
cracking all over, and see the white cracks darting suddenly over ice
that had looked safe.
Up came the boy again.
"Keep up! keep up!" cried Daisy, in an excited treble. "Gerald will
save you!"
But the boy could hear nothing. He had his eyes closed, and seemed to
have fainted. Gerald reached out, and clutched him by the arm. How the
ice cracked all about him! My heart was in my mouth; I thought he was
in. I began to take my coat off.
"A scarf!" said Gerald, speaking for the first time.
I took off my own, and picked up Gerald's from the ground, and tied
them firmly together. I saw that they were too short. Daisy offered
hers. I took it, with an inward fear, if the child should catch cold;
it seemed paltry to think of it at such a moment. I stepped out on the
ice, and went a few steps, when Gerald cried,--
"Stop!"
I obeyed like a soldier.
"Throw it now!"
I threw the long string of scarfs. Gerald dexterously caught it, and
upholding the poor boy with one hand, with the other passed the string
under his arms, and tied the ends of it to his own arm. Then he paused
a moment before attempting the hazardous work of coming ashore, and
looked at me speculatively. I knew what he meant. There was a shadow
of trouble in his face that had nothing to do with his own danger. He
was weighing the possibility of his falling in, and my doing the same
in trying to save him, and Daisy alone on the shore. I gave a cheering
"Go ahead, old fellow!" and he began to push himself back again,
dragging his senseless burden after him by the scarf tied to his arm.
Crack! crack! crack! went the ice all about him, and little tides of
water flooded it. At last it seemed a little firmer. Gerald rose to
his feet, and dragging the boy still in the water after him, began to
walk slowly towards the shore, not seeming to notice how the sharp
edges of the ice cut the face and forehead of the poor half-drowned
boy.
Again the ice began to crack and undulate. Gerald stood still for a
moment, and the piece on which he stood broke away from the rest, and
began to float out. He jumped to the next, which broke, and so to the
next, and the next, till he neared the shore. Then he paused a moment,
and looked at me.
"Go ashore!" he roared like a sea captain.
Then I noticed that I stood on a detached piece of ice, but nearer
land than Gerald. I found no difficulty in gaining the shore.
"Now stand firm and give a hand!" said Gerald.
I grasped his hand, and he jumped ashore, and together we lifted the
boy out of the water. Daisy burst into tears, crying,--
"O, Gerald, Gerald, I thought you'd be drowned!"
Gerald very gently put her clinging arms away from him, saying,
firmly,--
"Don't cry, Daisy. We have our hands full with this poor fellow."
I got the skates off the "poor fellow," and gave them to Daisy to
hold. She, brave little woman, gulped down her tears, and only gave
vent to her emotion, now and then, by a little suppressed sob. Gerald
began beating the hands and breathing into the mouth and nostrils of
the seeming lifeless form before us.
"Is he dead, Gery?" said I.
"No!" said Gerald, fiercely. It was evident that he wouldn't believe
he had gone through so much trouble to bring a dead man ashore. "Look
for his handkerchief, and see if there's a mark on it."
I fished a wet rag out of the wet trousers pocket, and found in one
corner of it the name "Stevens."
"There's a farmer of that name two miles farther on. I don't know any
one else of that name. Must be his son. We'll take him home;" and he
began wrapping his coat about the poor boy; but I insisted on mine
being used for the purpose, as Gerald was half wet, and his teeth were
already chattering. "We must get him off this wet ground as soon as
possible," said Gerald; and together we lifted him, and slowly and
laboriously bore him to the donkey-cart in the road.
By this time Gerald had only strength enough to hold the reins, and we
set out forthwith for the Stevens farm, I, with what help Daisy could
give, trying to bring some show of life back to the stranger. Perhaps
the jolting of the cart helped,--I don't know,--but by and by he began
to revive, and at last we propped him up in one corner of the cart,
with his head supported by Daisy's knee.
I shall not soon forget how long the road seemed, and how I got out
and walked in deep mud, and how, when poor Rough seemed straining
every muscle to make the little cart move at all, Gerald insisted on
getting out, too, and leading Rough; how the sun set as we were wading
through a long road, where willow trees grew thick on either side, and
Daisy said, "See; all the little pussies are out!" how, at last, we
reached the Stevens farm, and restored the half-drowned boy to his
parents. I remember, too, how they were so utterly absorbed, very
naturally, in the welfare of their boy, as to forget all about us, and
offer us no quicker means of return home than our donkey-cart.
They came to call on us the next day, and to thank us, and specially
Gerald, with tears of gratitude. And Gerald was a hero in the village
from that day forth.
I remember well how dark it grew as we waded slowly and silently
home, and how poor little Rough did his very best, and never stopped
once.
I think he understood the importance of the occasion; but those who
were not Rough's friends, believe it was a recollection, and
expectation of supper, that made him acquit himself so honorably.
As we neared our home, we saw a tall figure looming up in the dark,
and soon, by the voice, we knew it was Michael, one of the farm hands,
sent to seek us.
"Bluder an nouns," he exclaimed, "it is you, Mister Gery! An' yer
muther, poor leddy, destroyed wid the fright. An' kapin' the chilt out
to this hair. Hadn't ye moor sense?"
We explained briefly; and Daisy begged to be carried, as the cart was
all wet.
With many Irish expressions of sympathy, Michael took the child in his
arms; and so we arrived at home, and found father and mother half
distracted with anxiety, and the farm hands sent in all directions to
look for us. We were at once, all three of us, put to bed, and made to
drink hot lemonade, and have hot stones at our feet, and not till then
tell all our experiences, which were listened to eagerly.
Daisy escaped unhurt, I with a slight cold, but Gerald and poor little
Rough were the ones who suffered. Gerald had a severe attack of
pneumonia, from which we had much ado to bring him back to health, and
Rough was ill. They brought us the news from the stable on the next
morning. We couldn't tell what was the matter; perhaps he had strained
himself, perhaps had caught cold. We could not tell, nor could the
veterinary surgeon we brought to see him. Poor Rough lay ill for
weeks, and one bright spring morning he died.
They told us early in the morning, before we were out of bed, how, an
hour ago, Rough had died.
[Illustration: THE MUSIC LESSON.]
THE MUSIC LESSON.
Touch the keys _lightly_,
Nellie, my dear:
The noise makes Johnnie
Impatient, I fear.
He looks very cross,
I am sorry to see--
Not looking at all
As a brother should be.
Whatever you're doing,
Bear this always in mind:
In all _little things_
Be both _thoughtful_ and _kind_.
THE FROST.
The frost looked forth one still clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I'll take my way:
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept:
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,
By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things: there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers, and these
All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair:
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare--
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."
[Illustration: {A woman and two children with a calf}]
MY PICTURE.
I have a little picture;
Perchance you have one too.
Mine is not set in frame of gold;
'Tis first a bit of blue,
And then a background of dark hills--
A river just below,
Along whose broad, green meadow banks
The wreathing elm trees grow.
Upon an overhanging ridge
A little farm-house stands,
Whose owner, like the man of old,
Has builded "on the sands;"
And yet, defying storms and wind,
It stands there all alone,
And brightens up the landscape
With a beauty of its own.
Fairy-like my picture changes
As the seasons come and go.
Now it glows 'neath summer's kisses;
Now it sleeps 'mid winter's snow.
I can see the breath of spring-time
In the river's deeper blue,
And autumn seems to crown it
With her very brightest hue.
Ah. I'd not exchange my picture
For the choicest gem of art;
Yet I must not claim it wholly;
It is only mine in part;
For 'tis one of nature's sketches--
A waif from that Great Hand
Which hath filled our earth with models
Of the beautiful and grand.
WHY?
Why are the blossoms
Such different hues?
And the waves of the sea
Such a number of blues?
So many soft greens
Flit over the trees?
And little gray shadows
Fly out on the breeze?
Why are the insects
So wondrously fair;
Illumining grasses
And painting the air?
You dear little shells,
O, why do you shine?
And feathery sea-weed
Grow fragile and fine?
Why are the meadows
Such gardens of grace,
With infinite beauty
In definite space?
Each separate grass
A world of delight?
O, food for the cattle,
Why are you so bright?
Why are our faces
Such lovable things,
With lips made for kisses,
And laughter that sings?
With eyes full of love,
That sparkle and gleam,
Through beautiful colors,
That change like a dream?
Think for a moment--
Look up to the sky;
Question your heart; it
Will answer the Why!
Bright is the glitter
Of beauty unfurled--
Boundless the love that
Has fashioned the world!
BIRDS.
The wisdom of God is seen in every part of creation, and especially
in the different kinds of birds. The beauty displayed in their
graceful forms and varied colors strikes every beholder, while the
adaptation of their organs for the purposes of flight, their peculiar
habits and modes of living, are a constant source of admiration to the
student of nature.
Almost everything about the shape of a bird fits it for moving rapidly
in the air, and all parts of its body are arranged so as to give it
lightness along with strength. The soft and delicate plumage of birds
protects them from cold or moisture; their wings, though so delicate,
are furnished with muscles of such power as to strike the air with
great force, whilst their tails act like the rudder of a ship, so that
they can direct their course at pleasure with the utmost ease.
The internal structure of a bird also is such as to help it to sustain
itself in, and to fly quickly through, the air. Its lungs are pierced
with large holes, which allow air to pass into cavities in the breast,
and even into the interior of the bones. It is thus not only rendered
buoyant, but is enabled to breathe even while in rapid motion. Two
sparrows, it is said, require as much air to maintain their breathing
properly as a guinea pig.
In many other ways the skill and goodness of God are seen in the "fowl
of the air." Their necks and beaks are long, and very movable, so that
they may readily pick up food and other objects from the ground. The
muscles of their toes are so arranged that the simple weight of the
body closes them, and they are able, in consequence, to sit on a perch
a long time without fatigue. Even in a violent wind a bird easily
retains its hold of the branch or twig on which it is sitting. Their
bills are of almost all forms: in some kinds they are straight; in
others curved, sometimes upwards and sometimes downwards; in others
they are flat; in some they are in the form of a cone, wedge-shaped,
or hooked. The bill enables a bird to take hold of its food, to strip
or divide it. It is useful also in carrying materials for its nest, or
food to its young; and in the birds of prey, such as the owl, the
hawk, the falcon, eagle, etc., the beak is a formidable weapon of
attack.
The nostrils of birds are usually of an oval form, and are placed near
the base of the beak. Their eyes are so constructed that they can see
near and distant objects equally well, and their sight is very acute.
The sparrow-hawk discerns the small birds which are its prey at an
incredible distance. No tribe of birds possesses an outward ear,
except those which seek their food by night; these have one in the
form of a thin, leathery piece of flesh. The inside ear, however, is
very large, and their hearing is very quick.
[Illustration: BIRD'S NEST.]
Another admirable feature in the structure of birds consists in their
feathers. These are well adapted for security, warmth, and freedom of
motion. The larger feathers of the body are placed over each other
like the slates on the roof of a house, so that water is permitted to
run off, and cold is kept out. The down, which is placed under the
feathers, is a further protection against the cold; and hence it is
most abundant in those species that are found in northern climates.
The feathery covering of birds forms their peculiar beauty: on this,
in the warm climates, Nature bestows her most delicate and brightest
colors.
[Illustration: {An apteryx, or kiwi}]
Another point which sets forth the resources of Infinite Wisdom is the
structure and uses of the wings of birds. The size of the wings is not
always in proportion to the bulk of their bodies, but is accommodated
to their habits of living. Accordingly, birds of prey, swallows, and
such birds as are intended to hover long in the air, have much longer
wings, in proportion to their size, than hens, ducks, quails, etc. In
some, such as the ostrich, the cassiowary, and the penguin, the
largest quill-feathers of the wing are entirely wanting.
Then, again, how varied is the flight of birds! The falcon soars above
the clouds, and remains in the air for many hours without any sign of
exertion. The swallow, the lark, and other species, sail long
distances with little effort. Others, like the sparrow and the
humming-bird, have a fluttering flight. Some, as the owl, fly without
any noise; and some, like the partridge, with a loud whir.
"Around the head
Of wandering swain the white-winged plover wheels
Her sounding flight, and then directly on
In long excursion skims the level lawn,
To tempt him from her nest."
How graceful are the motions of the hawk, sweeping higher and higher
in circles, as he surveys far and wide the expanse of fields and
meadows below, in which he hopes to espy his prey. Our paper would be
too long were we to say even a little about the roosting, the
swimming, or running, the migration, the habits and instincts, the
varied notes and pleasant songs, of the endless species of birds.
All these subjects are well worthy of being carefully studied; for
they all show the design of their Creator. The extraordinary creature
represented in the engraving is the "Apteryx," or "wingless bird" of
New Zealand. It was not known to European naturalists till of late
years, and for a long time the accounts which the natives of New
Zealand gave of it were discredited. A specimen of it, preserved in
brine, was, however, brought to this country, and a full description
of the bird given.
The kirvi-kirvi, as the New Zealanders call it, stands about two feet
high. Its wings are so small that they can scarcely be called wings,
and are not easy to find under the general plumage of the body. Its
nostrils, strange to say, are at the tip of the beak. The toes are
strong, and well adapted for digging, the hind one being a thick,
horny spur. To add to the singularity of this creature, it has no tail
whatever. The kirvi-kirvi conceals itself among the extensive beds of
fern which abound in the middle island of New Zealand, and it makes a
nest of fern for its eggs in deep holes, which it hollows out of the
ground. It feeds on insects, and particularly worms, which it disturbs
by stamping on the ground, and seizes the instant they make their
appearance. Night is the season when it is most active; and the
natives hunt it by torchlight. When pursued, it elevates its head,
like an ostrich, and runs with great swiftness. It defends itself,
when overtaken, with much spirit, inflicting dangerous blows with its
strong spur-armed feet.
In this instance, as in all others, God has wisely adapted the very
shape and limbs of the creature to the habits by which it was intended
to be distinguished.
F. F. E.
KINDNESS REWARDED.
When Agrippa was in a private station, he was accused, by one of his
servants, of having spoken injuriously of Tiberius, and was condemned
by that emperor to be exposed in chains before the palace gate. The
weather was very hot, and Agrippa became excessively thirsty. Seeing
Thaumastus, a servant of Caligula, pass by him with a pitcher of
water, he called to him, and entreated leave to drink. The servant
presented the pitcher with much courtesy; and Agrippa, having allayed
his thirst, said to him,--
"Assure thyself, Thaumastus, that if I get out of this captivity, I
will one day pay thee well for this draught of water."
Tiberius dying, his successor, Caligula, soon after not only set
Agrippa at liberty, but made him king of Judea. In this high situation
Agrippa was not unmindful of the glass of water given to him when a
captive.
He immediately sent for Thaumastus, and made him controller of his
household.
[Illustration: {People gathering hay}]
A DREAM OF SUMMER.
West wind and sunshine
Braided together,
What is the one sign
But pleasant weather?
Birds in the cherry-trees,
Bees in the clover;
Who half so gay as these
All the world over?
Violets among the grass,
Roses regretting
How soon the summer 'll pass,--
Next year forgetting.
Buds sighing in their sleep,
"Summer, pray grant us
Youth, that its bloom will keep
Fragrance to haunt us!"
Rivulets that shine and sing,
Sunbeams abetting,--
No more remembering
Their frozen fretting.
Sweet music in the wind,
Sun in the showers;
All these we're sure to find
In summer hours.
MARY N. PRESCOTT.
[Illustration: SUMMER FLOWERS.]
EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING.
"Please, Mr. Mate has _that_ cloud a silver lining?"
The question was asked by little Kate Vale, the daughter of an
emigrant, who, with her mother, was following her father, who had gone
before to New York. Katie was a quiet, gentle little child, who gave
trouble to no one. She had borne the suffering of seasickness at the
beginning of the voyage so patiently, and now took the rough sea-fare
so thankfully, that she had made a fast friend of Tom Bolton, the
mate. Bolton had a warm, kindly heart, and one of the children whom he
had left in England was just the age of Katie; this inclined him all
the more to show her kindness. Katie often had a piece of Bolton's
sea-biscuit; he told her tales which he called "long yarns," and
sometimes in rough weather he would wrap his thick jacket around her,
to keep the chill from her thinly-clad form. Katie was not at all
afraid of Bolton, or "Mr. Mate," as she called him, and she took hold
of his hard brown hand as she asked the question,--
"Has that cloud a silver lining?"
Bolton glanced up at a very black, lowering cloud, which seemed to
blot the sun quite out of that part of the sky.
"Why do you ask me, Kate?" said the sailor.
"Because mother often says that every cloud has a silver lining, and
that one looks as if it had none."
Tom Bolton gave a short laugh.
"None that we can see," he replied; "for the cloud is right atween us
and the sun. If we could look at the upper part, where the bright
beams fall, we should see yon black cloud like a great mass of silvery
mother-o'-pearl, just like those that you yesterday called shining
mountains of snow."
Katie turned round, and raising her eyes, watched for some minutes
the gloomy cloud. It was slowly moving towards the west, and as it did
so, the sun behind it began to edge all its dark outline with
brightness.
"See, see!" exclaimed Katie; "it is turning out the edge of its silver
lining. If I were up there in the sky, I suppose that all would look
beautiful then. But I don't know why mother should take comfort from
talking of the clouds and their linings."
The mother, Mrs. Vale, who was standing near, leaning against the
bulwarks, heard the last words of her child, and made reply,--
"Because we have many clouds of sorrow here to darken our lives, and
our hearts would often fail us but for the thought, 'There is a bright
side to every trial sent to the humble believer.'"
And Mrs. Vale repeated the beautiful lines,--
"Yon clouds, a mass of sable shade
To mortals gazing from below,
By angels from above surveyed,
With universal brightness glow."
Katie did not quite understand the verse, but she knew how patiently
and meekly her mother had borne sudden poverty, the sale of her goods,
and the bitter parting from her beloved husband. Bolton also had been
struck by the pious courage of one who had had a large share of
earthly trials.
"_Your_ clouds at least seem to be edged with silver," he observed,
with a smile; and as he spoke, the glorious beams of the sun burst
from behind the black mass of cloud, making widening streams of light
up the sky, which, as Katie remarked, looked like paths up to heaven.
The vessel arrived at New York, after rather a rough voyage, and Mrs.
Vale, to her great delight, found her husband ready at the port to
receive her. He brought her good tidings also. A fortnight before her
landing he had procured a good situation, and he was now able to take
her and their child to a comfortable home. Past sorrows now seemed to
be almost forgotten.
[Illustration: {Katie and Bolton on the deck of the ship}]
Bolton, who, during a trying voyage, had shown much kindness to Mrs.
Vale as well as to Katie, was invited during his stay at New York to
make their house his home. He had much business to do as long as he
remained in the great city, so saw little of the Vales except in the
evenings, when he shared their cheerful supper, and then knelt down
with them at family prayers. The mate learned much of the peace and
happiness which piety brings while he dwelt under the emigrant's roof.
But ere long the day arrived when Bolton's vessel, the Albion, was to
start for England. She was to weigh anchor at one o'clock, and at
midday the mate bade good by to his emigrant friends.
"A pleasant journey to you, and a speedy return; we'll be glad to see
you back here," said Henry Vale, as he shook the mate by the hand.
Bolton's journey was to be much shorter, and his return much more
speedy than he wished, or his friends expected. He was hastening down
to the pier to join his vessel, when he saw hanging up in a shop
window a curious basket, made of some of the various nuts of the
country prettily strung together.
"That's just the thing to take my Mary's fancy," said the mate to
himself. "I've a present for every one at home but for her; it won't
take two minutes to buy that basket."
Great events often hang upon very small hooks. If Bolton had not
turned back to buy the basket, he would not have been passing a house
on which masons were working at the very moment when a ladder,
carelessly placed against it, happened to fall with a crash. The
ladder struck Bolton, and he fell on the pavement so much stunned by
the shock, that he had to be carried in a senseless state into the
shop of an apothecary.
Happily no bones were broken, but it was nearly an hour before the
mate recovered the use of his senses. He then opened his eyes, raised
his head, and stared wildly around him, as if wondering to find
himself in a strange place, and trying to think how he came to be
there. Bolton pressed his aching forehead, seeking to recall to his
memory what had happened, for he felt like one in a dream. Soon his
glance fell on the clock in the apothecary's shop, and at the same
instant the clock struck _one_! Bolton started to his feet, as if the
chime of the little bell had been the roar of a cannon.
"The Albion sails at one!" cried the mate; and without so much as
stopping to look for his oilskin cap, with bandaged brow and
bareheaded, Bolton rushed forth into the street, and, dizzy as he
felt, staggered on towards the pier from which the vessel was to sail.
It was not to be expected that the sailor's course should be a very
straight one, or that with all his haste he should manage to make good
speed. The streets of New York seemed to be more full of traffic than
usual, and twice the mate narrowly escaped being knocked down again by
some vehicle rapidly driven along the road. At last, breathless and
faint, and scarcely able to keep his feet, poor Bolton arrived at the
wharf to which his ship had been moored but an hour before. But the
Albion was there no longer--the vessel had started without the
mate--he could see her white sails in the distance; she was already
on her way back to Old England, and she had left him behind!
This was a greater shock to poor Bolton than the blow from the falling
ladder had been. He stood for several minutes gazing after the ship
with a look of despair, then slowly the sailor returned to the house
of the Vales.
"Nothing more unlucky could possibly have happened," muttered the mate
to himself. "Here's a pretty scrape that I shall get into with my
employers; the mate of their vessel absent just at the time when he
ought to have been at his post! Then I've nothing with me--nothing,
save the clothes that I stand in! All my luggage is now on the waves,
and a precious long time it will be before I shall see it again. But I
don't care so much for the luggage; what I can't bear to think of is
my wife and my children looking out eagerly for the arrival of the
good ship Albion, and then, when she reaches port, finding that no Tom
Bolton is in her! I wish that that stupid basket had been at the
bottom of the sea before ever I set eyes on it!"
Pale, haggard, and looking--as he was--greatly troubled, Bolton
entered the house of the Vales, which he so lately had quitted. The
family were just finishing their dinner; and not a little astonished
were they to see one whom they had believed to be on the wide sea.
"Here I am again, like a bad half-penny," said the sailor; and sitting
down wearily on a chair which Katie placed for him directly, Bolton
gave a short account of what he called the most unlucky mischance that
had ever happened to him in the course of his life.
The Vales felt much for his trouble, and begged him to remain with
them until he could get a passage in some other vessel bound for
England.
[Illustration: THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.]
"And don't take your accident so much to heart," softly whispered
little Katie; "you know mother's favorite proverb--'Every cloud has a
silver lining.'"
"Sometimes, even in this life, we can see the silver edge round the
border," observed Mrs. Vale.
Bolton had too brave a heart and too sensible a mind to give way long
to fretting, though he did not see how so black a cloud as that which
hung over his sky could possibly have anything to brighten its gloom.
He tried to make the best of that which he could not prevent, and
retired to rest that night with a tolerably cheerful face, though with
a violent headache, and a heartache which troubled him more.
Bolton slept very little that night, nor indeed did any one else in
the house; for with the close of day there came on a violent storm
which raged fiercely until the morning. Katie trembled in her little
cot to hear how the gale roared and shrieked in the chimneys, and
rattled the window-frames, and threatened to burst open the doors. The
child raised her head from the pillow, and thanked the Lord that her
sailor friend was not tossing then on the waves.
But far more thankful was Katie when tidings reached New York of what
the storm had done on that terrible night. Bolton was sitting at
breakfast with his friends on the third day after the tempest, when
Vale, who was reading the newspaper, turned to the part headed
"Shipping Intelligence."
"Any news?" inquired Tom Bolton, struck by the expression on the face
of his friend.
Instead of replying, Vale exclaimed, "How little we can tell in this
life what is really for our evil or our good! You called that accident
which prevented your sailing in the Albion an 'unlucky mischance.'"
"Of course I did. My wife and children are impatient to see me--"
"Had you sailed in that ship," interrupted Vale, "they would never
have seen you again. The Albion went down in that storm!"
What was the regret of Tom Bolton on hearing of the disaster, and what
was his thankfulness for his own preservation, I leave the reader to
guess. Often in after days did the little American basket remind him
in his own home of what others might have called the chance that led
him to turn back on his way to the ship, and so caused the accident
which vexed him so much at the time.
GOOD-HUMOR.
I am a first-rate fairy--
"Good-Humor" is my name;
I use my wand where'er I go,
And make the rough ways plain;
And make the ugly faces shine,
The shrillest voices sweet,
The coarsest ore a golden mine,
The poorest lives complete.
[Illustration: {A boy sits reading in an armchair}]
BOOKS AND READING.
I really am in doubt whether or not the young folks ought to be
congratulated in consequence of the great number of juvenile books
which are being placed before them about this time. An excellent book
is certainly excellent company; but there is a limit to all things;
and so we may have too many books, taking it for granted that all are
good ones.
You all know, that, as a general rule, people in America read too
much, and think too little. Reading is a benefit to us only when it
leads to reflection. It is useless when it leaves no lasting
impression on the mind; it is _worse_ than useless if the lesson it
conveys be not a really good one.
Suppose you sit down to a well-furnished table at a hotel to eat your
dinner. The waiter hands you a bill of fare, upon which is printed a
long list of good and wholesome dishes, and then quietly waits until
you order what you wish. You are not expected to eat of every one,
however attractive they may be, but rather to select what you like
best,--enough to make a modest meal,--and let that suffice.
But the selection is not all. If you expect to gain health and
strength by your dinner, you must eat it in a proper manner; that is,
slowly. Otherwise nature's work will be imperfectly done, and your
food become a source of bodily harm, instead of a benefit.
Now, it is precisely so with the food of the mind, which comes to you
through books. You are not expected to read everything which comes
within your reach. You should rather select the best, and, having done
so, read them slowly and carefully. You may read too much as well as
eat too much; and while the one will injure your body, the other will
as certainly harm your mind.
One of the worst evils which too much reading leads to is a habit of
_reading to forget_. You know what a bad habit is, how it clings to
us, when once contracted, and how hard it is to be shaken off. Some
boys and girls read a book entirely through in a single evening, and
the next day are eagerly at work on another, to be as quickly
mastered. No mind, however strong, can stand such a strain. You see at
once that it would be absolutely impossible for them to remember what
they read. And so they read for a momentary enjoyment, and gradually
fall into the habit I have spoken of--reading to forget. I need not
tell you that such a habit is fatal to any very high position in life.
How often we hear parents boast that their children are "great
readers," just as if their intelligence should, in their opinion, be
measured by the number of books and papers which they had read! Need I
say, that, on the contrary, they are objects of pity?
But how much may we read with profit? That is a question not always
easy to answer. Some can read a great deal more than others. Yet, if
young people read slowly, and think a great deal about the subject,
there is very little danger of their reading too much, provided they
select only good books; because good books are very scarce--much more
so in proportion to the number printed than they were twenty years
ago; and there are very few young persons who have too great a supply
of good works placed within their reach.
I have mentioned one evil which results from too much reading, and
will only briefly allude to another equally important. Children who
attend school have no time to devote to worthless books. Their studies
consume many hours. If, aside from the time which should be devoted to
play, to their meals, and the various duties of home, they will read a
useless book every day or two, their health is sure to suffer. The
evil consequences may not be at once apparent, but in later years the
penalty will certainly have to be paid. This reflection alone, if
there were no other reason, should induce the young to discard all
useless books, and read only such as shall have a tendency to make
them wiser and better.
THE CORAL-WORKERS.
The little coral-workers,
By their slow but constant motion,
Have built those pretty islands
In the distant dark-blue ocean;
And the noblest undertakings
Man's wisdom hath conceived
By oft-repeated efforts
Have been patiently achieved.
[Illustration: {Lion carries a baby's basket down some stairs}]
LION THE FIRE DOG.
Lion, who was a cross between a Great St. Bernard and a Newfoundland
dog, came into the possession of the superintendent of the London fire
brigade when he was but twelve months old. His first retreat was in
the engine-house, where, on some old hose and sacking, he made himself
as comfortable as he could, and coiled himself up, like the tubing on
which he lay. Considering that he was thus placed in charge of the
engine-house, he resented the first occasion on which a fire occurred
at night. The fire bell rang, and the firemen crowded to the spot,
prepared to draw forth the engine, when a decided opposition was made
on the part of Lion, who showed a determination to fasten himself on
the first fireman who dared to enter the house. In this way the
faithful dog kept them all at bay until the arrival of his master,
whom he instantly recognized and obeyed. As soon as the horses were
harnessed, and the engine was in motion, Lion bounded along in
company, and was present at his first fire. After that time, he
attended no less than three hundred and thirty-two fires, and not
only attended, but assisted at them, always useful, and sometimes
doing work and saving life, which, but for him, would have been lost.
His chief friends, the firemen, say it would take a long while to tell
all his acts of daring and sagacity; but we must, in justice to his
memory, record some of the most notable.
Whenever the fire bell rang, Lion was immediately on the alert,
barking loudly, as if to spread the dire alarm. Then, as soon as his
master had taken his place on the engine, and before the horses were
off, he led the way, clearing the road and warning every one of the
approach of the engine, and spreading the news of the fire by his loud
voice.
On one occasion, when the horses were tearing along the streets as
fire engine horses alone can, a little child was seen just in front of
the engine. To stop the horses in time was impossible, though the
driver did his best. The brave hearts of the firemen sank within them
as they felt they must drive over the little body. Bystanders raised
their arms and shrieked as they witnessed an impending catastrophe
which they could do nothing to avert. No human help could avail, and
it must needs be that the engine of mercy, on its way to save life,
must sacrifice the life of an innocent, helpless child!
But stay! Human eyes were not the only ones that took in that sad
scene, and that saw the impending doom of the little one. Brave,
sagacious, and fleet, Lion saw at a glance the danger that threatened
the child, and springing forward, he knocked him down; then seizing
him firmly in his jaws, he made for the pavement obliquely, and gently
deposited his charge in the gutter just as the engine went tearing by.
But this was only an incident by the way; Lion's real work began when
the scene of the fire was reached. As soon as the door was opened, or
dashing through the window if there was a delay in opening the door,
the noble animal would run all over the burning house, barking, so as
to arouse the inmates if they were unaware of the danger; and never
would he leave the fire until he had either aroused them or had drawn
the attention of the firemen to them.
Once the firemen could not account for his conduct. Darting into the
burning house,--the ceilings of which had given way,--and then out
again to the firemen, he howled and yelled most loudly. It was
believed that no one was in the house, but Lion's conduct made his
master feel uneasy.
Still nothing could be done by way of entering the house, as the fire
was raging fiercely, and the house would soon fall in. Finding that
his entreaties were not regarded, and suffering from burns and
injuries, the noble animal discontinued his efforts, but ran uneasily
round the engine, howling in a piteous manner; nor would he leave the
spot after the fire was put out until search was made, when beneath
the still smouldering embers, the firemen discovered the charred body
of an old man, whom he had done his utmost to save.
Lion's noble efforts, however, were often crowned with success; and
many a one has to bless the wondrous qualities with which God had
endowed him.
At one fire, after the inmates had made their escape, a cry was raised
that "the baby had been left behind in the cradle up stairs," though
no one seemed to be able to indicate the room. The fire had so far got
hold of the dwelling, such dense volumes of flame and smoke were
issuing from every opening, that it was impossible for any fireman to
enter, and the crowd stood horror-stricken at the thought of the
perishing babe.
The crisis was a terrible one; an effort was made, an entry was
effected, and some of the men ventured some distance within the
burning pile, only to retrace their steps.
At this emergency, Lion dashed past the men, disappeared amid the
flames, but returned in a minute into the street with the empty cradle
in his powerful jaws. The consequence of this almost incredible
feat--which was witnessed by many--may be better imagined than
described.
The fact that Lion did not re-enter the house--which, though badly
burned, he would doubtless have done had he left the child behind--was
sufficient to convince the dullest intellect that the child was
secure; and it was very soon ascertained that the object of search was
safe in a neighboring house.
No wonder, then, that this noble animal endeared himself to all who
knew him; and those who knew him best loved him the most. For fourteen
years Lion continued his noble and useful career as public benefactor,
as friend and companion to the firemen, and as mourner at their
graves; for he attended the funerals of no less than eleven of them.
Death came to him at length; for last year he died from injuries
received in the discharge of his self-imposed duties.
There are few of our readers who would not have liked to pat that
brave old dog; there are fewer still who may not learn useful and
valuable lessons from the speaking testimony of that dumb animal.
BENJAMIN CLARKE.
TO THE CARDINAL FLOWER.
O, my princely flower, shall I never win
To your moated citadel within,
To your guarded thought?
The pansies are proud; but they show to me
Their purple velvets from over the sea,
With gold inwrought.
And they gently smile wherever we meet;
They seem to me like proud ladies sweet
From a foreign shore.
Wild primrose buds in my very hand
Their odorous evening stars expand,
And all their lore.
But your strange eyes gleam as they pass me by,
And seem to dream of a warmer sky,
Far over the sea.
M. R. W.
[Illustration: {A woman, an elderly man and two children watch
butterflies in a garden}]
THE SONG OF THE ROSE.
I come not when the earth is brown, and gray
The skies; I am no flower of a day,
No crocus I, to bloom and pass away;
No cowslip bright, or hyacinth that clings
Close to the earth, from whence it springs;
Nor tulip, gay as song birds' wings.
I am the royal rose, and all things fair
Grow fairer for my sake; the earth, the air,
Proclaim the coming of the flower most rare.
Green is the earth, and beautiful the sky,
And soft the breeze, that loves to linger nigh;
I am the rose, and who with me shall vie?
The earth is full of gladness, all in tune
With songs of birds; and now I come, O June,
To crown thee, month of beauty, with my bloom.
T. E. D.
RICH AND POOR.
My dear little girl, with the flowers in your hair,
Stop singing a moment, and look over there;
While you are so safe in the sheltering fold,
With treasures of silver, and treasures of gold,
Just a few steps away, in a dark, narrow street,
With no pure, cooling drink, and no morsel to eat,
A poor girl is dying, no older than you;
Her lips were as red, and her eyes were as blue,
Her step was as light, and her song was as sweet,
And the heart in her bosom as merrily beat.
But now she is dying, so lonely and poor,
For famine and fever crept in at the door.
While you were so gay, in your beautiful dress,
With music and laughter, and friends to caress,
From the dawn to the end of the weariful day,
She was always at work, with no moment for play.
She saw you sometimes, but you seemed like a star
That gleamed in the distance, so dim and afar.
And often she wondered if God up above
Remembered the poor girl, in pity and love.
Ah, yes, _He remembered_, 'mid harpings and hymns,
And loud alleluias, and waving of wings,
He heard in _His_ heaven the sound of her tears,
And called her away while the sun of her years
Was yet in the east; now, she never will need
From you any more a compassionate deed.
Nay, some time, perhaps, from her home in the skies,
She will look back to see you with tears in your eyes,
For sooner or later we quiver with pain,
And down on us all drops the sorrowful rain.
She never will need you; but many bereft,
Hungry, and heart-sore, and homeless are left.
You can, if you will, from the place where you stand,
Reach downward to help them; the touch of your hand,
The price of one jewel, the gift of a flower,
May waken within them, with magical power,
A hope that was dying. O, don't be afraid
The poor and the desolate spirit to aid.
The burdens are heavy that some one must bear,
You dear little girl with the flowers in your hair.
ELLEN M. H. GATES.
[Illustration: RICH AND POOR.]
LACE-MAKING.
"See, mamma what is the woman doing? She looks as if she was holding a
pin-cushion in her lap and was sticking pins in it."
"So she is, my dear," Ellen's mother remarked. "But that is not all
she is doing. There is a cluster of bobbins hanging down one side of
the cushion which are wound with threads, and these threads she weaves
around the pins in such a manner as to make lace."
"I never saw anybody make lace that way. I have seen Aunt Maria knit
it with a crochet-hook."
"This is a different kind of lace altogether from the crocheted lace.
They do not make it in the United States. The woman whom you see in
the picture lives in Belgium in Europe. In that country, and in some
parts of France and Germany, many of the poorer people earn a living
at lace-making. The pattern which in making the lace it is intended to
follow is pricked with a pin on a strip of paper. This paper is
fastened on the cushion, and then pins are stuck in through all the
pin-holes, and then the thread from these bobbins is woven around the
lace."
"Can they work fast?"
"An accomplished lace-maker will make her hands fly as fast as though
she were playing the piano, always using the right bobbin, no matter
how many of them there may be. In making the pattern of a piece of
nice lace from two hundred to eight hundred bobbins are sometimes
used. In such a case it takes more than one person--sometimes as many
as seven--at a single cushion."
"It must be hard to do."
"I dare say it would be for you or me. Yet in those countries little
children work at lace-making. Little children, old women and the least
skilful of the men make the plainer and coarser laces, while
experienced women make the nicer sorts."
"What do they do with their lace when it is finished?"
"All the lace-makers in a neighborhood bring in their laces once a
week to the 'mistress'--for women carry on the business of
lace-making--then this 'mistress' packs them up and takes them to the
nearest market-town, where they are peddled about from one
trading-house to another until they are all sold."
"Do they get much for them?"
"The poor lace-makers get hardly enough to keep them from starvation
for their fine and delicate work; but the laces, after they have
passed through the hands of one trader after another, and are at last
offered to the public, bring enormous prices. A nice library might be
bought for the price of a set of laces, or a beautiful house built at
the cost of a single flounce."
"I think I should rather have the house, mamma."
"So should I. But the people who buy these laces probably have houses
already. There is over four million dollars' worth of lace sold every
year in Belgium alone."
Ellen thought she should never see a piece of nice lace without
thinking of these wonderful lace-makers, who produce such delicate
work and yet are paid so little for it; and while she was thus
thinking over the matter, mamma went quietly on with her sewing.
[Illustration: LACE-MAKERS.]
HELP YOURSELVES.
Many boys and girls make a failure in life because they do not learn
to help themselves. They depend on father and mother even to hang up
their hats and to find their playthings. When they become men and
women, they will depend on husbands and wives to do the same thing. "A
nail to hang a hat on," said an old man of eighty years, "is worth
everything to a boy." He had been "through the mill," as people say,
so that he knew. His mother had a nail for him when he was a boy--"a
nail to hang his hat on," and nothing else. It was "Henry's nail" from
January to January, year in and out, and no other member of the family
was allowed to appropriate it for any purpose whatever. If the broom
by chance was hung thereon, or an apron or coat, it was soon removed,
because that nail was "to hang Henry's hat on." And that nail did much
for Henry; it helped make him what he was in manhood--a careful,
systematic, orderly man, at home and abroad, on his farm and in his
house. He never wanted another to do what he could do for himself.
Young folks are apt to think that certain things, good in themselves,
are not honorable. To be a blacksmith or a bootmaker, to work on a
farm or drive a team, is beneath their dignity, as compared with being
a merchant, or practising medicine or law. This is PRIDE, an enemy to
success and happiness. No _necessary_ labor is discreditable. It is
never dishonorable to be _useful_. It is beneath no one's dignity to
earn bread by the sweat of the brow. When boys who have such false
notions of dignity become men, they are ashamed to help themselves as
they ought, and for want of this quality they live and die unhonored.
Trying to save their dignity, they lose it.
Here is a fact we have from a very successful merchant. When he began
business for himself, he carried his wares from shop to shop. At
length his business increased to such an extent, that he hired a room
at the Marlboro' Hotel, in Boston, during the business season, and
thither the merchants, having been duly notified, would repair to make
purchases. Among all his customers, there was only one man who would
carry to his store the goods which he had purchased. The buyers asked
to have their goods carried, and often this manufacturer would carry
them himself. But there was one merchant, and the largest buyer of the
whole number, who was not ashamed to be seen carrying a case of goods
through the streets. Sometimes he would purchase four cases, and he
would say, "Now, I will take two, and you take two, and we will carry
them right over to the store." So the manufacturer and the merchant
often went through the streets of Boston quite heavily loaded. This
merchant, of all the number who went to the Marlboro' Hotel for their
purchases, succeeded in business. He became a wealthy man when all the
others failed. The manufacturer, who was not ashamed to help himself,
is now living--one of the wealthy men of Massachusetts, ready to aid,
by his generous gifts, every good object that comes along, and honored
by all who know him.
You have often heard and read the maxim, "God helps those who help
themselves." Is it not true?
WILLIAM M. THAYER.
THE STORY OF JOHNNY DAWDLE.
Here, little folks, listen; I'll tell you a tale,
Though to shock and surprise you I fear it won't fail;
Of Master John Dawdle my story must be,
Who, I'm sorry to say, is related to me.
And yet, after all, he's a nice little fellow:
His eyes are dark brown and his hair is pale yellow;
And though not very clever or tall, it is true
He is better than many, if worse than a few.
But he dawdles at breakfast, he dawdles at tea--
He's the greatest small dawdle that ever could be;
And when in his bedroom, it is his delight
To dawdle in dressing at morning and night.
And oh! if you saw him sit over a sum,
You'd much wish to pinch him with finger and thumb;
And then, if you scold him, he looks up so meek;
Dear me! one would think that he hardly could speak.
Each morning the same he comes tumbling down,
And often enough is received with a frown,
And a terrible warning of something severe
Unless on the morrow he sooner appear.
But where does he live? That I'd rather not say,
Though, if truth must be told, I have met him to-day;
I meant just to pass him with merely a bow,
But he stopped and conversed for a minute or so.
"Well, where are you going?" politely said I;
To which he replied, with a groan and a sigh,
"I've been doing my Latin from breakfast till dinner,
And pretty hard work that is for a beginner."
"But now I suppose you are going to play
And have pleasure and fun for the rest of the day?"
"Indeed, but I'm not--there's that bothering sum;
And then there's a tiresome old copy to come."
[Illustration: JOHNNY DAWDLE.]
"Dear me!" I replied, and I thought it quite sad
There should be such hard work for one poor little lad;
But just at that moment a lady passed by,
And her words soon made clear that mistaken was I:
"Now, then, Mr. Dawdle, get out of my way!
I suppose you intended to stop here all day;
The bell has done ringing, and yet, I declare,
Your hands are not washed, nor yet brushed is your hair."
"Ho, ho!" I exclaimed; "Mr. Dawdle, indeed!"
And I took myself off with all possible speed,
Quite distressed that I should for a moment be seen
With one who so lazy and careless had been.
So now, if you please, we will wish him good-bye;
And if you should meet him by chance, as did I,
Just bid him good-morning, and say that a friend
(Only don't mention names) hopes he soon may amend.
THE MOTHERLESS BOY.
One day, about a year ago, the door of my sitting-room was thrown
suddenly open, and the confident voice of Harvey thus introduced a
stranger:
"Here's Jim Peters, mother."
I looked up, not a little surprised at the sight of a ragged, barefoot
child.
Before I had time to say anything, Harvey went on:
"He lives round in Blake's Court and hasn't any mother. I found him on
a doorstep feeding birds."
My eyes rested on the child's face while my boy said this. It was a
very sad little face, thin and colorless, not bold and vicious, but
timid and having a look of patient suffering. Harvey held him firmly
by the hand with the air of one who bravely protects the weak.
"No mother!" said I, in tones of pity.
"No, ma'am; he hasn't any mother. Have you, Jim?"
"No," answered the child.
"She's been dead ever so long; hasn't she, Jim?"
"Yes, ever since last winter," he said as he fixed his eyes, into
which I saw the tears coming, upon my face. My heart moved toward him,
repulsive as he was because of his rags and dirt.
"One of God's little lambs straying on the cold and barren hills of
life," said a voice in my heart. And then I felt a tender compassion
for the strange, unlovely child.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Round in Blake's Court," he replied.
"Who with?"
"Old Mrs. Flint; but she doesn't want me."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because I'm nothing to her, she says, and she doesn't want the
trouble of me." He tried to say this in a brave, don't-care sort of
way, but his voice faltered and he dropped his eyes to the floor. How
pitiful he looked!
"Poor child!" I could not help saying aloud.
Light flashed over his pale face. It was something new to him, this
interest and compassion.
"One of God's little lambs." I heard the voice in my heart saying this
again. Nobody to love him--nobody to care for him. Poor little boy!
The hand of my own child, my son who is so very dear to me, had led
him in through our door and claimed for him the love and care so long
a stranger to his heart. Could I send him out and shut the door upon
him, when I knew that he had no mother and no home? If I heeded not
the cry of this little one precious in God's sight, might I not be
thought unworthy to be the guardian of another lamb of his fold whom I
loved as my own life?
"I've got heaps of clothes, mother--a great many more than I want. And
my bed is wide. There's room enough in the house, and we've plenty to
eat," said Harvey, pleading for the child. I could not withstand all
these appeals. Rising, I told the little stranger to follow me. When
we came back to the sitting-room half an hour afterward, Jim Peters
would hardly have been known by his old acquaintances, if any of them
had been there. A bath and clean clothes had made a wonderful change
in him.
I watched the poor little boy, as he and Harvey played during the
afternoon, with no little concern of mind. What was I to do with him?
Clean and neatly dressed, there was a look of refinement about the
child which had nearly all been hidden by rags and dirt. He played
gently, and his voice had in it a sweetness of tone, as it fell every
now and then upon my ears, that was really winning. Send him back to
Mrs. Flint's in Blake's Court? The change I had wrought upon him made
this impossible. No, he could not be sent back to Mrs. Flint's, who
didn't want the trouble of him. What then?
[Illustration: THE MOTHERLESS BOY.]
Do the kind hearts of my little readers repeat the question, "What
then?" Do they want very much to know what has become of little Jim
Peters?
It is just a year since my boy led him in from the street, and Jim is
still in our house. No one came for him. No one inquired about him. No
one cared for him. I must take that last sentence back. God cared for
him, and by the hand of my tender-hearted son brought him into my
comfortable home and said to me, "Here is one of my lambs, astray,
hungry and cold. He was born into the world that he might become an
angel in heaven, but is in danger of being lost. I give him into your
care. Let me find him when I call my sheep by their names."
As I finished writing the last sentence a voice close to my ear said
"Mother!" I turned and received a loving kiss from the lips of Jim. He
often does this. I think, in the midst of his happy plays, memory
takes him back to the suffering past, and then his grateful heart runs
over and he tries to reward me with a loving kiss. I did not tell him
to call me "Mother." At first he said it in a timid, hesitating way,
and with such a pleading, half-scared look that I was touched and
softened.
"She isn't your real mother," said Harvey, who happened to be near,
"but then she's good and loves you ever so much."
"And I love her," answered Jim, with a great throb in his throat,
hiding his face in my lap and clasping and kissing my hand. Since then
he always calls me "Mother;" and the God and Father of us all has sent
into my heart a mother's love for him, and I pray that he may be mine
when I come to make up my jewels in heaven.
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
Jesus says that we must love him.
Helpless as the lambs are we;
But He very kindly tells us
That our Shepherd He will be.
Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us,
Guard us both by night and day;
Pity show to little children,
Who like lambs too often stray.
We are always prone to wander:
Please to keep us from each snare;
Teach our infant hearts to praise Thee
For Thy kindness and Thy care.
THE ST. BERNARD DOG.
By the pass of the Great St. Bernard travellers cross the Pennine
Alps (Penn, a Celtic word, meaning _height_) along the mountain road
which leads from Martigny, in Switzerland, to Aosta, in Piedmont. On
the crest of the pass, eight thousand two hundred feet above the sea
level, stands the Hospice, tenanted by about a dozen monks.
This is supposed to be the highest spot in Europe inhabited by human
beings. The climate is necessarily rigorous, the thermometer in winter
being often twenty-nine degrees below zero, whilst sixty-eight degrees
Fahrenheit is about the highest range ever attained in summer. From
the extreme difficulty of respiration, few of the monks ever survive
the period of their vow, which is fifteen years, commencing at the age
of eighteen.
This hospice is said to have been first founded in the year 962, by
Bernard, a Piedmontese nobleman. It will be remembered that it was
over this pass Napoleon, in May, 1800, led an army of thirty thousand
men into Italy, having with them heavy artillery and cavalry.
For poor travellers and traders the hospice is really a place of
refuge. During winter, crossing this pass is a very dangerous affair.
The snow falls in small particles, and remains as dry as dust.
Whirlwinds, called "tourmentes," catch up this light snow, and
carrying it with blinding violence against the traveller, burying
every landmark, at once put an end to knowledge of position.
Avalanches, too, are of frequent occurrence.
After violent storms, or the fall of avalanches, or any other unusual
severity of winter weather, the monks set out in search of travellers
who may have been overwhelmed by the snow in their ascent of the
pass. They are generally accompanied in their search by dogs of a
peculiar breed, commonly known as the St. Bernard's Dog, on account of
the celebrated monastery where these magnificent animals are taught to
exercise their wondrous powers, which have gained for them and their
teachers a world-wide fame. On their neck is a bell, to attract the
attention of any belated wayfarer; and their deep and powerful bay
quickly gives notice to the benevolent monks to hurry to the relief of
any unfortunate traveller they may find.
Some of the dogs carry, attached to their collars, a flask of spirits
or other restorative. Their wonderfully acute sense of smell enables
them to detect the bodies of persons buried deeply beneath the surface
of the snow, and thus direct the searchers where to dig for them. The
animal's instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden chasms or
clefts, filled with loose snow, are; for it carefully avoids them, and
thus is an all-important guide to the monks themselves.
We have stories without number as to what these dogs accomplish on
their own account; how they dig out travellers, and bring them,
sometimes unaided by man, to the hospice.
[Illustration: THE ST. BERNARD DOG.]
A few years ago one of these faithful animals might be seen wearing a
medal, and regarded with much affection by all. This noble dog had
well deserved the distinction; for one stormy day he had saved
twenty-two individuals buried in their snowy envelope. Unfortunately,
he met, at a subsequent period, the very fate from which he had
rescued so many persons. At the worst season an Italian courier was
crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each escorted by a dog
(one being the wearer of the medal), when suddenly a vast avalanche
shot down upon them with lightning speed, and they were all lost.
Another of these dogs, named "Barry," had served the St. Bernard
Convent during twelve years, and had saved the lives of fifteen
persons during that time. Whenever the pass was obscured by fogs and
wintry snow-storms, he would go forth in search of lost travellers. It
was his practice to run barking till he lost his breath, and he would
venture into the most dangerous places. If, as sometimes happened, he
did not succeed in drawing out from the snow some traveller stiffened
with cold or overcome with exhaustion, he would run back to the
convent and fetch some of the monks.
One day this brave dog found a little child in a half-frozen state. He
began directly to lick him, and having succeeded first in restoring
animation, and next in the complete resuscitation of the boy, he
induced the child, by his caresses, to tie himself on his back. When
this was effected, he transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to
the hospice. When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was pensioned
off by way of reward, and after his death his body was stuffed and
placed in the museum at Berne.
It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of tracking
footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a pup which had been
produced in London by a female of the St. Bernard breed. The young
animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never observed to give
any particular tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter.
Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed the utmost
inclination to follow footsteps; and such was its power of doing so,
that though its master might attempt to confuse it by walking in the
most irregular fashion, and by inducing other persons to cross his
path in all directions, yet it always followed his course with great
precision.
Sir Thomas Dick Lander, who for many years resided at Grange House,
Edinburgh, had a fine dog of the St. Bernard breed presented to him.
Its bark was so loud that it could be distinguished at the distance of
a mile. Its bark once led to its recovery, when stolen by some
carters. "Bass," as the dog was named, had been missing for some time,
when it was brought back to Grange House by a letter-carrier, who said
that in going along a certain street, he heard a barking inside a
yard, and at once recognized the voice of Bass. "He knocked at the
gate," writes Sir Thomas, "and immediately said to the owner of the
premises,--
"'You have got Sir Thomas Lander's big dog.'
"The man denied it.
"'But I know you have,' continued the letter-carrier. 'I am certain
that I heard the bark of Sir Thomas's big dog; for there is no other
dog in or about all Edinburgh that has such a bark.'
"The man then admitted that he had a large dog, which he had bought
for a trifle from a couple of coal carters; and at last, with great
reluctance, he gave up the dog to the letter-carrier, who brought him
home here."
Sir Thomas, after describing many of Bass's characteristics, then
proceeds:--
"He took a particular fancy for one of the postmen who delivers
letters here, though he was not the man whom I have already had
occasion to mention. It was the duty of this postman I now allude to,
besides delivering letters, to carry a letter-bag from one receiving
house to another, and this big bag he used to give Bass to carry. Bass
always followed that man through all the villas in the neighborhood
where he had deliveries to make, and he invariably parted with him
opposite to the gate of the Convent of St. Margaret's, and returned
home.
"When our gate was shut, to prevent his following the postman, the dog
always leaped a high wall to get after him. One day, when the postman
was ill, or detained by some accidental circumstance, he sent a man in
his place. Bass went up to the man, curiously scanning his face,
whilst the man retired from the dog, by no means liking his
appearance, and very anxious to decline all acquaintance with him. But
as the man left the place, Bass followed him, showing strong symptoms
that he was determined to have the post-bag. The man did all he could
to keep the possession of it. But at length Bass, seeing that he had
no chance of getting possession of the bag by civil entreaty, raised
himself on his hind legs, and putting a great fore paw on each of the
man's shoulders, he laid him flat on his back in the road, and quietly
picking up the bag, he proceeded peaceably on his wonted way. The man,
much dismayed, arose and followed the dog, making, every now and then,
an ineffectual attempt to coax him to give it up.
"At the first house he came to he told his fears and the dilemma he
was in; but the people comforted him by telling him that the dog
always carried the bag. Bass walked with the man to all the houses at
which he delivered letters, and along the road till he came to the
gate of St. Margaret's, where he dropped the bag; and making his bow
to the man, he returned home."
THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.
O wise little birds! how do you know
The way to go
Southward and northward, to and fro?
Far up in the ether piped they:
"We but obey
One who calleth us far away.
"He calleth and calleth year by year
Now there, now here;
Ever He maketh the way appear."
Dear little birds, He calleth me
Who calleth ye:
Would that I might as trusting be!
[Illustration: FEEDING THE BIRDS.]
FOR THE CHILDREN.
Come stand by my knee, little children,
Too weary for laughter or song;
The sports of the daylight are over,
And evening is creeping along;
The snow-fields are white in the moonlight,
The winds of the winter are chill,
But under the sheltering roof-tree
The fire shineth ruddy and still.
You sit by the fire, little children,
Your cheeks are ruddy and warm;
But out in the cold of the winter
Is many a shivering form.
There are mothers that wander for shelter,
And babes that are pining for bread;
Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children,
From whose tender hand you are fed.
Come look in my eyes, little children,
And tell me, through all the long day,
Have you thought of the Father above us,
Who guarded from evil our way?
He heareth the cry of the sparrow,
And careth for great and for small;
In life and in death, little children,
His love is the truest of all.
Now come to your rest, little children,
And over your innocent sleep,
Unseen by your vision, the angels
Their watch through the darkness shall keep;
Then pray that the Shepherd who guideth
The lambs that He loveth so well
May lead you, in life's rosy morning,
Beside the still waters to dwell.
[Illustration: BED-TIME.]
[Illustration: {A dog breaks a hole through ice to get a drink}]
REASON AND INSTINCT.
Are dogs endowed with reason? As you grow up, you will spend many
happy hours in the contemplation of this interesting question. It does
sometimes seem as if there could be no possible doubt that dogs, as
well as horses, elephants, and some other of the higher animals, are
gifted with the dawn of reason, so extraordinary are some of their
acts.
It is but a few days since a dog in Vermont saved a house from
burning, and possibly the inmates. The dog discovered the fire in the
kitchen, flew to his master's apartment, leaped upon his bed, and so
aroused the people to a sense of their danger.
"As I was walking out one frosty morning with a large Newfoundland
dog," says the Rev. J. C. Atkinson, "I observed the animal's repeated
disappointment on putting his head down to drink at sundry ice-covered
pools. After one of these disappointments, I broke the ice with my
foot for my thirsty companion. The next time Tiger was thirsty, he did
not wait for me to 'break the ice,' but with his foot, or, if too
strong, by jumping upon it, he obtained water for himself."
Here seems to be the manifestation of a desire to _learn from
observation_.
After the battle of Fredericksburg, it fell to my duty to search a
given district for any dead or wounded soldiers there might be left,
and to bring relief. Near an old brick dwelling I discovered a soldier
in gray who seemed to be dead. Lying by his side was a noble dog, with
his head flat upon his master's neck. As I approached, the dog raised
his eyes to me good-naturedly, and began wagging his tail; but he did
not change his position. The fact that the animal did not growl, that
he did not move, but, more than all, the intelligent, joyful
expression of his face, convinced me that the man was only wounded,
which proved to be the case. A bullet had pierced his throat, and
faint from the loss of blood, he had fallen down where he lay. His dog
had _actually stopped the bleeding from the wound by laying his head
across it_. Whether this was casual or not, I cannot say. But the
shaggy coat of the faithful creature was completely matted with his
master's blood.
Strange as these facts may appear, we should not confound INSTINCT
with intelligence which comes from REASON. There is a wide difference
between them. Before long I propose to discuss this matter to some
extent, in an article which I have already begun.
TOUCH NOT.
Touch not the tempting cup, my boy,
Though urged by friend or foe;
Dare, when the tempter urges most,
Dare nobly say, No--no!
The joyous angel from on high
Shall tell your soul the reason why.
Touch not the tempting cup, my boy;
In righteousness be brave;
Take not the first, a single step,
Towards a drunkard's grave;
The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh,
Shall tell your soul the reason why.
[Illustration: {Two girls, their arms full of flowers and foliage}]
CHILDREN.
What could we without them,
Those flowers of life?
How bear all the sorrows
With which it is rife?
As long as they blossom,
Whilst brightly they bloom,
Our own griefs are nothing,
Forgotten our gloom.
We joy in the sunshine--
It sheds on them light;
We welcome the shower--
It makes them more bright;
On our pathway of thorns
They are thrown from above,
And they twine round about us,
And bless us with love.
Bright, beautiful flowers,
So fresh and so pure!
How could we without them
Life's troubles endure?
So guileless and holy,
Such soothers of strife,
What could we without them,
Sweet flowers of life?
THE WHITE BUTTERFLY.
A TALE FOR CHILDREN.
Very slowly and wearily over road and hedge flew a white butterfly one
calm May evening; its wings had been torn and battered in its flight
from eager pursuers, who little cared that their pleasure was
another's pain. On, on, went the fugitive, until it came to a little
garden so sweet and quiet that it rested from its flight and said,
"Here, at least, I shall find peace; these gentle flowers will give me
shelter." Then, with eager swiftness, it flew to a stately peony. "Oh,
give me shelter, thou beautiful flower!" it murmured as it rested for
a second upon its crimson head--a second only, for, with a jerk and an
exclamation of disgust, the peony cast the butterfly to the ground.
With a low sigh it turned to the pansy near. Well, the pansy _wished_
to be kind, but the butterfly was really very tattered and dirty; and
then velvet soils so easily that she must beg to be excused. The
wall-flower, naturally frank and good-natured, had been so tormented
all day by those troublesome bees that she solemnly vowed she would do
nothing more for anybody.
The tulips were asleep; and the other flowers, trying to emulate fair
Lady Rose, held their heads so very high that they, of course, did not
hear the low, soft cry, "Oh, will no one give me shelter?" At last
there came an answer, "I will, gladly," in a shy and trembling tone,
as though fearing to be presumptuous, from a thick thorny bush which
helped to protect the more dainty beauties from the rough blasts of a
sometimes too boisterous wind; in consideration of which service the
flowers considered the briar as a good, useful sort of thing,
respectable enough in its common way, but not as an equal or
associate, you understand. With gratitude the forlorn butterfly rested
all night in the bosom of one of its simple white blossoms.
When night had gone and the bright sun came gliding up from the east,
calling on Nature to awake, the flowers raised their heads in all the
pride of renewed beauty and saluted one another. Where was the forlorn
butterfly? Ah! where? They saw it no more; but over the white blossom
where it had rested there hovered a tiny fairy in shining, changing
sheen, her wand sparkling with dewdrops. She looked down on the
flowers with gentle, reproachful eye, while they bent low in wonder
and admiration.
"Who is it?" they asked. "How beautiful! how lovely!"
The fairy heard them with a smile, and said, "Fair flowers, I _was_ a
shabby butterfly; what I _am_, you see. I came to you poor and weary;
and because I was poor and weary you shut me out from your hearts."
The pansy and the wall-flower bent their heads in sorrow, and Lady
Rose blushed with shame.
"If I had only known!" muttered the peony; "but who would have thought
it?"
"Who indeed?" laughed the fairy; "but learn, proud peony, that he who
thinks always of self loses much of life's sweetness--far more than he
ever suspects; for goodness is as the dew of the heart, and yieldeth
refreshment and happiness, even if it win no other recompense. But it
is meet that it should be rewarded. Behold, all of you!" and the fairy
touched with her wand the white blossom on which she had rested,
saying, "For thy sweetness be thou loved for ever!" At these words a
thrill of happiness stirred the sap of the rough, neglected briar, and
a soft, lovely blush suffused the petals of its flowers, and from its
green leaves came forth an exquisite odor, perfuming the whole garden
and eclipsing the other flowers in their pride.
Then the fairy rose in the air, and hovering over her resting-place
for a moment ere she vanished said, "Such is the reward of goodness.
Fare thee well, sweet briar!"
[Illustration: {Tom and Pearson on the deck of the ship in the snow}]
WORKING IS BETTER THAN WISHING.
"Now then, Tom, lad, what's up? in trouble again?" asked a
good-natured sailor of his messmate, one snowy day on the wide
Atlantic.
The boy was leaning moodily against the bulwarks of the vessel--a
pleasant, ruddy young fellow of fourteen, but with a cloud on his face
which looked very like discontent.
Snow was falling heavily, but he did not heed it; he looked up,
however, at the approach of his friend, and answered,--
"I'm all right, Pearson; it isn't that. I was only wishing and
wondering why I can't get what I want; it seems a shame, it does!" and
Tom paused abruptly, half choked by a sob.
"What is it, Tom?" asked Pearson; "have the other lads been plaguing?
Such a big, hearty fellow as you ought not to fret for that."
"I don't," said Tom, sharply; "it's not that; but they've found out
that my little brother is in the workhouse at home, and they throw it
at me. I'd do anything to get him out, too, for he oughtn't to be
there: we come of a better sort, Pearson," he said, proudly; "but
father and mother dying of that fever put us all wrong. Uncle got me
to sea, and then, I suppose, he thought he'd done enough; so there was
only the workhouse left for Willy. He's the jolliest little chap,
Pearson, you ever saw, and I'd work day and night to get him out, if I
could; but where's the use? A poor boy like me can do nothing; so I
just get in a rage, or don't care about anything, and fight the other
lads; or I'm had up for neglect of duty, or something."
"And so you lose all chance of getting on, and being able in time to
help your little brother," said Pearson, as if musing; "but what's
that you have in your hand, Tom--a picture?"
"It's Willy," said the boy; "yes, you may look, Pearson. Mother had it
taken just before she fell ill; he's only four, but he's the prettiest
little chap, with yellow hair all in curls. I dare say they've cut
them off, though," he added, bitterly. "There's a bit of a sickly
child on board, belonging to the tall lady in black, that reminds me a
little of him, only he isn't near as pretty as Willy."
"Yes, he is a pretty little lad," said Pearson, returning the
photograph; "and now, Tom, mind my word: I am an old fellow compared
to you, and I'll give you a bit of advice. The little lad is safe, at
any rate, in the workhouse; he's got food and clothes, and you
couldn't give him that; so be content, and try to do your own duty. If
you get a good character, instead of being always had up for sulking
or fighting, that's the best chance for you, and, after you, for
Willy. As for the lads' teasing, why, be a bit hard of hearing, and
before many years, I warrant, you'll be having Willy aboard ship as
boy, when you're an able-bodied seaman."
Tom laughed. "Thank you, Pearson. Well, I'll try; but I do get wishing
and bothering of nights."
"Ah, that wishing's a poor trick," said Pearson; "give it up, Tom, and
work instead."
People don't often take advice, but this time it was followed. A great
deal of rough weather came on; every one had as much as he could do,
and Tom worked with the best of them, and to his great joy was noticed
by the ship's officers as a willing lad.
One bright morning brought all the passengers on deck,--the ship was
bound for Rio,--and among them came the tall lady in black, with her
little boy in her arms. Tom's duties took him near her, and he could
not but steal a glance at the little face like Willy's; but, O, so
pale and pinched now! The child had suffered dreadfully in the rough
weather; it was doubtful whether he would see land again, he was so
weakened. Tom felt sorry for the little fellow, but his work engrossed
him, and he had nearly forgotten the white-faced child, when, to his
great surprise, the captain called him. The lady in black was a
relative of the captain, and it seemed that while Tom had been
glancing at the sick child, the child had been watching him, and had
taken a fancy to his clear round face, and active movements.
"Let me see what sort of a head-nurse you can make," said the captain
to Tom; "this little fellow will have you carry him, he says, and
teach him to climb the rigging."
Tom smiled, but instantly checked himself, as hardly respectful to the
captain.
They dressed Carlo up in a suit of sailor clothes. To be sure they
were rather large for him, but then it was such fun to be a real
little sailor. Under Tom's care his face soon grew round and fat, and
his merry laugh rang out on the air. And now he would live to see his
father and his birthplace again, for he was born in South America, and
had only left his Portuguese father for a few months, to accompany his
English mother on a visit to her relatives.
The day before they sighted land, Tom was sent for into the captain's
cabin, and there a wonderful proposal was made to him--that he should
give up sea life, and go to Bella Sierra as little Carlo's attendant.
Carlo's parents were rich people; little Carlo had taken a great fancy
to him, and he would have good wages.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE SAILOR.]
It sounded very pleasant; but little Willy! he should never see
him--it would not do. Tom hesitatingly explained this to Carlo's
mother, drawing the little photograph out of his pocket the while.
Then came the last and best proposition,--that Willy should come out
on the _Flying Star's_ next voyage, and live, too, at Bella Sierra.
Mrs. Costello--the lady in black--promised to pay all expenses, and
put him in charge of the stewardess. Carlo, her only child, had grown
so fond of Tom, that she would do anything to keep him.
"Such an active, willing boy," she explained to the captain. "I have
often watched him at work, and admired the way in which he did it."
"Well, lad," said Pearson, when Tom came to tell him the news, "wasn't
I right when I told you that the best way you could work for Willy
was by doing your own duty? If you had gone on in that half-and-half,
discontented way, no rich lady would have cared to have you about her
house--would she?"
Tom looked thoughtful. "Yes, you were right, Pearson; you've done it
all; and now I want you to do one thing more. Please look after Willy
a bit when he comes out; he's such a daring little chap, he'll always
be running away from the stewardess."
"Ah, you want me to be nurse now--do you?" said Pearson; "all right,
lad, and as the song says, 'Don't forget me in the land you're going
to.' And you can still stick to my old motto, that 'Working is better
than Wishing.'"
KIND TO EVERYTHING.
Softly, softly, little sister,
Touch those gayly-painted wings;
Butterflies and moths, remember,
Are such very tender things.
Softly, softly, little sister,
Twirl your limber hazel twig;
Little hands may harm a nestling
Thoughtlessly, as well as big.
Gently stroke the purring pussy,
Kindly pat the friendly dog;
Let your unmolesting mercy
Even spare the toad or frog.
Wide is God's great world around you:
Let the harmless creatures live;
Do not mar their brief enjoyment,
Take not what you cannot give.
Let your heart be warm and tender--
For the mute and helpless plead;
Pitying leads to prompt relieving,
Kindly thought to kindly deed.
[Illustration: SOFTLY, SOFTLY, LITTLE SISTER.]
[Illustration: {The farmer and the calf}]
THAT CALF!
To the yard, by the barn, came the farmer one morn,
And, calling the cattle, he said,
While they trembled with fright, "Now, which of you, last night,
Shut the barn door, while I was abed?"
Each one of them all shook his head.
Now the little calf Spot, she was down in the lot;
And the way the rest talked was a shame;
For no one, night before, saw her shut up the door;
But they said that she did,--all the same,--
For they always made her take the blame.
Said the horse (dapple gray), "I was not up that way
Last night, as I now recollect;"
And the bull, passing by, tossed his horns very high,
And said, "Let who may here object,
I say 'tis that calf I suspect!"
Then out spoke the cow, "It is terrible, now,
To accuse honest folks of such tricks."
Said the cock in the tree, "I'm sure 'twasn't me;"
And the sheep all cried, "Bah!" (There were six.)
"Now that calf's got herself in a fix!"
"Why, of course, we all knew 'twas the wrong thing to do."
Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat;
"I suppose," cried the mule, "some folks think me a fool;
But I'm not quite so simple as that;
The poor calf never knows what she's at!"
Just that moment, the calf, who was always the laugh
And the jest of the yard, came in sight.
"Did you shut my barn door?" asked the farmer once more.
"I did, sir; I closed it last night,"
Said the calf; "and I thought that was right."
Then each one shook his head. "She will catch it," they said;
"Serve her right for her meddlesome way!"
Said the farmer, "Come here, little bossy, my dear!
You have done what I cannot repay,
And your fortune is made from to-day.
"For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door, quite;
And if you had not shut it so neat,
All my colts had slipped in, and gone right to the bin,
And got what they ought not to eat--
They'd have foundered themselves upon wheat."
Then each hoof of them all began loudly to bawl;
The very mule smiled; the cock crew;
"Little Spotty, my dear, you're a favorite here,"
They cried. "We all said it was you,
We were so glad to give you your due."
And the calf answered, knowingly, "Boo!"
PHOEBE CARY.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: HELPING MOTHER.]
LITTLE HELPERS.
Planting the corn and potatoes,
Helping to scatter the seeds,
Feeding the hens and the chickens,
Freeing the garden from weeds,
Driving the cows to the pasture,
Feeding the horse in the stall,--
We little children are busy;
Sure, there is work for us all.
Spreading the hay in the sunshine,
Raking it up when it's dry,
Picking the apples and peaches
Down in the orchard hard by,
Picking the grapes in the vineyard,
Gathering nuts in the fall,--
We little children are busy;
Yes, there is work for us all.
Sweeping, and washing the dishes,
Bringing the wood from the shed,
Ironing, sewing and knitting,
Helping to make up the beds,
Taking good care of the baby,
Watching her lest she should fall,--
We little children are busy;
Oh, there is work for us all.
Work makes us cheerful and happy,
Makes us both active and strong;
Play we enjoy all the better
When we have labored so long.
Gladly we help our kind parents,
Quickly we come to their call;
Children should love to be busy;
There is much work for us all.
[Illustration: THE PUZZLED PUPPIES.]
THE ANIMAL IN ARMOR.
This picture of three curious little puppies looking at a tortoise
reminds me of a story told of a countryman who saw some land-tortoises
for the first time at a fair held in a market-place of his native
village. Very much surprised at their queer look, he asked the man who
was selling them how much they were.
"Eighteenpence a pair," was the answer.
"Eighteenpence!" said the man; "that is a great deal for a thing like
a frog. What will you take for one _without the box_?"
Little folks would not make such a stupid mistake as this; they would
know that this strange-looking animal between its two shells was a
tortoise. There are different sorts--some that live on land, and some
in water. Those that live in the sea are called turtles, and their
shells are not so hard as that of the land-tortoise. It is easy to see
why this is: a turtle would not be able to swim with so thick a shell;
it would be much as if a man in armor were to try. Their shells are
not all in one, but joined together by a sort of gristle, which
enables them to move with greater ease and not so stiffly.
Directly any one hears the name of tortoise, he begins to think of
tortoise-shell. This ought really to be called turtle-shell, as it is
made from the shell of the hawk's-bill turtle. Tortoise-shell is made
by soaking the plates of the shell in warm water until they are soft;
then they are pressed into the shapes wanted in warm iron moulds, and
taken out and polished.
Some of the sea-turtles are very fierce; and although they have no
teeth, their jaws are so strong that they can bite a walking-stick in
half. Land-tortoises are quite harmless; they only attack the insects
they feed upon. They go to sleep, like the dormouse, in the winter,
but they do not make a burrow; they cover themselves with earth by
scraping it up and throwing it over their bodies. In doing this they
would find their heads and tails very much in the way if it were not
that they are able to draw them in between their shells. No one, of
course, knows how they find their way out again in the spring; but it
is supposed that they scratch the earth away and throw it underneath
them, at the same time pushing their way up.
Tortoises live to a very great age. One was given to the Zoological
Gardens in 1833 which had already lived seventy years in Port Louis,
in the island of Mauritius. Its shell, from the head to the tail,
measured four feet four inches and a half, and it weighed two hundred
and eighty-five pounds.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: {A Chinese man fishing with birds}]
THE IRON RING.
Chang Wang was a Chinaman, and was reputed to be one of the shrewdest
dealers in the Flowery Land. If making money fast be the test of
cleverness, there was not a merchant in the province of Kwang Tung who
had earned a better right to be called clever. Who owned so many
fields of the tea-plant, who shipped so many bales of its leaves to
the little island in the west, as did Chang Wang? It was whispered,
indeed, that many of the bales contained green tea made by chopping up
spoiled black tea leaves, and coloring them with copper--a process
likely to turn them into a mild kind of poison; but if the unwholesome
trash found purchasers, Chang Wang never troubled himself with the
thought whether any one might suffer in health from drinking his tea.
So long as the dealer made money, he was content; and plenty of money
he made.
But knowing how to make money is quite a different thing from knowing
how to enjoy it. With all his ill-gotten gains, Chang Wang was a
miserable man; for he had no heart to spend his silver pieces, even on
his own comfort. The rich dealer lived in a hut which one of his own
laborers might have despised; he dressed as a poor Tartar shepherd
might have dressed when driving his flock. Chang Wang grudged himself
even a hat to keep off the rays of the sun. Men laughed, and said that
he would have cut off his own pigtail of plaited hair, if he could
have sold it for the price of a dinner!
Chang Wang was, in fact, a miser, and was rather proud than ashamed of
the hateful vice of avarice.
Chang Wang had to make a journey to Macao, down the great River
Yang-se-kiang, for purposes of trade. The question with the Chinaman
now was, in what way he should travel.
"Shall I hire a palanquin?" thought Chang Wang, stroking his thin
mustaches; "no, a palanquin would cost too much money. Shall I take my
passage in a trading vessel?"
The rich trader shook his head, and the pigtail behind it--such a
passage would have to be paid for.
"I know what I'll do," said the miser to himself; "I'll ask my uncle
Fing Fang to take me in his fishing-boat down the great river. It is
true that it will make my journey a long one; but then I shall make it
for nothing. I'll go to the fisherman Fing Fang, and settle the matter
at once."
The business was soon arranged, for Fing Fang would not refuse his
rich nephew a seat in his boat. But he, like every one else, was
disgusted at Chang Wang's meanness; and as soon as the dealer had left
his hovel, thus spoke Fing Fang to his sons, Ko and Jung:--
"Here's a fellow who has scraped up money enough to build a second
Porcelain Tower, and he comes here to beg a free passage in a
fishing-boat from an uncle whom he has never so much as asked to share
a dish of his birds'-nests soup!"
"Birds'-nests soup, indeed!" exclaimed Ko; "why, Chang Wang never
indulges in luxuries such as that. If dogs' flesh were not so cheap,
he'd grudge himself the paw of a roasted puppy!"
"And what will Chang Wang make of all his money at last?" said Fing
Fang, more gravely; "he cannot carry it away with him when he dies."
"O, he's gathering it up for some one who will know how to spend it!"
laughed Jung. "Chang Wang is merely fishing for others; what he
gathers, they will enjoy."
It was a bright, pleasant day when Chang Wang stepped into the boat of
his uncle, to drop slowly down the great Yang-se-kiang. Many a civil
word he said to Fing Fang and his sons, for civil words cost nothing.
Chang Wang sat in the boat, twisting the ends of his long mustaches,
and thinking how much money each row of plants in his tea-fields might
bring him. Presently, having finished his calculations, the miser
turned to watch his relations, who were pursuing their fishing
occupation in the way peculiar to China. Instead of rods, lines, or
nets, the Fing Fang family was provided with trained cormorants, which
are a kind of bird with a long neck, large appetite, and a particular
fancy for fish.
It was curious to watch a bird diving down in the sunny water, and
then suddenly come up again with a struggling fish in his bill. The
fish was, however, always taken away from the cormorant, and thrown by
one of the Fing Fangs into a well at the bottom of the boat.
"Cousin Ko," said the miser, leaning forward to speak, "how is it that
your clever cormorants never devour the fish they catch?"
"Cousin Chang Wang," replied the young man, "dost thou not see that
each bird has an iron ring round his neck, so that he cannot swallow?
He only fishes for others."
"Methinks the cormorant has a hard life of it," observed the miser,
smiling. "He must wish his iron ring at the bottom of the
Yang-se-kiang."
Fing Fang, who had just let loose two young cormorants from the boat,
turned round, and from his narrow slits of Chinese eyes looked keenly
upon his nephew.
"Didst thou ever hear of a creature," said he, "that puts an iron ring
around his own neck?"
"There is no such creature in all the land that the Great Wall
borders," replied Chang Wang.
Fing Fang solemnly shook the pigtail which hung down his back. Like
many of the Chinese, he had read a great deal, and was a kind of
philosopher in his way.
"Nephew Chang Wang," he observed, "_I_ know of a creature (and he is
not far off at this moment) who is always fishing for gain--constantly
catching, but never enjoying. Avarice--the love of hoarding--is the
iron ring round his neck; and so long as it stays there, he is much
like one of our trained cormorants--he may be clever, active,
successful, but he is only fishing for others."
I leave my readers to guess whether the sharp dealer understood his
uncle's meaning, or whether Chang Wang resolved in future not only to
catch, but to enjoy. Fing Fang's moral might be good enough for a
heathen, but it does not go nearly far enough for a Christian. If a
miser is like a cormorant with an iron ring round his neck, the man or
the child who lives for his own pleasure only, what is he but a greedy
cormorant with the iron ring? Who would wish to resemble a cormorant
at all? The bird knows the enjoyment of _getting_; let us prize the
richer enjoyment of _giving_. Let me close with an English proverb,
which I prefer to the Chinaman's parable--"Charity is the truest
epicure, for she eats with many mouths."
A. L. O. E.
SUMMER.
I'm coming along with a bounding pace
To finish the work that Spring begun;
I've left them all with a brighter face,
The flowers in the vales through which I've run.
I have hung festoons from laburnum trees,
And clothed the lilac, the birch and broom;
I've wakened the sound of humming-bees,
And decked all nature in brighter bloom.
I've roused the laugh of the playful child,
And tired it out in the sunny noon;
All nature at my approach hath smiled,
And I've made fond lovers seek the moon.
For this is my life, my glorious reign,
And I'll queen it well in my leafy bower;
All shall be bright in my rich domain;
I'm queen of the leaf, the bud and the flower.
And I'll reign in triumph till autumn-time
Shall conquer my green and verdant pride;
Then I'll hie me to another clime
Till I'm called again as a sunny bride.
CHARLIE'S CHRISTMAS.
Oh how cold and miserable everything is! Hardly a thought to be
uppermost on Christmas eve in the mind of a little school-boy; and yet
it was that which filled the mind of Charlie Earle on the Christmas
eve of which I am going to tell you. Only a few hours before, he had
been as happy as any boy could be. Everybody was going home, and
everybody was in the highest spirits and full of the most delightful
hopes of what the holidays would bring them; and now everybody except
Charlie has gone home, and he is left alone in the dreary school-room,
knowing that at any rate Christmas day, and maybe many other days, are
to be spent away from home, and from all the pleasant doings which he
had pictured to himself and others only the very day before.
The coming of the post-bag had been scarcely noticed in the
school-room that morning. So when old Bunce, the butler, looked in at
the door and said, "Master Earle is wanted in the doctor's room," the
boys all wondered, and Charlie's neighbor whispered to him, "Whatever
can he want you for, Earle?" The doctor's tale was soon told, and it
was one which sent Charlie back to the school-room with a very
different face to the one with which he had left it. A letter had come
to Doctor West from Charlie's father, and in it a note from his mother
to Charlie himself, written the night before, and saying that a
summons had come that very morning calling them to Charlie's
grandmother, who was very ill, and that they were starting for
Scotland that night and would be almost at their journey's end when
Charlie got the news. The note said that Laura, Charlie's sister,
would go with them, but that they could not wait for Charlie himself,
so they had written to Mrs. Lamb, Charlie's old nurse, who lived about
ten miles from Dr. West's, and had asked her to take charge of him for
a day or two, till more was known of his grandmother's state and some
better plan could be made for him. It was sad enough for Charlie to
hear of the illness of his kind old grandmother--sad enough to see the
merry start of the other boys, while he had to stay behind; but to
have to think of Christmas day spent away from father and mother, away
from Laura and home, was excuse enough for a few bitter tears. But
unpleasant things come to an end as well as pleasant ones, and
Charlie's lonely waiting in the school-room came to its end, and he
found himself that afternoon snugly packed into the Blackridge coach,
and forgetting his own troubles in listening to the cheery chatter of
the other passengers, and in looking at what was to be seen as the
coach rolled briskly along the snow-covered road. It was quite dark
when they reached Blackridge, and Charlie looked out at the people
gathered round the door of the "Packhorse Inn," and a sudden fear
filled his mind lest there should be no one there to meet him; but he
soon saw by the light at the inn door Nurse Lamb herself, with her
kind face looking so beaming that it seemed a little bit like _really_
going home.
"Here, father," said Nurse Lamb to her jolly-looking husband; "here's
Master Charlie, safe and sound! You bring the luggage in the barrow
while I take him home quick, for I am sure he must be cold."
And so nurse bustled Charlie off down a lane and across a meadow, till
they came to a wicket-gate, beyond which stood the back of a low,
deep-thatched cottage half buried in snow. On getting round to the
front the door was opened by a little girl, and nurse called out,
"Here, Molly, here we are;" adding, "Molly is my step-daughter, Master
Charlie--the one I used to tell you about before I was married, when
we were down at Hastings."
[Illustration: WINTER.]
When they got into the house, there was the kitchen with its rows of
bright pewter plates, its wide hearth and roaring fire, its hams
hanging to the beams, all just as they had been described in the days
when nurse's new home at Blackridge Farm was a subject of never-ending
interest to the two children in Mrs. Earle's nursery.
After he had had a capital tea, Charlie was allowed to go round with
the farmer to see that the horses were all right for the night,
Charlie carrying the lantern and feeling himself quite a man as he
followed the farmer into the stable. There was much coming and going
at the farm that evening, for was it not Christmas eve? and nurse was
busy sending off gifts to neighbors who were not so thriving as
herself, and busy, too, in making preparations for the morrow. Charlie
meanwhile sat in the settle and made friends with Molly, who was about
his own age and knew much more, though she was only a girl, about dogs
and rabbits and tadpoles than London-bred Charlie. By and by they
helped to stir the great plum-pudding, and dressed the kitchen and
parlor with evergreens, till nurse called them to come and hear the
chimes.
And Charlie thought it very beautiful as he stood at the door and
listened to the bells. And as they stood there the wind wafted to them
also the voices of the choir as they went on their round through the
village, singing their carols; and then Charlie went to bed with
"Hark, the herald angels sing!" ringing in his ears.
Next morning Charlie, as he ran down stairs, could hardly believe this
was really Christmas day, all was so unlike any Christmas he had known
before; but in the kitchen he found one thing like the Christmas
mornings at home, for he found quite a little pile of parcels beside
his plate, containing the pretty gifts prepared by father and mother
and Laura, and sent by them to nurse, so that at any rate the little
lad should not be robbed of this part of his Christmas pleasures.
There was a note, too, from mother, saying that she and father and
Laura were safe in Edinburgh, and that grandmother was better, and
that she hoped to tell him in her next letter when they and he should
meet at home in London. Such a bright beginning was enough to make all
the rest of the day bright; and bright it was. Charlie found plenty to
do till church-time, as Molly showed him all the nooks and corners
about the farm.
The old church, with its high pews and country congregation made
Charlie feel that he must be dreaming. Surely it could not be
Christmas, but must be the autumn? and he and Laura and everybody had
come away from London for the holidays?
No; it was no dream. It was really Christmas; for there, round the
pillars, were the holly-wreaths with their red berries, and there,
behind the chancel-screen, were the same Christmas texts as in their
church in London. When service was over, Charlie and Molly hurried
home to help Martha, the farm-girl, to have all in readiness for the
Christmas dinner. But after dinner there was not much sitting
still--at any rate for Charlie; for who could think of sitting still
indoors, when outside there were a pond covered with ice and a
farmyard full of horses and dogs?
Nor was the evening after tea without its pleasure. When the snow
began to fall, and the doors and windows were tightly closed, then a
huge log was piled on the fire; and while Farmer and Mrs. Lamb sat and
talked before it in the parlor, Charlie and Molly had a fine game of
romps in the big kitchen with Martha; and when they were tired of
that, they sat on the hearth and roasted chestnuts, while nurse read a
Christmas tale to them.
And here I must leave Charlie finishing his Christmas day, hoping that
any who read this story of it may agree with Charlie in thinking, when
he laid his head on the pillow that night, that, though it had been
spent far from home, it had not been an unhappy day, after all.
[Illustration: {Marcellin and the hunter}]
MARCELLIN.
Marcellin, a young shepherd boy, who tended his father's flock upon
the mountains, having penetrated a deep gorge to search for one of his
sheep which was missing, discovered in the thickest of the forest a
man lying upon the ground overcome with fatigue, and faint from want
of food.
"My poor lad," said the man, "I am dying from hunger and thirst. Two
days ago I came upon this mountain to hunt. I lost my way, and I have
passed two nights in the woods."
Marcellin drew some bread and cheese from his knapsack, and gave to
the stranger.
"Eat," he said, "and then follow me. I will conduct you to an old oak
tree, in the trunk of which we shall find some water."
The food satisfied his hunger; then he followed Marcellin, and drank
of the water, which he found excellent. Afterwards the boy conducted
him down the mountain, and pointed out the way to the city.
Then the hunter said to the shepherd boy, "My good lad, you have saved
my life. If I had remained in the mountain another night, I should
have died. I will show you my gratitude. Come with me to the city. I
am rich; and I will treat you as if you were my own son."
"No, sir," said Marcellin; "I cannot go with you to the city. I have a
father and a mother who are poor, but whom I love with all my heart.
Were you a king, I would not leave my parents."
"But," said the hunter, "you live here in a miserable cabin with an
ugly thatched roof; I live in a palace built of marble, and
surrounded with statues. I will give you drink in glasses like
crystal, and food upon plates of silver."
"Very likely," responded Marcellin; "but our house is not half as
miserable as you suppose. If it is not surrounded with statues, it is
among fruit trees and trellised vines. We drink water which we get
from a neighboring fountain. It is very clear, though we do not drink
from crystal cups. We gain by our labor a modest living, but good
enough. And if we do not have silver ware in our house, we have plenty
of flowers."
"Nonsense, my boy! Come with me," said the hunter; "we have trees and
flowers in the city more beautiful than yours. I have magnificent
grounds, with broad alleys, with a flower garden filled with the most
precious plants. In the middle of it there is a beautiful fountain,
the like of which you never saw. The water is thrown upward in small
streams, and falls back sparkling into the great white marble basin.
You would be quite happy to live there."
"But I am quite happy _here_," replied Marcellin. "The shade of our
forests is at least as delicious as that of your superb alleys. Our
fields are running over with flowers. You can hardly step without
finding them under your feet. There are flowers around our
cottage--roses, violets, lilies, pansies. Do you suppose that our
fountains are less beautiful than your little jets of water? You
should see the merry brooks bounding down over the rocks, and running
away through the flowery meadow."
"You don't know what you refuse," rejoined the hunter. "If you go into
the city, you will be put to school, where you can study all
departments of art and science. There are theatres, where skilful
musicians will enchant your ears by harmony. There are rich saloons,
to which you will be admitted, to enjoy splendid fêtes. And since you
so much love the country, you shall pass your summer vacation with me
in a superb chateau which I possess."
"Well, I am greatly obliged to you," replied the shepherd boy; "but I
think I had better stop with father and mother. I can learn everything
useful in our village school. I am taught to fear God, to honor my
parents, and to imitate their virtues. I don't wish to learn anything
beyond that. Then your musicians, which you tell about, do they sing
any better than the nightingale or the golden robin? Then we have our
concerts and our fêtes. We are right down happy when we are all
together on Sunday evening under the trees. My sister sings, while I
accompany her upon my flute. Our chants can be heard a long way off,
and echo repeats them. And in the evening, when we stay in the house,
grandfather is with us. We love him so much because he is so good. No,
I will not leave my parents. I will not renounce their home, if it is
humble. I cannot go to the city with you."
The hunter saw that it was of no use to argue the point; so he said,--
"What shall I give you, then, to express my gratitude for your
services? Take this purse, filled with gold."
"What need have I of it? We are poor, but we want nothing. Besides, if
I accept your money, I should _sell_ the little service I have been
able to render. That would be wrong; my mother would blame me for such
conduct. She tells me that we ought always to assist those who are in
trouble and want without expecting pay for it."
"Generous boy! What shall I give you as a mark of my gratitude? You
must accept something, or I shall be greatly disappointed."
"Is it so?" asked Marcellin, playfully. "Then give me the cup which
is suspended at your side--that one on which is engraved a picture of
some dogs pursuing a stag."
The hunter joyfully gave the cup to the happy shepherd boy, who,
having once more indicated the way which would lead to the city, bade
him good day, and went back to his flock.
And the rich man returned to his splendid dwelling, having learned
that it is the proper use of the means we have, rather than wishing
for greater, which brings happiness and contentment.
AN ADVENTURE IN THE LIFE OF SALVATOR ROSA.
There is in the museum at Florence a celebrated painting, which calls
to mind a thrilling adventure of Salvator Rosa when quite young.
The scene represents a solitude, very rugged and sublime--mountains
upon every side, with their tops covered with snow, while through the
dark clouds in the sky a few straggling sunbeams find their way to the
valley. Upon the border of an immense cliff stands a group of men
whose costume denotes them to be brigands of the Apennines. Upon the
very edge of the precipice, erect and calm, is a young man, surrounded
by the brigands, who are preparing to throw him into the depths below.
The chief is a short distance away, and seemingly about to give the
fatal signal. A few paces in advance stands a female, of strange
beauty, waving her hand menacingly towards the chief as if commanding
that the young man's life be spared. Her manner, resolute and
imperious, the countenance of the chief, the grateful calmness of the
prisoner, all seem to indicate that the woman's order will be obeyed,
and that the victim will be saved from the frightful death with which
he has been menaced.
This picture, as will be readily guessed, is the work of SALVATOR
ROSA. Born at Arenella, near Naples, in 1615, of poor parents, he was
so admirably endowed by nature that, even in his boyhood, he became a
spirited painter, a good musician, and an excellent poet. But his
tastes led him to give his attention to painting.
Unfortunately, some severe satires which he published in Naples made
him many enemies in that city, and he was obliged to fly to Rome,
where he took a position at once as a painter. Leaving that city after
a while, he went to Florence, and there found a generous encouragement
and many friends, and there his talent was appreciated by the world of
art.
The environs of Florence afforded him superior advantages in
developing his genius. The Apennines, with their dark gorges, their
picturesque landscapes, and their snow-clad peaks, pleased his wild
imagination. In their vast recesses he found his best inspirations and
his most original subjects. Often he wandered for days over the abrupt
mountains, infested with bandits, to find work for his ambitious
pencil.
One day he had advanced farther than usual into the profound and
dangerous solitudes. He sat down near a torrent, and began to sketch a
wild landscape before him. All of a sudden he saw, at the summit of a
rock near at hand, a man leaning upon his carbine, and apparently
watching him with great curiosity. A large hat, with stained and torn
brim, covered his sun-burnt visage; a leather belt bound his dark sack
to his body, and gave support to a pistol and hunting-knife,
invariably carried by the brigands of the mountains. His black beard,
thick and untidy, concealed a portion of his face; but there could be
no doubt that his dark glance was fixed upon the stranger who came to
invade his domain.
For almost any other but our hero, the sudden apparition of that wild
and menacing figure would have been good cause of terror. But Salvator
was a painter, and a painter in love with his art; and he had in that
strange costume, that forbidding look, something so much in harmony
with the aspect of nature about him, that he at once made the man a
subject of study.
"I mustn't lose him," he said; "he's an inhabitant of the country. He
comes just in the nick of time to complete my landscape; and his
position is quite fine."
And, drawing tranquilly his pencil, he began to transfer the outlines
of the brigand to his album, when the stranger, coming a few paces
nearer to him, said, in a rough voice,--
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"Well, my good fellow, I come to take your portrait, if you'll hold
still a bit," responded the painter.
"Ah, you jest with me! Have a care," said the other, coming still
nearer.
"No," replied Salvator, seriously; "I am a painter; and I wander over
these mountains with no other purpose but to admire these beautiful
landscapes, and to sketch the most picturesque objects."
"To sketch!" cried the brigand, with evident anger, hardly knowing
what the word meant. "Do you not know that these mountains belong to
us? Why do you come here to spy us out?"
At these words he gave a shrill whistle, and three other men, clothed
like himself, came towards the spot from different directions.
"Seize this man!" he said to his companions; "he comes to observe us."
All resistance was useless. And so, after having tried in vain to
prove his innocence, the young man was surrounded and seized.
"March!" cried the man who had first met him. "You must talk with our
chief."
The leader of these brigands was a man about forty years of age, named
Pietratesta. His great physical strength, his courage, and, more than
all the rest, his energy, had made him a favorite among his
companions, and given him authority over them. Famous among the
mountains for his audacious crimes, condemned many times to an
outlaw's death, pursued in vain by the officers of the law, habituated
for years to a life of adventure, pillage, and murder, he treated his
prisoners without pity or mercy. All who were unable to purchase their
liberty by paying whatever ransom he fixed, were put to death. He
looked upon civilized people not as men, but as prizes.
As he saw the captive approach, he asked the usual question,--
"Who are you?"
"Salvator Rosa, a Neapolitan painter, now resident of Florence."
"O, a painter! A poor prize, generally. But you are famous, I hear;
the prince is your friend. Your pictures sell for very large prices.
You must pay us ten thousand ducats."
[Illustration: {Sivora, the chief's wife, standing on the cliff edge}]
"Ten thousand ducats, indeed! Where do you suppose I can get so much?"
"Well, as for that, if you haven't got the money, your friends must
get it for you."
"But my friends are not rich."
"Ah, excuse me!" said the chief, smiling. "When one has a prince for a
protector, he is always rich."
"It is true that the prince is my patron; but he owes me nothing."
"No matter if he don't. He would not be deprived of such an artist as
you for a paltry ten thousand ducats."
"He pays me for my pictures; but he will not pay my ransom."
"He _must_," said the robber, emphatically; "so no more words. Ask
your friends, if you prefer, or whoever you will; but bring me ten
thousand ducats, and that within a month; otherwise you must die."
As the chief uttered these words, he walked away, leaving Salvator in
the middle of the ground which formed the camp.
During the short conversation two children came from one of the tents,
being attracted by the noise. Their little blond heads, curiously
turned towards the captive, their faces, tanned by the sun, but
animated by the crimson of health and youth, and their picturesque
costume had attracted the attention of the painter. When the chief had
gone away, he approached them, and smiled. The children drew away
abashed; then, reassured by the air of goodness which the young man
wore, they came nearer, and permitted him to embrace them.
"Are you going to live with us?" said the eldest, who was about eight
years of age.
"I don't know, my little friend."
"O, I wish you would! It is so nice to stop in these mountains. There
are plenty of beautiful flowers, and birds' nests, too. I have three
already; I will show them to you, and then we will go and find some
more. But what is that you have got under your arm?"
"It is my sketch-book."
"A sketch-book? What is a sketch-book?"
"It is what I carry my pictures in."
"Pictures? O, do let me see them!"
"Yes, indeed; here they are."
"What pretty pictures! O, mother, come and see! Here are mountains,
and men, and goats. Did you make them all?"
Attracted by the call of the child, a lady came out of the principal
tent. She was yet young, tall, and covered with a medley of garments
from various costumes. Her face sparkled with energy, and might have
been called beautiful. She threw a sad glance at Salvator, and
approached him haughtily, as if to give an order. But seeing the two
children busily looking over the sketch-book, and observing the
familiar way with which both treated their new acquaintance, she
appeared to change her manner somewhat, and began to look at the
pictures herself, and to admire them. At the end of half an hour the
mother and the children seemed like old friends of Salvator Rosa.
The woman was the wife of the chief. A daughter of an honorable
family, she married a young man at Pisa, her native city, who proved
to be captain of this band of robbers. She could not well leave the
company into which she had been betrayed; and so, with a noble
self-denial, she became resigned to her hard lot. An unwilling witness
of the many crimes of her husband and his companions, she suffered
cruelly in her resignation. Yet her fidelity, her virtue,--things
rarely known, but sometimes respected among these mountain
brigands,--had given her a moral power over the men as well as over
her husband. More than once she had used this means to temper their
ferocity, and obtain pardon for their unfortunate prisoners.
Just then one of the brigands came and brought to the prisoner the
order from the chief that he should write to his friends to obtain
money for his ransom. The man was going, under a disguise, to the city
of Florence; and he offered to deliver any letters intrusted to his
care. He indicated the place where the ten thousand ducats must be
left, so that Salvator might inform his correspondent.
Our hero had many devoted friends; but nearly all were artists like
himself, and without fortune. Nevertheless, he decided to write to one
of them. He gave orders that all the pictures in his studio should be
sold. He hoped that the money which they would bring, together with
what his friends could advance to him, would amount to the sum
demanded by the chief.
This done, Salvator easily persuaded himself that he should soon be
set at liberty, and the artist recovered his unconcern, and almost his
usual good spirits. The country around him was full of romantic
studies for his pencil. He had, besides, found in the society of the
children of Pietratesta two charming companions. He instructed them in
the elements of his art; and his pupils, to both of whom the study was
quite new, seemed never to grow tired of their task.
In a moment of good humor, he drew caricatures of each member of the
band, which created a great deal of amusement. Then he drew, with
great care, the portraits of the two children. This attention
profoundly touched the heart of the mother, and her tender sympathy,
almost wasting among these unfeeling men, found a secret pleasure in
rendering the captivity of the young painter less unhappy and less
hard. She conversed with him familiarly, and it gave her great
pleasure to see the care which he took to instruct her children.
So Salvator Rosa, to whom the band gave quite a considerable degree of
liberty, never dreamed of taking improper advantage of it. Thanks to
his fancy and his recklessness as an artist, he almost forgot that he
was the prisoner of a cruel master, and that his life was in peril.
But the ransom, which he had sent for, came not. Whether the letters
he had written failed to reach their destination, or whether his
friends were deaf to his request for assistance, he received no
answer. He wrote repeatedly, but always with the same result.
And so the months slipped by, and the chief began to grow impatient at
the long delay. His wife had more than once calmed his anger, and
prevented any catastrophe. At length several weeks went by, in which
the expeditions of the band were unfruitful. The provisions were
running low, and Pietratesta saw in his captive one unprofitable
mouth. Sivora, his wife, felt her influence to be growing weaker and
weaker under the increasing destitution and continued delay.
One day Pietratesta encountered his prisoner, and, addressing him in
an irritated voice,--
"Well?" he said, as if his question needed no other explanation.
"Nothing yet," responded Salvator Rosa, sadly.
"Ah, this is too much!" cried the brigand. "I begin to think you are
playing with me. But do you know the price Pietratesta makes those pay
who cross him?"
"Alas! I am far from trying to deceive you. You know that I have done
all in my power to obtain my ransom. I have written to various
persons; your own men have taken my letters. You see that it is not
my fault."
"It is always the fault of prisoners when their ransom is not paid."
"Wait a little longer. I will write again to-day."
"Wait! wait! A whole year, month after month, has gone by, and you
repeat the same old story. A year--an age for me--I have waited. Do
you think I have been making unmeaning threats? Do you expect to abuse
my patience with impunity? It has given out at last--the more so as,"
added he, now that he felt his anger increasing, "I ought to have
settled this affair a long while ago. This is your last day, observe
me."
At a sign from their chief, four bandits seized the young man, and
bound him. As Salvator was led away, he cast one sad look at the
dwelling where he had passed many happy hours, and from which he was
going to his death. For a moment he stopped to say farewell to the
children, who were standing at the door crying and stretching out
their little naked brown arms towards him.
A few moments later, Sivora, who had been gathering flowers in the
mountains, returned home. Observing that her husband, as well as
Salvator, was absent, and her children in tears, she guessed the
painful truth.
"Where is Salvator?" she asked of the eldest.
"They have bound him, and carried him away," responded the child,
still crying.
"Which way?"
"Down yonder," was the reply of the child, pointing with its finger in
the direction of a rocky cliff already too well known for its horrible
scenes.
"Alas, wretched man!" exclaimed Sivora, almost frantically, as she
comprehended the new crime her husband was about to commit. She sat
down for a moment, covered her face with her hands--a prey to the
most unspeakable anxiety. Then, rising suddenly, her eyes flashing
with determination,--
"Come!" she said, resolutely; "come, my children. Perhaps we may yet
be in time."
And, taking the hands of her little ones, who followed her with
difficulty, but yet eagerly, she darted away at a rapid pace in the
direction taken by the brigands.
While the men were hurrying Salvator along, the chief maintained a
profound silence. His band followed him as dumb as slaves who go to
execute the will of their master, which they know is law. They soon
arrived at the summit of a cliff, which overhung a yawning abyss
beneath. After having taken one look over the precipice, and examined
the neighborhood rapidly, Pietratesta cried, "Halt!" and the whole
body came to a rest.
"There is just a quarter of an hour for you to live," he said, turning
to his prisoner. "You have time to die like a Christian. Make your
prayer."
The young man hesitated for a moment, threw his agitated eyes around,
then, kneeling on the rock, he prayed earnestly. The men stood
unmoved, as if they had been statues cut from stone.
Salvator rose, with a calm demeanor, and said, addressing the chief in
a firm tone,--
"My life is in your hands, I know. You are going to kill me without
any cause. I have prayed," he added, with a voice full of authority,
"for the salvation of my soul, and repentance for thine. God will
judge us both. I am ready."
Immediately the brigands seized the young man, and hurried him towards
the precipice. Already they waited but the signal of their chief,
already Pietratesta had given the fatal command, when a cry was heard
not many paces distant, which suspended the preparations.
"Stop!" exclaimed a harsh voice.
The bandits, astonished at the interruption, turned to see whence it
came. A woman ran towards them, her hair in disorder, her countenance
pale and agitated, her dark eyes flashing with determination. She held
by their hands two children, who, with weeping eyes, were hastening,
with all the speed their young limbs could carry them, towards the
precipice.
It was Sivora.
As she came forward the chief uttered an exclamation of disappointment
and anger.
"Why do you come here?" he asked, in an irritated voice.
"You know well enough," responded Sivora, without any sign of
intimidation. "What are you about to do? What is the crime of this
young man? What is the wrong he has committed? You know he is
innocent, and that it is not his fault that the price of his ransom
has not been paid. Why commit a useless crime? You have too many on
your soul already," she added, in a low, sad voice. "Since it is not
too late, let the young man go. His ransom is not absolutely
necessary. If it was, would his death bring it to you? Remember with
what care and solicitude he has treated your children! with what
patience he has instructed them in his art! See, they weep, as if
their hearts would break, at the wrong you would do their friend! It
is they--it is I--who ask clemency. You will not kill Salvator; you
will pardon him for the love you bear your children."
As she said these words she pushed the two little blond heads into the
arms of their father.
The brigands, hesitating, touched, without knowing why, struck with an
involuntary respect for the woman, remained immovable, with their eyes
fixed upon their chief, as if waiting to ascertain his wishes. He
stood, brooding, nervous, his eyes bent upon the ground, hardly daring
to look upon Sivora, at once his suppliant and accuser, a prey to
violent emotions. The authority of that respected voice, and the
irritation at being deprived of his revenge,--the invincible love he
had for the woman, and the shame of giving way before his men,--all
these warring considerations, the effects of which were plainly to be
seen on his swarthy face, spoke of the severe contest going on within.
At length his evil genius got the control.
"What do I care for his solicitude and his tenderness?" he said, in a
coarse voice. "He would forget all as soon as he should get out of our
hands; and he would, no doubt, send the police after us if we should
let him go. I know what the promises of captives are worth. Besides,
_I_ command here, I alone, and I will be obeyed. Take away these
children; and you, comrades, despatch your your prisoner."
"Ah! is it so?" exclaimed Sivora, in a piercing voice, throwing
herself before the bandits, who were pushing their victim towards the
chasm. "Then I will beg no more; I _command_ now. Listen to me well,
for these are my last words. You know with what devotion, with what
resignation, I have supported this bitter life which you brought me to
among these mountains. The isolation, the sorrow, the shame, I have
endured for thee. I have never complained. I hoped, after such
sacrifices, you would at length listen to my words, and renounce your
bad life. But since you do not care for my devotion, since I am
nothing to you, listen well to my words, Pietratesta. If you dare to
commit this odious crime, look for a mother for your children, for,
with your victim, you will slay your wife!"
So saying, she advanced close to the brink of the cliff, over which
she could spring at the signal from her husband.
Salvator, motionless and rooted to the spot, in silence, full of
anxiety, observed this strange scene. The robbers, hardened by crime,
for the first time hesitated at the command of their chief, and fixed
their eyes upon the beautiful woman to whom despair added a new charm.
They quailed before her authority, and stood as motionless as statues.
Pietratesta, overwhelmed by the recollections which the woman's words
awakened, alarmed at her threats and her resolution, hung his head,
like a guilty wretch before a just judge, while Sivora, with wild
countenance, piercing voice, and imperial manner, her long black hair
loosely falling upon her shoulders, with her arms extended towards the
abyss, almost resembled an ancient goddess, who suddenly appears at
the moment of crime, arrests the homicidal arm, and subjects the
criminal to punishment. There was in her figure an imposing grandeur,
before which the rude men, for an instant recalled to themselves, felt
humiliated and condemned.
Astounded by that firmness and devotion, ashamed of his violence
towards the woman who was living a life of outrage, the chief, after
some moments of moody silence, said, in an altered voice,--
"You wish it! He is free!"
Salvator threw himself upon his knees before his preserver, covered
her hand with kisses and tears, and pressed, with transport, the two
children in his arms. Completely wild with happiness and gratitude, he
abandoned himself to the buoyancy of his generous nature, when Sivora
said to him, in a whisper,--
"Go! go quickly! The tiger is only sleeping!"
They put a bandage over the eyes of the young man, so that he might
not see the path by which he descended from the mountains, and two of
the brigands then conducted him to the highway which led to the city.
Hardly had he entered Florence, yet sad from the recollection of the
scene in which he came near being a victim, when the young painter
hastily sketched the principal details; and, some time after, the
picture of which we have spoken was composed, and hangs this day in
the museum at Naples, admired and pointed out to all visitors.
L. D. L.
WE SHOULD HEAR THE ANGELS SINGING.
If we only sought to brighten
Every pathway dark with care,
If we only tried to lighten
All the burdens others bear,
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
If we only strove to cherish
Every pure and holy thought,
Till within our hearts should perish
All that is with evil fraught,
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
If it were our aim to ponder
On the good that we might win,
Soon our feet would cease to wander
In forbidden paths of sin;
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
If we only did our duty,
Thinking not what it might cost,
Then the earth would wear new beauty
Fair as that in Eden lost;
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
KATE CAMERON.
MY LITTLE HERO.
"How we wish that we knew a hero!"
Say the children, pressing round;
"Will you tell us if such a wonder
In London streets can be found?"
I point from my study-window
At a lad who is passing by:
"My darlings, there goes a hero;
You will know his oft-heard cry."
"'Tis the chimney-sweep, dear father,
In his jacket so worn and old;
What can _he_ do that is brave and true,
Wandering out in the cold?"
Says Maudie, "I thought that a hero
Was a man with a handsome face."
"And I pictured him all in velvet dressed,
With a sword," whispered little Grace.
"Mine is only a 'sweeper,' children,
His deeds all unnoticed, unknown;
Yet I think he is one of the heroes
God sees and will mark for his own.
"Out there he looks eager and cheerful,
No matter how poorly he fares;
No sign that his young heart is heavy
With the weight of unchildish cares.
[Illustration: MY LITTLE HERO.]
"Home means to him but a dingy room,
A father he shudders to see;
Alas for the worse than neglected sons
Who have such a father as he!
"And a mother who lies on a ragged bed,
So sick and worn and sad;
No friend has she but this one pale boy--
This poor little sweeper-lad,
"So rough to others, and all unskilled,
Yet to her most tender and true,
Oft waking with patient cheerfulness
To soothe her the whole night through.
"He wastes no time on his own scant meals,
But goes forth with the morning sun;
Never a moment is wasted
Till his long day's work is done.
"Then home to the dreary attic
Where his mother lies lonely all day,
Unheeding the boys who would tempt him
To linger with them and play.
"Because she is helpless and lonely,
He is doing a hero's part;
For loving and self-denying
Are the tests of a noble heart."
[Illustration: {A robin sits on a snowy branch}]
ROBIN REDBREAST.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O, Robin, dear!
And what will this poor Robin do?
For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket,
The wheat-stack for the mouse,
When trembling night winds whistle,
And moan all round the house.
The frosty way like iron,
The branches plumed with snow--
Alas! in winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O, Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
HOW SWEETIE'S "SHIP CAME IN."
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
It will be a real honest story--of how Christmas came to a poor cold
home, and made it bright, and warm, and glad. A _very_ poor home it
was, up three flights of worm-eaten, dirt-stained stairs, in the old
gray house that stood far up a narrow, crooked alley, where the sun
never shone except just a while in the middle of the day. He tried
hard to brighten up the place a little, but the tall houses all about
prevented him. Still he slanted a few golden beams even into that
wretched home away up under the eaves; for though the few small panes
of glass in the narrow windows had been mostly broken out, and their
places filled with boards nailed tight to keep out the wintry winds,
and rain, and snow, still there were some left through which a feeble
ray did sometimes creep and make glad the hearts of the children. Five
fatherless children lived with their mother in that old garret. Night
and day the mother sewed, taking scarcely any rest, and yet found it
hard to keep all the little toes and knees covered, and could get only
the poorest food for the five hungry mouths. The thought that, work
never so hard, she could not earn enough to give them one hearty,
satisfying meal, made her heart ache.
Three boys and two girls, in one old naked room, with only their
mother to care for them, and she so poor, that for years she had not
had a new gown, or a new bonnet! Yet she liked pretty new clothes, as
well as any one ever did, I know.
Of these five little folks, the oldest was Harry, the newsboy; then
came Katie, and Willie, and Fred, and, last of all, wee Jennie.
Though Harry was the oldest, yet _he_ was not very old. Just
twelve--a thin, white little fellow, with eyes that always looked as
if they wanted more. More what? Well, more sunshine; more warm
clothes, and bright, hot fires, and, O, very much more to eat!
Sometimes he would make fifty cents in a day, selling newspapers, and
then he would hurry joyfully home, thinking of the hungry little
mouths it would help to fill. But some days he would hardly earn ten
cents the whole long day. Then he would go slowly and sadly along,
wishing all sorts of things--that he could take home as much meat as
he could carry to the little ones who had not eaten meat for so long
they had almost forgotten how it tasted; or that the gentlemen, who
owned the clothing stores which he was passing, would say to him,
"Come in, my little fellow, and help yourself to as many warm clothes
as you want for yourself and your little brothers at home;" or that he
could find a heap of money--and his mouth would water, thinking of the
good things which he could buy and take home with some of it.
The other children always knew whether it had been a good or bad day
with Harry, by the way he came up the stairs. If he came with a hop,
skip, and a jump, they knew it meant a good day; and a good day for
Harry was a good evening for them all.
Though Katie was really the name of the second child, she hardly ever
was called so; for her mother, and the children, and all the
neighbors, called her Sweetie, she was so good and so thoughtful for
others, so sweet-tempered and kind. She did everything so gently that
none of them could ever love her half as much as she deserved. Though
only ten years old, and very small and pale, she did every bit of the
housework, and kept the ugly old room and its faded furniture so neat,
that it seemed almost home-like and pretty to them all. It was
happiness enough for the little ones to get her first kiss when she
came back from an errand, to sit by her at table, and, above all, to
lie closest to her at night. Willie, and Fred, and Jennie, all slept
with her on a straw bed in the corner; and they used to try to stretch
her little arms over them all, so that even the one farthest off might
feel the tips of her fingers, so dearly did they love her.
They had once owned more than one bedstead, and many other comfortable
things besides; but when their father was killed at the great factory
where he worked, their mother was obliged to sell almost everything to
get enough money to pay for his funeral, and to help support her
little family; so that now she had only a narrow wooden settee for her
bed, while Harry stretched himself on a couple of chairs, and the rest
slept all together in the bed on the floor. Poor as they were, they
were not very unhappy. Almost every night, when their mother took the
one dim candle all to herself, so that she could see to sew neatly,
Sweetie would amuse the other children by telling them beautiful
stories about the little flower people, and the good fairies, and
about Kriss Kringle--though how she knew about him I can't tell, for
he never came down their chimney at Christmas.
"And, when my ship comes in," Sweetie used to say, "I'll have the
tallest and handsomest Christmas tree, filled to the top with candies
and toys, and lighted all over with different-colored candles, and
we'll sing and dance round it. Let's begin now, and get our voices in
tune." Then they would all pipe up as loud as they could, and were as
happy as if they half believed Sweetie's ship was ready to land.
But there came a hard year for poor needle-women: it was the year I am
writing about, and Sweetie's mother found it almost impossible to get
even the necessaries of life. Her children's lips were bluer, their
faces more pinched, and thin, threadbare clothes more patched than
ever. Sweetie used to take the two boys, and hunt in the streets for
bits of coal and wood; but often, the very coldest days, they would
have no fire. It was very hard to bear, and especially for the poor
mother, who still had to toil on, though she was so chilled, and her
hands so numbed, she could hardly draw her needle through her work;
and for Harry, who trudged through the streets from daylight until the
street lamps were lighted.
The day before Christmas came. People were so busy cooking Christmas
dainties that they did not stop to sift their cinders very carefully,
and Sweetie and the boys had picked up quite a large bag full of
half-burnt coal in the alleys, and were carrying it home as carefully
as if it were a great treasure--as, indeed, it was to them. Being very
tired, they sat down to rest on the curbstone in front of an elegant
mansion. One of the long windows was open.
"Let's get close up under the window," said Sweetie. "I guess it's too
warm inside, and may be we shall get some of the heat. O! O! don't it
smell good?" she cried, as the savory odors of the Christmas cooking
stole out upon the air.
"What is it, Sweetie?" whispered Willie.
"Coffee," said Sweetie, "and turkeys, and jelly, perhaps."
"I wish I had some," sighed Freddy, "I'm so cold and hungry!"
"Poor little man! he must come and sit in Sweetie's lap; that will
make him warmer," said his sister, wrapping her shawl around him.
"Yes; that's nice," said the little fellow, hugging her tight.
Mr. Rogers, the owner of this fine house, had lost his wife and two
dear children within the year. He lived here alone, with his servants,
and was very desolate. When the children stopped under his window, he
was lying on a velvet sofa near it, and, lifting himself up, he peeped
out from behind the curtains just as Fred crept into his sister's
arms; and he heard all they said.
"When your ship comes in, Sweetie, will it have turkeys and jellies in
it?" said Willie, leaning against her.
"Yes, indeed," said Sweetie. "There will be turkeys almost as big as
Jennie, and a great deal fatter."
"But it's so long coming, Sweetie; you tell us every time it _will_
come, and it never _comes_ at all."
"O, no, Freddy. I don't ever say it _will_ come, but it's nice to
think what we would do if it should come--isn't it?"
"We'd buy a great white house, like this--wouldn't we, Sweetie?"
"No, Willie. I'd rather buy that nice little store over by the church,
that's been shut up so long, and has FOR SALE on the door. I'd furnish
it all nice, and fill the shelves with beautiful goods, and trimmings
for ladies' dresses, and lovely toys. It shows so far that everybody
would be sure to buy their Christmas things there. It's just the
dearest little place, with two cosy rooms back of the shop, and three
overhead; and I'd put flour and sugar, and tea and coffee, and all
sorts of goodies, in the kitchen cupboard, and new clothes for all of
us in the closets up stairs. Then I'd kindle a fire, and light the
lamps, and lock the door, and go back to the dreary old garret once
more--poor mother would be sitting there, sad and sober, as she
always is now, and I would say to her, 'Come, mother, before you light
the candle, Jennie and I want you to go with us, and look at the
lovely Christmas gifts in the shop windows.' Then she'd say,
sorrowfully, 'I don't want to see them, dear; I can't buy any of them
for you, and I don't want to look at them.' But I'd tease her till I
made her go; and I'd leave Harry, who would know all about it
beforehand, to lock up the dismal old room, and bring all the rest of
you over to the new house. You'd get there long before we did, and the
light would be streaming out from the little shop windows--O, so
bright! 'Mother,' I'd say, 'let's go in here, and buy the cotton you
wanted;' and when I got her in, I'd shut the door quick, and dance up
and down, and say, 'Dear mother. Sweetie's ship's come in, and brought
you this new home, and everything comfortable; and Sweetie will tend
the shop, and you needn't sew any more day and night, for it's going to
be--' 'A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for us--every one!'
Harry and all of you would shout, and our dear mother would cry for
joy."
"Will it come to pass soon, Sweetie?" asked both the boys at once.
"Not very, I'm afraid," answered Sweetie, in a subdued tone; but, when
she saw their look of disappointment, she brightened up in a moment,
and added, "It'll be all the better, when it does come, for waiting so
long--but look here! To-night is Christmas Eve, and we've got coal
enough here to make a splendid fire. We won't light it till dark, and
then it will last us all the evening. And I've got a great secret to
tell you: Harry made a whole dollar yesterday, and mother is going to
give us each three big slices of fried mush, and bread besides, for
supper; and, after supper, I'll tell you the prettiest story you ever
heard, and we'll sing every song we know, and I guess we'll have a
merry Christmas if nobody else does."
[Illustration: HOW SWEETIE'S SHIP CAME IN.]
"I wish it was Christmas all the time," said Freddy, faintly.
"Christ was born that day," said Sweetie, softly, "and that makes it
best of all."
"Yes," said Willie; "the dear Lord who came from Heaven and, for our
sakes, became poor, and had not where to lay his head, not even a
garret as good as ours--"
"I know," said Freddy; "he was born in a manger, and a beautiful star
shined right over it. I can sing a hymn about it."
Then they picked up their bag, and started for home, gay as larks over
the prospect of the treat they were to have that night--fried mush and
a fire! that was all, you know.
Mr. Rogers, concealed by the heavy silk curtains, had heard every word
they said, and his eyes were full of tears. He rang for his servant.
"Harris," said he, when the man came in, "follow those children, find
out where they live, and what their neighbors say of the family."
When he was left alone again, he began to think,--
"Rich as I am, I have never yet done any great good to anybody. Who
knows but God may have sent those children under my window to teach me
that, instead of my own lost darlings, he means me to care for these
and other suffering little ones who live in the lanes and alleys of
this great city!"
Harris soon came back, and told his master what he had learned about
the circumstances of the family; and he added,--
"Everybody calls the oldest girl Sweetie, and they do say she's as
good as gold."
Mr. Rogers went out, and, before night, had bought the little corner
store, for which Sweetie had longed. Then, calling his servants
together, he related what he had overheard the children say, and told
them how anxious he was to grant Sweetie's wish, and let her take her
mother to her new home on Christmas Day.
"But I cannot do it," said Mr. Rogers, "unless you are willing to help
me work on Christmas Eve, for there is a great deal to be done."
No one could refuse to aid in so good a cause; and besides, Mr. Rogers
was always so considerate of his servants that they were glad to
oblige him. They all went to work with a will, and soon the little
house and store were put in perfect order.
There were ribbons, laces, buttons, needles, pins, tapes, and, indeed,
all sorts of useful things in the store. In the cellar were coal and
wood, two whole hams, a pair of chickens, and a turkey. The kitchen
pantry was stocked with sugar and flour. There was one barrel of
potatoes, and another of the reddest apples. Up stairs the closets and
bureaus were bursting with nice things to wear, not quite made into
garments, but ready to be made, as soon as Sweetie and her mother got
time.
So rapidly and so completely was everything arranged, that it seemed
as if one of those good fairies, of whom Sweetie had so often told the
children, had been at work.
"The money this has cost me," thought Mr. Rogers, "will make a family
of six happy, and do them good all the rest of their lives. I am glad
the thought has come to my heart to celebrate Christ's birthday in so
pleasant a way."
Late in the afternoon he picked his way through the dull, dirty alley
to the old gray house where Sweetie lived. As he went up the worn and
dusty stairway, he heard the children singing their Christmas songs.
"Poor little things!" said he; and the tears stood in his eyes.
"Happy even in this miserable place, while I know so many surfeited
with luxuries, and yet pining and discontented!"
Harry jumped to open the door as he knocked; and Mr. Rogers, entering,
apologized to the children's mother for his intrusion by saying he had
come to ask a favor.
"It is but little we can do for any one, sir," replied Mrs. Lawson;
"but anything in our power will be cheerfully done."
"Even if I propose to carry off this little girl of yours for a
while?" he asked; but, seeing the troubled look in the other
children's faces, he hastened to explain.
"The truth is," said he, "having no little folks of my own, I thought
I'd try and make other people's happy to-day; so I set out to get up a
Christmas tree; but I find I don't know how to go to work exactly, and
I want Sweetie to help me."
He spoke so sadly when he said he had no children of his own, that
Sweetie could not refuse to go.
"O, yes, sir," said she; "I'll go; that is, if I may come back this
evening--for I couldn't disappoint Freddy and all of them, you know!"
"They shan't be disappointed, I promise you," said Mr. Rogers, as he
took her down stairs.
"Why, I never was in a carriage in all my life," said Sweetie, as he
lifted her into his beautiful clarence, and sat down beside her.
"I shouldn't wonder if you should ride in a carriage pretty often
now," said Mr. Rogers, "for your ship's coming in."
Sweetie couldn't tell whether she was in a dream or not. Half crying,
half laughing, her face flushed with surprise, she asked,--
"How did you know?"
"Know what?" said her friend, enjoying her bewilderment.
"Why," she answered, "about the way I keep up the children's spirits,
and make them forget they are hungry and cold, while I tell them about
my ship coming in?"
"A little bird told me," said he, and then was quiet.
Sweetie did not like to ask any more; so she sat quite still, leaning
back in one corner of the carriage, among the soft, crimson cushions,
and watched the people in the street, thinking how happy she was, and
how strange it was that little Katie Lawson should be riding with a
grand gentleman in a splendid carriage!
Suddenly, with a whirl and a turn, they stopped before a house. Mr.
Rogers lifted her out, and led her up the broad steps; and she found
he was taking her into the beautiful white house, under the windows of
which she had sat with Willie and Fred the day before.
"Now," said Mr. Rogers, rolling a comfortable arm-chair for Sweetie in
front of a glowing fire, "while you are getting warm, and eating your
dinner, I am going to tell you about my Christmas tree, and how your
ship came in."
A little table was brought in, and set between them, filled with so
many delicacies, that Sweetie's head grew dizzy at the sight. She
thought of her little hungry brothers and sister, and would rather not
have eaten, but Mr. Rogers made her.
"My little girl," said he, finally, "never forget this: God always
rewards a faithful heart. If he seems to be a long time without caring
for his children, he never forgets or forsakes them."
Then he told her that he had overheard her conversation with her
brothers under his window, and that God had suddenly put it into his
heart to take care of some of the poor and fatherless in that great
city. "And I am going to begin with Sweetie," said he, very tenderly;
"and this is the way her ship shall come in. She shall have a new home
to give to her mother for a Christmas present, and the boys shall sing
their Christmas hymns to-night in the bright little parlor of the
corner store, instead of the dingy old garret; and here are the deeds
made out in Katie Lawson's own name, and nobody can take it away from
her. But come, little woman," he added,--for Sweetie was sobbing for
joy, and could not thank him,--"go and wash your face, for the horses
are tired of standing in the cold, and we must go and fetch the boys,
or I shall never get my Christmas tree set up."
An old lady, with a face beaming with kindness,--it was Mr. Rogers's
housekeeper,--then took Sweetie, and not only washed her tear-stained
cheeks, but curled her soft brown hair, and put on her the loveliest
blue dress, with boots to match. All the time she was dressing her,
Sweetie, who could not believe her senses, kept murmuring,--
"It's only a dream; it's too good to be true; the boys won't believe
it, I know; it's just like a fairy story, and, of course, it's only
pretending."
"No, indeed," said the old lady; "it's really true, my dear, and I
hope you'll be so grateful and kind to Mr. Rogers that he won't be so
lonely as he has been without his own dear little children."
Sweetie could hardly realize her own good fortune; and, when she went
down into the parlor, she burst into tears again, saying,--
"O, sir, I can't believe it. I am so happy!"
"So am I, Sweetie," said Mr. Rogers; and really it was hard to tell
which was the happier--it is always so much more blessed to give than
to receive. Together they rode to the new home, and laughed and cried
together as they went all over it. After they had been up stairs, and
down stairs, and in my lady's chamber, as Mr. Rogers said, he put her
into the carriage again.
"James," said he to the coachman, "you are under this young lady's
orders to-night, and must drive carefully."
Then, kissing Sweetie, he put the key of her new home into her hand,
and, telling her he should want her help to-morrow about his Christmas
tree, he bade her good night.
James drove Sweetie home, for the last time, to the dilapidated old
house. She ran up stairs, Freddy said afterwards, "just as Harry
always did when he'd had a good day." "Mother and children," said she,
"Mr. Rogers, the kind gentleman who was here, has sent me back in his
carriage to take you all to see something beautiful he has been
showing me. Harry, you be the gentleman of the house, and hand mother
and Jennie to the carriage, and I'll come right along." She stopped
long enough--this good child, who, even in her own good fortune, did
not forget the misfortunes of others--to run into the next room, where
an old woman lived, who was a cripple, and whose daughter supported
her by sewing.
"Mrs. Jones," said she, hurriedly, "a kind gentleman has given us a
new home, and we are going to it to-night, never to come back here to
live any more. Our old room, with the rent paid for a year, and all
there is in it, I want you to take as a Christmas present from
Sweetie; and I wish you a Happy, happy New Year, and please give this
to Milly;" and, slipping a five-dollar bill, which Mr. Rogers had
given her, into the old woman's hand, she ran out, and jumped into the
carriage. The street lamps blinked at them, like so many stars, as
they rolled along, and the boys and Jennie screamed with delight; but
Sweetie sat quite still.
James knew where to stop. Sweetie got out first, and ran and unlocked
the door of the little corner store. When they were all inside, and
before any one had time to ask a question, Sweetie threw her arms
about her mother's neck.
"Mother," she cried, "Sweetie's ship's come in; but it never would
have come if it had not been for Mr. Rogers; and it's brought you this
pretty house and shop for your own, and, please God, we'll all have--"
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" shouted Willie, ending her
sentence just as she had ended the story the day before.
"And all the better," said Fred, who remembered too, "because Christ
was born that day."
Mrs. Lawson, overwhelmed with joy, fainted. She soon recovered,
however, though Sweetie insisted on her lying on the soft lounge
before the fire, while she set the table. How pretty it looked, with
its six purple and white plates, and cups and everything to match! How
they did eat! How happy they were!
"Now," said Mrs. Lawson, when the dishes were washed, and they all sat
round the fire, "my little Sweetie, whose patience, and courage, and
cheerfulness have kept up the hearts of the rest of us, and proved the
ship that has brought us this cargo of comforts, you must tell us your
Christmas story before we go to bed."
So Sweetie told them all Mr. Rogers had said and done for her. They
were so excited they sat up very late, and happiness made them sleep
so soundly, that they did not wake till the sun was shining brightly
into the little shop. People began to come in very early, to make
little purchases. One lady bought a whole dollar's worth of toys,
which made them feel as if they were full of business already.
Later in the forenoon, Mr. Rogers sent for Harry and Sweetie to come
and help dress his Christmas tree; and Christmas night his parlor was
filled with poor children, for each of whom some useful gift hung on
the tree. Milly was there by Sweetie's invitation, and Mr. Rogers sent
her home in his carriage, with the easiest chair that money could buy
for her old lame mother. The tears filled his eyes as Milly thanked
him again and again for all his kindness; and, as he shut the door
after the last one, he said,--
"Hereafter I will
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