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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Stories of Many Lands + +Author: Grace Greenwood + +Release Date: October 1, 2008 [EBook #26736] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF MANY LANDS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-cover"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-cover.jpg" ALT="Cover" BORDER="0" WIDTH="593" HEIGHT="678"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 593px"> +Cover +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +STORIES OF MANY LANDS. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +GRACE GREENWOOD, +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +AUTHOR OF "HISTORY OF MY PETS," "RECOLLECTIONS OF<BR> +MY CHILDHOOD," "MERRIE ENGLAND,"<BR> +ETC.<BR> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +NEW YORK: +<BR> +JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER. +<BR> +1885. +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by +<BR> +TICKNOR AND FIELDS, +<BR> +in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District +of Massachusetts<BR> +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DEDICATORY. +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +TO THE LITTLE COUSINS ANNIE, KITTY, AND CORDELIA +</H4> + +<P> +I dedicate this book to you, my dearest dears, with more love than I +have ink to write out, and more good wishes and fond hopes than any +printer would care to print. +</P> + +<P> +You will see by these stories that the children of different countries +are pretty much alike. I doubt not, if you were in France now, you +would get along nicely with the little Monsieurs and Mademoiselles, +after some coy hanging back and reconnoitring,—that is, if you only +knew their "lingo." So with the little Signors and Signorinas of +Italy, and the small Dons and Donnas of Spain. You would find the +Dutch boys and girls, who look so sober and quaint, like men and women +cut short, to be real children after all. If you should visit Turkey, +you would find the little Turks and Turkesses full of young human +nature,—love, naughtiness, grace, caprice, mischievous tricks, frolic, +and all that. Should you even take a trip to China,—the country +that's right under us, you know,—you would get acquainted with the +Chinese young folks somehow, though you could only converse by signs. +The boys would look very funny to you, with their yellow tunics, and +queer hats, and long "pigtails,"—and the girls with their hair turned +up into a top-knot, their slanting eyes, and their tottering walk,—for +the rich young ladies there have no feet to speak of. They compress +their <I>feet</I> instead of their <I>waists</I>, because, you see, they are not +Christians. So you could n't dance, jump the rope, play <I>croquet</I>, or +take a run on the great Chinese wall with them; but you could play with +puzzles, have tea-parties, and pick the tea-leaves right from the +bushes. +</P> + +<P> +Children all the world over laugh and weep, quarrel and make up, play +hard, and eat heartily, love and try their mammas, pet and tease their +little brothers and sisters,—are a sweet care and a dear perplexity, +and are God's little folk, all of them. I think they have the best +share of His love and of this life's happiness wherever they are. But, +darlings, I want you to feel that you need not envy any children on +earth,—not the richest and proudest, not the daughters of a German +Grand Duke, with a kingdom so large that you could scarcely walk across +it in a long summer day, nor any East-Indian Princesses, twinkling with +diamonds, and rattling with pearls, and riding on elephants, nor +Turkish Princesses wearing baggy satin trousers and velvet jackets, and +walking on costly carpets, nor Chinese Princesses that don't walk at +all, nor Spanish Princesses who go to bull-fights in splendid +state-coaches, and wear long trains, and are every now and then +presented to the Queen, their mother, and allowed to kiss her hand, nor +even English Princesses who live in castles and palaces and see the +Queen every day. I really want you to feel that yours is a proud and +happy lot, in being true-born American girls, in having honest and +loyal parents, in having lived during our grand sad war for Union, in +having heard the ringing of the bells of peace, in having loved and +mourned the good, great President, Abraham Lincoln. +</P> + +<P> +If in this volume I have chosen to tell you some stories about titled +people of foreign lands, it is that you may not be so set up by your +privileges as little citizenesses of the great Republic, as not to feel +kindly and humanly toward even little Lords and Ladies, who, being the +slaves of pomp, etiquette, and fine clothes, know nothing about freedom +and equality, and good, jolly times; who have no Star-Spangled Banner, +and no Fourth of July, and who have scarcely ever heard of George +Washington and General Grant. +</P> + +<P> +Wishing you merry holidays, I kiss my hand to you. +<BR><BR> +GRACE GREENWOOD. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS. +</H2> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#english">ABOUT ENGLISH CHILDREN.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + HOW WE ACT; NOT HOW WE LOOK<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> + LITTLE FOOTMARKS IN THE SHOW<BR> + BABIE ANNIE TO COUSIN J——<BR> + THE DAY AT THE CASTLE<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> + FAITHFUL LITTLE RUTH<BR> + CHRISTMAS,—A MOTHER'S EXCUSE<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#scottish">ABOUT SOME SCOTTISH CHILDREN.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + CASTLE AND COTTAGE<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> + JAMIE'S FAITH<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#irish">ABOUT SOME IRISH CHILDREN.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + THE TRUE LORD<BR> + A REBUS<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#french">STORY OF A FRENCH SOLDIER.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + THE CONSCRIPT<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#swiss">ABOUT SOME SWISS CHILDREN.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + THE DRUMMER-BOY<BR> + A REBUS<BR> + LITTLE CARL'S CHRISTMAS-EVE<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#italian">ABOUT SOME ITALIAN CHILDREN.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + GIUSEPPE AND LUCIA<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#home">HOME STORIES.</A> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + MY PET FROM THE CLOUDS<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> + THE TWO GEORGES<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> + THE LITTLE WIDOW'S MITE<BR> + A COUPLE OF CHARADES<BR> + BESSIE RAEBURN'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE<BR> + A CHARADE<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="english"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ABOUT ENGLISH CHILDREN +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HOW WE ACT; NOT HOW WE LOOK. +</H3> + +<P> +"O Tommy, what a funny little woman! come and see!" cried Harry Wilde, +as he stood at the window of his father's house, in a pleasant English +town. Tommy ran to the window and looked out, and laughed louder than +his brother. It was indeed a funny sight to see. In the midst of a +pelting rain, through mud and running water, there waddled along the +queerest, quaintest little roly-poly figure you can imagine. It was a +dwarf woman, who, though no taller than a child of seven or eight +years, wore an enormous bonnet, and carried an overgrown umbrella. Her +clothes were tucked up about her in a queer way, and altogether she was +a very laugh-at-able little creature. As she passed, she looked up, +and such an odd face as she had! The nose was large and long, as +though it had kept on growing after the other features gave out. +Indeed, it was so big that the eyes had got into a way of looking at it +constantly, which did not improve their beauty. The hair was bushy, +and of a lively red, but the mouth was quite sweet and good-humored, +and the little crossed eyes had a merry, kindly twinkle in them. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Harry, "if I were such an absurd looking body as that, I +wouldn't show myself. I 'd hide by day, and only come out by night, +like an owl, would n't you, Tommy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said the little boy, and then asked, "Did God make her, Harry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why yes, He made what there is of her, and then I suppose He concluded +it wasn't worth while to go on with her!" +</P> + +<P> +"Harry! Harry!" cried the mother of the little boys, "you must not +talk so; it is wicked. That poor little dwarf may be of much use in +the world, and do a great deal of good, if she has a kind heart; and +she looks as though she had." +</P> + +<P> +"I should like to know of what use such a poor wee thing can be," said +Harry, shrugging his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"God knows," said Mrs. Wilde, "and He did not make her in vain." +</P> + +<P> +The next day was Christmas. The rain was over, and it was clear and +cold. +</P> + +<P> +"Hurrah!" cried Harry from the window, "here's our wee bit woman again. +Her hair is as fiery as ever. I wonder the rain didn't put it out. +She might warm her hands in it, if it weren't for carrying that big +basket." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wilde looked out. The dwarf was trudging slowly along, bearing a +heavy basket. The good lady was seized with a strong desire to know +more about the strange little creature; so she hurried to her room, put +on a bonnet and cloak, went out and followed after her, quietly. She +had to go a long way before her curiosity was satisfied; but at last +she saw the dwarf enter a miserable house, in the suburbs of the town. +Mrs. Wilde stole up to a window, and ventured to look in. She saw the +dwarf surrounded by a crowd of shouting children, to whom she was +giving Christmas-cake, toys, and clothes from her basket. She saw her +give food and medicine to a poor woman, who lay on a bed in a corner. +She heard her say, "Have the coals come?" and the woman answer, "Yes, +and the blankets; God bless you!" She saw her take up the baby, feed +it, and play with it,—so big a baby, that Mrs. Wilde thought it ought +to take turns in tending, with the good little dwarf. Then the lady +turned away in tears, and went home. When she had told Harry what she +had seen, he blushed deeply, and Tommy said: "God knew better than +brother what the funny little woman was good for, did n't He?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O be my <I>first</I>, my darling child,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Whatever may betide;</SPAN><BR> +Meet falsehood with its best rebuke,<BR> +An open, earnest, honest look,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Clear-browed, and fearless-eyed.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Be like my <I>second</I>, thoughtful, wise,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And in life's summer prime,</SPAN><BR> +Gather and hoard a goodly store<BR> +Of truth and love, and priceless lore,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To cheer its winter time.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But never let thy frank young heart<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Consent to play my <I>whole</I>;</SPAN><BR> +Let will and honor in it meet,<BR> +Let Duty ever guide thy feet,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And keep thy steadfast soul.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Tru-ant</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LITTLE FOOTMARKS IN THE SNOW. +</H3> + +<P> +It was at a rectory, in the South of England, that two young children, +a boy and a girl, were looking out of a nursery window, on Christmas +morning,—the morning of the first snow. The girl, who was about seven +years old, was a beautiful, simple-hearted, amiable child, the daughter +of English parents, residing in India. Some months previous to this +winter morning she had been sent to England, on account of her delicate +health, and confided to the care of her mother's sister, Mrs. Graham, +the Rector's wife. Her name was Margaret Pelham; but she was called +Meggie and Meg, Peggy and Peg, and various other odd nicknames by her +English cousins. +</P> + +<P> +Little Margaret's chief playmate at the Rectory was her cousin Archie, +a boy only two years older than herself, but feeling ever so much +bigger and wiser; for he was an only son, a clever and rather conceited +young gentleman. He was good-natured, and loved his cousin; but he +loved better to tease and hoax her. Having lived all her little life +in India, Meggie was exceedingly ignorant of customs and things in her +new home, and was continually making laughable mistakes, and asking the +most absurd questions. This "greenness," as he called it, gave Archie +immense delight, and he was never tired of mystifying and hoaxing the +sweet-tempered little girl, who never resented his quizzings and +practical jokes. Of course it never occurred to the silly boy that he +was just as ignorant about India as Meggie was about England. +</P> + +<P> +This morning, the children being left for a time alone in the nursery, +he was having a rare time at his favorite amusement. Meggie had never +before seen snow, and was full of innocent wonder and admiration. "O +Cousin Archie!" she said, "the pretty white clouds we saw yesterday all +fell down in the night! Did you hear the noise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Clouds!" cried Archie, with a snort of contemptuous laughter; "why, +you poor little Hindoo, that's <I>snow</I>, and it came down so slow and +soft that nobody heard it." +</P> + +<P> +"O, is that snow?" said Meggie, laughing good-humoredly at her own +ignorance. "How beautiful it is! so soft and white. It looks just +like my little dovey's feathers. I think, Archie, the angels' beds +must be made out of snow, aren't they?" +</P> + +<P> +"O yes, of course, it would be so warm and comfortable, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it looks nice and warm. I think God must send it down to keep +things from dying of cold. He puts the grass and flowers to bed so, +don't He?" said simple and wise little Meggie. +</P> + +<P> +Archie could not stand this. He shouted and clapped his hands, and +even rolled on the carpet in an ecstasy of boyish fun, crying out, "O, +how jolly green! how jolly green!" +</P> + +<P> +"What?" said Meggie, "<I>I</I> don't see anything green. All is white, as +far as I can see. The trees and bushes look as though they had +night-gowns and night-caps on. How pretty the snow is, how clean and +soft! I should like to run about in it, wouldn't you, Archie?" +</P> + +<P> +"O yes, it's prime fun," replied the mischievous boy, "but it's no +rarity to me. I 'm used to it, you know. But <I>you</I> would delight in +it, especially with bare feet. That way it is jolly, better than +wading in a brook. Suppose you try it, Peg?" +</P> + +<P> +It required little urging to persuade the simple child to take off her +shoes and stockings and run down with her cousin to the great hall +door. She threw on her little cloak, for she said to herself, "The +wind may blow cold, for all the warm snow on the ground." +</P> + +<P> +The children met no one on their way. Archie, with some difficulty, +opened the door, then said, "Now, Peg, run quick, away out into the +pretty snow, and see how nice it feels, just like down." +</P> + +<P> +Meggie did as she was bid, and Archie slammed the door after her, and +bolted it, laughing uproariously. You may be sure the poor little girl +soon found how cruelly she had been hoaxed, and ran back again. She +knocked at the door, crying, "O Cousin Archie, do let me in! The snow +isn't nice at all; it's so cold it freezes my feet. Do, do let me in." +</P> + +<P> +But Archie only laughed and danced like a young savage for a minute +longer, then seemed to be trying to open the door, and called out in +some trouble that he could not move the bolt. Little Meggie sat down +on the door-step and waited patiently till she was almost frozen. At +last, after getting nearly exhausted in tugging at the heavy bolt, +Archie succeeded in shoving it back. He found his little cousin so +benumbed that he was obliged to carry her in his arms all the way to +the nursery. Then he sat her down by the fire, chafed her hands and +feet, and put on her stockings and shoes, saying many times, "I am +sorry, Meggie, dear; I am so sorry!" +</P> + +<P> +"O, never mind, it was only a joke," said Meggie, and tried to smile, +though she suffered a great deal more than Archie knew of. +</P> + +<P> +But Meggie's troubles were only begun. When they went down to +breakfast, Mrs. Graham, who had seen from the parlor window the tracks +of little bare feet in the snow, questioned the children about them. +Meggie owned up at once that she had run out barefoot in the snow, +because it looked so soft and nice, but said not a word about Archie's +having prompted her to the foolish act; and I really blush to say that +Archie himself was not frank and brave enough to acknowledge his fault. +The fact is, he was afraid of his father, who was a stern and godly +man, and had small mercy for the sins of little folks. Both the Rector +and his wife reproved Meggie for her thoughtlessness, and the gentle +little girl shed some silent tears; but, after all, I think Archie, who +sat trying to gulp down his breakfast with a bold face, suffered the +most. All day long he was unusually kind to his cousin, and she soon +got over her sadness, and was as merry and loving as ever. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning, when the nursery-maid came to awake Archie, she told +him that his cousin had been taken very ill in the night,—so ill that +they had had to send for the doctor, who feared that she might never +get well. She had taken a violent cold, some way, he said. +</P> + +<P> +Archie hurried on his clothes, and ran down to the nursery. He found +his mother sitting by Meggie's little bed, looking very sad and +anxious. He stole up to his cousin, and taking her little hand, hot +with fever, bent down and kissed it, with a burst of bitter tears, +sobbing out, "O Meggie, forgive me, do, do forgive me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Forgive you for what, Archie?" asked Mrs. Graham. +</P> + +<P> +"For being cruel and cowardly, mamma. It was I who sent Meggie out +into the snow, bare-foot, and then was afraid to take my share of the +blame. I was so miserable all day. I came near owning it when you +kissed me good night, but papa looked so solemn, I <I>could n't</I>. I did +n't say my prayers; I felt too <I>mean</I> to pray." +</P> + +<P> +"God forgive you, my son!" said Mrs. Graham, somewhat sternly; but +little Meggie murmured, in a sweet, faint voice, "O Cousin Archie, why +did you tell? Maybe I would have died, and nobody but us would ever +have known anything about it." +</P> + +<P> +Meggie did not die, however. She got well after a long illness,—quite +well. But this was the last of Archie's hoaxing. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BABIE ANNIE TO COUSIN J——. +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ACKNOWLEDGING THE CHRISTMAS-GIFT OF A CHAIN. +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You should have seen me, when papa<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Brought me your gift, an hour ago;</SPAN><BR> +I almost hopped out of my shoes,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And raised a mighty bantam crow!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I shook my hair about my eyes,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I flung my chubby arms about,</SPAN><BR> +I hugged it, and an eager score<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of "pretty pretties" sputtered out.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I grasp it, gloat upon it now,—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My fingers glide from link to link;</SPAN><BR> +I like its shine, I like its feel,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I like its golden chink a-chink.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I thank you—_don't_ I thank you, though!<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My darling, dashing, handsome cousin!</SPAN><BR> +I 'll pat your whiskers, when we meet,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And give you kisses by the dozen.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I 'll promise not to pull your hair,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When on your shoulder next I mount,</SPAN><BR> +Nor bore my fingers in your ears,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Too often bored on my account.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Those fingers light shall never leave<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On velvet waistcoat one faint crease,</SPAN><BR> +Nor give your profile, clear and fine,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Another needless touch of Greece.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I will not bend the killing bow<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of that nice neck-tie, "rich, but neat,"</SPAN><BR> +Nor put a ruffle in your shirt,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Nor break the white plaits with my feet.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sacred collar shall not bear<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The impress of a touch of mine;</SPAN><BR> +Your sparkling diamond studs, like dews,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Shall on the lawn inviolate shine.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I will not fumble for your seals,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Nor listen where your tick-tick lies,—</SPAN><BR> +Nor dare to call in anger down<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The heavy lashes of your eyes.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In short, I 'll be a tender sprig,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A greenwood blossom small and sweet,</SPAN><BR> +To hang upon your button-hole,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or breathe love's fragrance at your feet.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DAY AT THE CASTLE. +</H3> + +<P> +The Reverend Charles Rivers was the Rector of a small country parish in +the North of England. He was a good man, a true minister of Christ to +his people. He had a lovely wife, and four beautiful children, and +there was no happier or sweeter home in all the country round than the +modest little Rectory, embowered in ivy and climbing roses. +</P> + +<P> +Four or five miles from the parish church, on a noble eminence, rise +the lofty towers of Glenmore Castle, which for centuries has been the +great family seat of the Lords of Glenmore. It is surrounded by +beautiful gardens, laid out in the French style, with hedges of box, +full ten feet high. Beyond these a noble wooded park stretches away on +all sides, for miles, taking in hill and valley, and a fairy little +lake. To the southward it is crossed by a lazy, loitering stream, +shadowed by willows, fringed with flags, and in the early summer +flecked by snowy water-lilies. +</P> + +<P> +The Lord Glenmore of the time of my story was a handsome young +nobleman, married to a pretty London lady, very gay and fond of +splendor, but kind-hearted and gentle to every one. +</P> + +<P> +Whenever Lord Glenmore came up from London to his northern +estate,—usually in the shooting season of the early autumn,—the happy +event was made known to his tenants and friends, by the running up of a +flag on the loftiest turret of the Castle. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Rivers had been his tutor, and his Lordship always hastened to +renew his intimacy with his old friend and instructor, for whom he had +a warm regard, running into the Rectory in his old, boyish, +unceremonious way, and frequently inviting the Rector and his wife to +dine at the Castle. +</P> + +<P> +During one of these pleasant dinner-parties, Lord Glenmore, turning to +Mrs. Rivers, said: "I know from happy experience that you and your good +husband are always ready to lend a helping hand when one is in need. +Now Laura and I want a little help. We have had a rather embarrassing +arrival at the Castle,—the motherless little son and daughter of my +brother, Colonel Montford. They were sent over from India, at our +suggestion, but we hardly know what to do with them. They are shy and +homesick, and thus far have had little to say to any one but their +dusky old Ayah, their Indian nurse. Now, children can get on best with +children, and so, my dear madam, I beg that you will lend us +yours,—those charming little daughters, staid Margaret and roguish +Maud, and that fine lad Robert. As for wee Master Alfred, my baby +godson, I make no demand on him for the present. We think that if they +could spend a day at the Castle now and then, they would help to break +the ice between us and our unsocial little relations!" +</P> + +<P> +Mr. and Mrs. Rivers willingly consented to their friends' request, and +the next day was fixed upon for the first visit, both Lord and Lady +Glenmore promising to do all in their power to entertain their young +guests. +</P> + +<P> +Early on a lovely autumn morning the children at the Rectory were made +ready for the important visit. As soon as Lord Glenmore's carriage +appeared in sight, they ran into the nursery, their faces bright with +joyous anticipations, to bid their mamma good by. She was sitting with +the baby on her lap, and they all bent down to kiss "the dear little +fellow," ere they went. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, mamma," said Margaret, "how hot Ally's lips are! is n't he well?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid not quite well," Mrs. Rivers replied; "he seems feverish. +Now, my dears, I hope you will be very good and gentle all day. You, +Margaret, must take good care of your sister, and Maud," she added, as +she bent forward to tie in a smoother knot the strings of the little +girl's hat, "you must not run quite wild with merriment. Robert, don't +put yourself on your dignity with young Montford, on account of his +shyness. Remember, almost everything is strange to him here, and he is +sad. I am sure he does not mean to be haughty." +</P> + +<P> +"O yes," replied Robert, turning from the canine playfellow he was +affectionately patting, "I mean to treat him just the same as though he +were a true-born Briton. He isn't to blame for being only an +unfortunate Cawnpore boy, born among heathens and boa-constrictors and +Juggernauts, and not knowing how to skate, or make snowballs. Good by, +mamma, don't trouble yourself about me; I 'll carry myself 'this side +up with care.' By by, baby. No, no, old Rover, you can't come; you +would n't know how to behave with my lord's Italian greyhound, and my +lady's dainty King Charles Spaniel." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Rivers, after seeing the children off, entered the nursery, to find +his wife still troubled by the heat and crimson redness of the baby's +cheeks and lips, though the old Scotch nurse, who was holding him, said +cheerily: "Eh, dinna fash yoursel'. It's only a little teething fever, +the bairnie will soon be weel. Gang about your ain affairs, and trust +auld Elspeth." +</P> + +<P> +But the mother dared not leave the little one till he was asleep. He +slept very soundly until noon, and when he awoke it was evident that he +was seriously ill. Mrs. Rivers again took him on her lap, but to her +grief perceived that he did not seem to know her. Soon, his sweet blue +eyes were rolled upward, his brow contracted, his lips were set, and +his tender limbs grew rigid. Medical aid was called at once, but the +little sufferer passed from one spasm into another, till almost ere +physician and parents were aware that he was going, poor little Alfred +was gone! +</P> + +<P> +After the first wild burst of sorrow was over, Mr. Rivers said to his +wife, "Shall I send to the Castle for the children?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Charles," replied the good mother, "though I yearn for them +inexpressibly, I will not so sadly cut short their day of pleasure. +The night of sorrow will come speedily enough." +</P> + +<P> +Early in the evening, Lord Glenmore's carriage came dashing through the +rustic gateway of the Rectory. Mr. Rivers was at the hall door +awaiting the children. Margaret noticed that her papa looked serious, +and that he kissed her with more than usual tenderness; but the others +were too much occupied with the pleasant stories they had to tell of +the day at the Castle, to remark on any change in him. They ran into +the silent house, laughing and chatting merrily. They found their +mamma in the little family parlor, sitting in the twilight, which +prevented them seeing that she was very pale, and that her eyes were +swollen with weeping. +</P> + +<P> +They displayed before her presents of choice fruit and flowers from +Lady Glenmore, and some curious Indian toys which the little Montfords +had given them. +</P> + +<P> +"O mamma," said Robert, "we have had such a glo-ri-ous day! Arthur +Montford and I got on famously together. I taught him all the English +plays I could think of, and he let me gallop about on his Shetland +pony,—a splendid wild one, mamma,—till I lost my hat, and was all out +of breath, and got thrown three times. Didn't hurt me, though. +Altogether, we had such prime sport, that I wished for that old Bible +hero, Aaron, no, Joshua, to command the sun to stand still, so that our +day would <I>never</I> end." +</P> + +<P> +"And, mamma," broke in little Maud, "dear Lady Glenmore, and her +sister, Lady Fanny, played and sung for us, and showed us pictures and +jewels, and Alice Montford has got such a world of dolls, and her nurse +is such a dark, dark woman, and talks such a queer language, Latin, I +suppose. I did n't pretend to understand it, but I told Alice my papa +could." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Margaret, dear," said Mr. Rivers, "what is <I>your</I> experience?" +</P> + +<P> +"O papa, it was indeed a charming day; but the best part was while the +ladies were dressing for dinner, when Lord Glenmore took us girls down +to the little lake on the other side of the Castle; and he was so kind +in leading us along by the water, helping us over the bad places, and +plucking flowers for us. He even sat down with us in the grass, and +told us stories, while we made daisy-chains. Then he took us in his +boat on the lake, and rowed about, and, O mamma, what do you think! as +we were passing a thick clump of flags, he parted them with his oar, +and showed us a swan's nest! I thought of Mrs. Browning's poem of +little Ellie, and <I>her</I> 'Swan's Nest among the Reeds.' O, I had almost +forgot! Lord Glenmore intrusted to me the sweetest gift for baby +Alfred: see! this lovely coral necklace. He ordered it expressly from +London, for his little god-son, he said. That makes me think! how is +baby to-night, mamma?" +</P> + +<P> +The time was come. Mrs. Rivers glanced at her husband; but he turned +away his head. He could not tell them. Then, calmly, though her voice +trembled a little, the mother began: "Listen, my darlings, I have +something important to tell you about baby." +</P> + +<P> +The children gathered closer about her, and were very still. +</P> + +<P> +"While you were away, a great Lord sent for little brother, too." +</P> + +<P> +"What for? to adopt him as his heir?" asked Robert. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my son; and Ally has gone to a mansion far grander than the +Castle, where the gardens are fairer, and the fields greener than any +you have ever seen; and, Robert, the sun never sets over that beautiful +land." +</P> + +<P> +"Did he go in a carriage with a coronet on it, and two powdered footmen +behind?" asked Maud. +</P> + +<P> +"No, love; but gentle beings, more good and beautiful than those kind +ladies of the Castle, bore him away, and will tend him, lovingly." +</P> + +<P> +"I think he will miss nurse Elspeth, and cry for her, and they will +have to send him home again," said poor, bewildered little Maud. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, mamma," cried Margaret, "we can't spare baby to the greatest lord +on earth!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, my daughter, to the 'Lord of lords' we must spare him. He will +'lead' him as you were led to-day, 'beside the still waters, and cause +him to lie down in pleasant pastures,' and our darling will never know +pain, nor hunger, nor sorrow." +</P> + +<P> +"O mamma, mamma, I know what you mean now!—baby is dead!" +</P> + +<P> +Then went up the children's united voices, like one sad wail, "Baby is +dead!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my children," said their father, in a voice broken by grief, "our +precious little Alfred is gone. But, try to say, and try to help us +say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name +of the Lord.'" +</P> + +<P> +The poor children could not say it then, for their bitter crying; but, +before they went to bed, they sobbed forth the sacred words, as they +knelt by the crib where little Ally lay, still, and very pale, dressed +in a snowy muslin frock, with his waxen hands clasped on his breast, +and holding a tiny white rose-bud, an emblem of his sinless little life. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the wet rice-swamps and canebrakes tall<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My _first_ the driver wields;</SPAN><BR> +It sounds among the dusky gang<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In the snowy cotton-fields;</SPAN><BR> +But fast comes on the day that ends<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Its reign of blood and fear,—</SPAN><BR> +Comes with the sound of breaking chains,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the freedman's joyous cheer.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Be kind to such as are my <I>second</I>,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In spirit and in truth;</SPAN><BR> +Have pity on their helpless age<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And on their joyless youth.</SPAN><BR> +Remember them whene'er you feast,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And on your downy bed,</SPAN><BR> +For the sake of Him who "had not where<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On earth to lay his head."</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Good may my <I>third</I> be in your hearts<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Towards all of human kind,</SPAN><BR> +Strong to reclaim the wandering,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the lost lamb to find;</SPAN><BR> +To help the suffering, and to bear<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Thine own adversity;</SPAN><BR> +To speak brave words for truth and right,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And strike for liberty.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I> is a mournful little bird,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">That in the twilight dim</SPAN><BR> +Complains how hardly he's been used,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Till all must pity him.</SPAN><BR> +But not one word of what he did<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Reveals the doleful wight,—</SPAN><BR> +His <I>mother's</I> story could we hear,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">We might say, "Served him right!"</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Whip-poor-will.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FAITHFUL LITTLE RUTH. +</H3> + +<P> +Little Ruth Mason sat one sweet June morning in the church-porch, by +the side of her old grandfather, who stood reverently leaning on his +staff, with his hat in his hand. They were both watching from that +ivied porch a touching and impressive scene,—the burial service in the +old churchyard. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Mason had been for many years the sexton of the parish, and though +now too old to discharge the duties of the office, he felt such a +loving interest in the parish church, one of the finest in England, +that he could not keep away from it. Every day he visited the scene of +his old labors, and kindly gave the new sexton the benefit of his long +experience. Sometimes he might be seen kneeling in silent prayer in +the noble chancel, the sunlight that streamed through the stained +windows falling in tender glory on his venerable head. Sometimes he +would linger by the hour in the beautiful churchyard, beside the graves +of his wife, his son, and his son's wife, all the dear ones God had +given him, except one little granddaughter. This last remaining object +of his affection and care was a lovely and loving child, of a +peculiarly thoughtful mind, and of a sweet, constant, religious nature. +She had been carefully trained by a good grandmother, and was prudent +and industrious beyond her years. When not in the little village +school, she was almost always with her grandfather, his little +companion, pupil, and house-keeper. +</P> + +<P> +This interesting orphan child was most kindly regarded by many of the +good village people. She seemed so lonely and helpless in the old +sexton's desolate cottage,—but a poor place at best. Yet she was +hardly an object of pity. Her father and mother had died in her +infancy, and after her first childish grieving for her grandmother was +past, she seemed quite happy and content with the care and +companionship of her grandfather. It was with difficulty that she had +been persuaded now and then to leave him to spend an afternoon at the +pleasant Rectory, when the Rector's kind wife sent for her, to amuse a +sickly little daughter, who was very fond of her, and in whom Ruth's +health, strength, and cheery spirit excited a pathetic wonder and +delight. +</P> + +<P> +It was the burial of this child, poor little Lilly Kingsley, which Ruth +and her grandfather were beholding from the shadowy church-porch on +that lovely June morning. Mr. Mason stood with his head bowed, +intently listening to the solemn burial service, and reverently +wondering at the providence of God, which had passed by him, so old, +feeble, and almost useless, and taken from the good Rector and his wife +their one only darling. +</P> + +<P> +Ruth had wept bitterly over the body of her little friend, as she had +seen it that morning, in the coffin, almost covered with white flowers, +and nearly as white as they; but now she watched the mournful +ceremonies with a rapt and eager interest, too profound for tears. Her +young spirit was struggling with the mystery of death, and thoughts of +immortality. She knew that the wasted little body let down into the +dark grave was not all of her poor playmate, and she strove to picture +a little angel like Lilly, only blooming, and happy, and free from +pain, borne upwards through the still summer night, by tender angels, +who looked back very pityingly on the grieving parents, bending over +the death-bed of their risen darling. +</P> + +<P> +So lost was the child in these thoughts, that she did not speak nor +move till the service was over, and the weeping group that had stood by +the grave had passed out of the churchyard. +</P> + +<P> +A few days after this funeral, little Ruth coming home from school, +found the Rector in earnest conversation with her grandfather. She +courtesied timidly to the clergyman, but he drew her to his knee, +looked kindly into her beautiful dark eyes, and said, "How would Ruth +like to live always at the Rectory, and fill the place of our little +lost daughter?" +</P> + +<P> +Ruth's sweet face flushed with delight, and she answered, "O, sir, I +should dearly love such a beautiful home, and <I>you</I> would too, would +n't you, grandpapa?" +</P> + +<P> +The Rector looked at Mr. Mason, and the old man, drawing the child to +him, said tenderly, "My dear little girl, your old grandfather cannot +leave this cottage, in which he was born, and in which he has always +lived, until he goes to his long home." +</P> + +<P> +"Then <I>I'll</I> not go," cried Ruth, impulsively flinging her arms about +his neck. "I 'll never, never leave you. Who would take care of you +if I were gone?" +</P> + +<P> +The Rector smiled; but the old man answered gravely, "I know I shall +miss you, dear, very much; but the Lord will care for me, and He it is +who has provided this home for my darling. I bless His name for His +loving-kindness. You have always been a good, obedient child to me, +and I know you will obey me, even when I send you away from me,—for +your best good, mind, my darling." +</P> + +<P> +Ruth still wept, and begged to be allowed to stay with him; but her +grandfather was firm, and she yielded at last. He led her to the +Rectory, kissed and blessed her, and placed her in the arms of Mrs. +Kingsley, then hobbled out of the gate, and back to his desolate +cottage, as fast as his poor old limbs could carry him. +</P> + +<P> +Ruth was very sad all the afternoon, though everybody was kind to her, +and her new mother strove tenderly to comfort her. As evening came on, +her heart would go back to the humble old home, and the white-haired, +feeble old man, who she knew must be thinking of her, and missing her +so sadly. At length, Mrs. Kingsley conducted her to a pleasant little +chamber, which was henceforth to be her own. The good lady helped her +to undress, put on her a dainty little ruffled nightgown, and knelt +with her by her bedside while she said her prayers. After praying in a +broken voice for her poor old grandpapa in his loneliness, the child +remembered to ask God's blessing on her new parents. After seeing her +in her snowy little bed, Mrs. Kingsley removed Ruth's clothes to a +closet near by, and brought out a complete suit of garments suited to +her new condition. They were very neat and pretty, and Ruth, who loved +all beautiful things, smiled on them through her tears, and reaching +out her hand, felt of them with simple, childish delight. Then a +strange, thoughtful look passing over her face, she said, "Mamma!" +Mrs. Kingsley started. It was the first time she had heard that name +since her Lilly died, though she had asked Ruth to call her by it when +she was first brought to the Rectory. But she answered, with a smile, +"What, my daughter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, mamma, laying off my faded clothes and putting on those lovely +new ones will be like Lilly, leaving the poor, pale body she used to +have, for her glorious angel body, won't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, darling," replied the mother, to whose heart the simple +illustration brought a sweet, wonderful realization of the blessed +change; and as she stooped and kissed Ruth good night, a tear fell on +the little girl's cheek. +</P> + +<P> +The adopted child slept tranquilly till nearly morning, when she awoke +suddenly, probably from a dream of the home she had left, but thinking +that she heard a voice above her, saying solemnly, "Ruth, little Ruth, +why hast thou forsaken My servant, thy grandfather?" +</P> + +<P> +She was not frightened, yet she could not sleep again, but sat up in +her little bed, impatiently waiting for the day. In the first gray +light of dawn she rose, went to the closet, took out her old clothes, +and dressed herself in them, and casting scarcely a look on the new +clothes or round the sweet little chamber, she stole softly down +stairs. She found a housemaid in the hall, who, not knowing the plans +of her master and mistress in regard to the little girl, let her out, +and she ran swiftly home. She found the cottage door unfastened, for +the poor have little fear of burglars. Entering quietly, and finding +her grandpapa still asleep, she lay down by his side, and when he +awoke, her dear arms were about his neck, and her loving eyes smiling +into his. At first, he forgot she had been away; but after a moment, +he remembered, and exclaimed, "You here, little Ruth? Why did you come +back, against my wish?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because the Lord sent me back," she answered, gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, child, what do you mean?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Grandpapa, dear, this is how it was: There was a voice, such a sweet +and solemn voice, that came and sounded right by me, in the darkness, +and it said, 'Ruth, little Ruth, why forsakest thou My servant, thy +grandfather?' and I was sure it was the Lord's voice, the very same +that spoke to little Samuel, and I could not stay after I heard it. I +will never leave you to live and die alone, even if the queen wants to +adopt me. Why, grandpapa, if God had meant you to be without me, He +would have taken me, instead of little Lilly Kingsley. So don't send +me away from you, dear grandpapa; it would be wicked." +</P> + +<P> +The good old man, with tears in his dim eyes, replied, "No, my darling +little girl shall not be sent away again; it does seem to be the Lord's +will that you should stay with me as long as I stay." +</P> + +<P> +And so she stayed,—the faithful little Ruth. Her good friends at the +Rectory were sorry to lose her, but not displeased with her, and were +more kind than ever to her and her grandfather. The next Sunday, as +she knelt with him among the poor, she was glad in her heart that she +was not shut away from him in the Rector's crimson-cushioned pew. +</P> + +<P> +It was on a Sunday a few weeks later, that her grandfather, after their +frugal dinner, called her to go with him to the churchyard, saying, "A +year ago to-day, Ruth, your dear grandmother died; let us go and spend +an hour or two by her grave." +</P> + +<P> +They took the family Bible, and read and talked a long time, sitting on +the daisied grass, under the pleasant shade of a willow. At last, the +good old man seemed to grow weary, and bowing his white head on the +grave, with one arm flung over it, he fell asleep while Ruth was +singing a hymn which her grandmother had taught her. Then Ruth stole +away, and wandered about the churchyard, reading the inscriptions on +the tombstones, till the people began to enter the church for evening +service. Then she returned to her grandfather, and touched him on the +shoulder, to wake him. But he did not move. She called his name, but +he did not seem to hear her. Just then the Rector came up, and seeing +Ruth's trouble, bent down to look into the face of the old man. He +raised the withered hand that lay on the mound, and held it a moment, +looking anxious and sad. When he laid it down, he put his arms about +Ruth, and said, tenderly, "My dear child, your grandfather is +awake—<I>in Heaven</I>. He will never wake on earth. The Lord has taken +him." +</P> + +<P> +With a piteous cry Ruth flung herself by the side of her dead +grandfather, and called him by many fond names, weeping bitterly; and +strong men wept in pity for her bereavement, and stood with uncovered +heads as her grandfather was lifted and borne to his old home. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-033"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-033.jpg" ALT="Ruth" BORDER="0" WIDTH="532" HEIGHT="363"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 532px"> +Ruth +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +From that old home he was carried forth to be laid by the side of his +dear old wife; but from that lonely cottage little Ruth was led +weeping, yet grateful, to her new home by the Rector and his wife, +henceforth to be to them a dear and cherished child. Few were the +tears she shed in that beautiful home, and tenderly were they wiped +away; and if the Lord ever spoke to her again in her peaceful little +chamber, through the darkness, it was in "the still, small voice" of +blessing, love, and comfort. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHRISTMAS,—A MOTHER'S EXCUSE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It comes again, the blessed day,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Made glorious by the Saviour's birth,</SPAN><BR> +When faintly in a manger dawned<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The light of God which fills the earth</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On this sweet morn, in years gone by,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Around one happy hearth we came,</SPAN><BR> +And wished each other joy and peace,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Embracing in the dear Lord's name.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now o'er a weary, wintry waste,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My heart a loving pilgrim wends</SPAN><BR> +Her pious way, this holy time,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To greet you, O belovéd friends!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Fondly I long to take my place<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beside your hearth, its joy to share,—</SPAN><BR> +To sun me in the summer smiles<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the dear faces gathered there.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But baby eyes upraised to mine,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And baby fingers on my breast,</SPAN><BR> +Steep all my soul in sweet content,—<BR> +Charm even <I>such</I> longings into rest.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet, dear ones, let my name be breathed<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Kindly around the Christmas tree,</SPAN><BR> +And my soul's presence greet, as oft<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In Christmas times ye 've greeted me.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +No unadorned and humble guest<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Comes that fond soul this blessed even</SPAN><BR> +She bears a jewel on her breast<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">That radiates the light of heaven.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A rose, that breathes of Paradise,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Just budded from the life divine,</SPAN><BR> +A little, tender, smiling babe,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As yet more God's and heaven's than mine.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Born in the Saviour's hallowed month,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A blessed Christ-child may she be,</SPAN><BR> +A little maiden of the Lord,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Room for <I>her</I> by the Christmas tree!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="scottish"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ABOUT SOME SCOTTISH CHILDREN. +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CASTLE AND COTTAGE. +</H3> + +<P> +It would seem that little Bertha Blantyre had everything that her heart +could wish. She was an only daughter, and a pretty, blooming, petted +darling. Her father was a rich lord, and, what was better, a good and +kind-hearted man. Her mother was a noble lady, and, what was more, a +gentle and loving woman, and even little Bertha had from her cradle the +title of "Honorable," which is as much as our great Congressmen can +boast. Yet I am sorry to say, this little lady was not always as happy +and grateful as she should have been, but was sometimes sadly +discontented, believing that other children were far happier than she. +All such little girls as had brothers and sisters to play with them, +and run about with them in the woods and over the moors, she envied +bitterly, even though they were the children of poor peasants,—never +thinking it possible that they might be envying her at the same time. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Blantyre resided principally at Blantyre Castle, on a noble +estate, among the heathery hills of Scotland. The Castle was very +ancient, with towers, and turrets, and a massive gateway, but it had +many modern additions which beautified it, and gave it a cheerful, +almost home-like look. Through the old moat there slowly ran a bright, +clear stream, in which grew hosts of water-lilies, and other aquatic +plants. Beyond this were soft, green, close-shaven lawns and +shrubberies, and gardens full of fountains and statues and fairy-like +bowers; the stables, full of beautiful horses and ponies; the kennels, +where a pack of noble stag-hounds was kept; the dairy, the +poultry-yard, and the pretty little houses of the gold and silver +pheasants. Around all was a great wooded park, filled with fleet +spotted deer. +</P> + +<P> +In this park Bertha often walked with her mother, or was whirled along +in a small open phaeton, drawn by two lovely white ponies, which Lady +Blantyre herself drove. +</P> + +<P> +In the wildest and most remote part of the park lived the gamekeeper, +who, with his wife, had been born and bred on the estate, and from +childhood had been in the service of the noble family. Lady Blantyre +never passed the cottage of Robert MacWillie in her drives without +stopping to inquire after the health of his wife, who had once been her +maid, and of their fine brood of little ones. During these visits +Bertha became acquainted with the young foresters, and as she was of a +simple and amiable disposition, and not a bit haughty or conceited, she +liked them all heartily. But she especially took to a little girl +about her own age, named Lilly, and a boy a year or two older, called +Hughie. +</P> + +<P> +One day as Lady Blantyre and Bertha were driving along the shore of a +miniature loch or pond, near Robert MacWillie's cottage, they saw +Hughie and Lilly playing in a burn, or brook, which emptied into the +little loch. Hughie was constructing a dam, with stones and turf and +heather-branches cemented with clay, and Lilly was sailing a tiny boat, +loaded with pebbles and flowers. Both were barefoot, and plashing +fearlessly in the burn. Lady Blantyre checked her ponies, and after +watching the children awhile, called them to the side of her phaeton. +Hughie took off his Glengary cap, and held it in his hand, and Lilly +was about to pull from her head a wild-looking wreath of daisies and +purple heather-blooms, when Bertha exclaimed, "Don't take it off! it is +so pretty; who made it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Brother Hughie," answered Lilly, blushing. +</P> + +<P> +"How good he must be! Do you like playing and wading in the water and +picking wild-flowers?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Lilly, looking down, and drawing figures in the sand with +her rosy little toes. "Hughie is gude. I like playing wi' the burn, +and flowers are bonny wee things"; then, looking up timidly, she +offered to her friend a bunch of water-lilies, which Hughie had waded +far out into the pond up to his short kilt to obtain. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you," said Bertha. "O how sweet they are, a thousand times +sweeter than those that grow in the moat, are n't they, mamma?" +</P> + +<P> +Lady Blantyre smiled, for there was really no difference, the lilies at +the Castle having been brought from this very pond. +</P> + +<P> +"How long have you been at your great work there?" she asked of Hughie. +</P> + +<P> +"For maist a week, my Lady; but for the last twa days Domine MacGregor +has been down wi' an ill turn, and I hae (have) lost na time at schule +(school), so I hae got on weel wi' it. It will soon be done noo." +</P> + +<P> +"And what do you intend to do with it when it is finished?" asked the +lady. +</P> + +<P> +"I canna say, but I think we 'll play flood-time wi' it." +</P> + +<P> +"What is that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your ladyship sees that wee-bit island; weel, we'll put on it some +doggies and a cat." +</P> + +<P> +"Not my wee puss, Winkie?" cried Lilly in alarm. +</P> + +<P> +"No, auld black Tammy will do, and a chicken or twa, and we 'll watch +the water rise and rise, till the puir creatures huddle togither and +greet and cackle and howl, then I 'll loup (leap) intil the burn, and +one after anither rescue them a'." +</P> + +<P> +"O, how grand that would be!" exclaimed little Bertha, her eyes +flashing with excitement. +</P> + +<P> +"Rather cruel sport," said Lady Blantyre, shaking her head, yet smiling +in spite of herself. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it?" said Hughie, his countenance falling, "then I 'll no do it. I +'ll but drive a' the duckies and fulish geese down here, and see them +gae quacking and skirling over the dam. I hope <I>they'll</I> no object to +the sport." +</P> + +<P> +"Probably not," said her ladyship, pleasantly. +</P> + +<P> +"O mamma," said Bertha, looking up wistfully into her face, "how I +should love to play so with water and pebbles, and little boats, and +ducks and geese, and dams, all day long! How happy they must be!" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps little Lilly thinks it would be a very happy thing to be in +your place, my daughter," said Lady Blantyre. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Do</I> you think so?" asked Bertha, wonderingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," answered Lilly, in a low, almost awestruck tone, "I think that to +be Miss Bertha, and bide in a braw (fine) Castle, wad be next to being +an angel, or a bonnie fairy princess." +</P> + +<P> +All laughed at this, but on the way home Bertha was very thoughtful and +sad. Every time she spoke, it was to bewail her hard lot in being +allowed to take the air only in walks with her governess, or drives +with her mamma, in being obliged to wear fine clothes, to learn music +and dancing, "and other tiresome things," and never being free to run +wild on the hills and heaths, wade in the ponds, and plash in the +burns, like the little MacWillies. +</P> + +<P> +Her mother tried to show her that, as her station was different from +theirs, her education and habits should be different, and that she had +a great deal to be thankful for, and might be very happy, if she would. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I think I ought at least to have a little brother to play with +me. I think God might have given me <I>that</I>, and kept back some of the +other things." +</P> + +<P> +At this little burst of petulance, Lady Blantyre sighed and was silent +for some moments. Then she said: "Would my little daughter like to try +living at the cottage of the MacWillies for a day or two, just like one +of their own?" +</P> + +<P> +"O yes, mamma, and play with Lilly and Hughie?" +</P> + +<P> +"With Hughie and the other children. I must have Lilly with me at the +Castle, to make up for the loss of my little Bertha." +</P> + +<P> +"O!" said Bertha, looking a little disappointed; then she added, +eagerly, "But, mamma, may I indeed do just like them?—go without a +bonnet, take off my shoes and stockings, and wade in the burn, and +patter in the nice soft clay?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, if Lilly will consent to take your place, and play the little +lady at the Castle." +</P> + +<P> +In the afternoon Lady Blantyre sent for Mrs. MacWillie, and between +them they arranged that their little daughters should change places on +the morrow; and that night both Bertha and Lilly went to bed with their +hearts full of happy anticipations, and each pitying the other. +</P> + +<P> +Early in the morning, Lilly was brought to the Castle, and Bertha +conveyed to the cottage. Lilly wanted to take with her her pet kitten, +but was told that poor little Winkle would be rather too vulgar a +visitor for Lady Blantyre's drawing-room. Bertha proposed to take her +pretty King Charles spaniel, but was told that the gamekeeper's rough +mastiffs and terriers would make nothing of taking him by the neck and +shaking the life out of him. So she concluded to leave Frivole behind. +</P> + +<P> +When she reached the cottage, the little MacWillies came around her, +full of wonder and shy admiration. They said nothing to her, but they +whispered among themselves, and their eyes looked very big and watched +her constantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Come here, Sandy and Effie!" she said to a little boy and girl, who +stood with their hands behind them, gazing at her as if she really had +been a fairy princess. "Do come to me; I am your sister now, don't you +know?" +</P> + +<P> +But they only drew back, and as she started toward them, scampered away +and hid behind their mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Hughie," said the little lady, "let us go down to the burn. You +must make me a wreath like Lilly's, and play with me just as you do +with her, won't you?" +</P> + +<P> +Hughie gladly promised, and away they went hand in hand. But the lad +could not quite forget that his playmate was the Honorable Miss Bertha +Blantyre, so he took the choicest roses from his mother's garden to +make a wreath for her, and for the life of him he could not be as free +and merry with her as with his sister. However, he was very kind and +amusing, and Bertha was in high glee. The first thing she did when +they reached the burnside, was to sit down and pull off her shoes and +stockings, then she ran up and down the sandy shore of the loch, +throwing pebbles and daisies into the water, sailing Lilly's little +boat, and laughing and singing like some wild creature. Then she +helped Hughie at his dam awhile, patting the soft clay with her dainty +little hands. +</P> + +<P> +"O dear!" she exclaimed at last. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter, my bonnie leddie?" said Hughie, rather +patronizingly. +</P> + +<P> +"My feet smart so! See how big and red they look." +</P> + +<P> +"Sae they do. You hae burned them. The sun is hot this simmer day, +and the sand as weel, and ye ken (know) ye are no used to gang without +your shoon (shoes); wade a bit, noo, and cool your small saft feet." +</P> + +<P> +Bertha thrust one foot into the water, but drew it out instantly, +exclaiming, "Ugh, how cold!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay, gin (if) ye only dip the tips o' your toes, like a fearsome cat; +but gin ye rin bravely intil the water, like a spaniel dog, ye'll no +find it cauld," said Hughie, taking her hand and leading her in. But +Bertha still thought it cold; she caught her breath, and shrieked at +every step, frightened not only at the rising water, but at the tiny +fishes within it, and even at the insects skimming along its surface. +As Hughie was leading her out, she trod on a stone and cut one of her +delicate feet quite severely. Then, when she reached the shore, she +found that she could not get on her stockings and shoes, and with her +eyes full of tears she said, "Ah me! what shall I do? I can't walk +barefoot among the heather, my feet are so sore already." +</P> + +<A NAME="img-047"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-047.jpg" ALT="Hughie and Bertha" BORDER="0" WIDTH="385" HEIGHT="573"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 385px"> +Hughie and Bertha +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"O, dinna fash yoursel' (don't trouble yourself) about that, I 'll +carry you in my twa arms," said Hughie; and the sturdy little fellow +took her and carried her to the cottage. +</P> + +<P> +After having had her foot bound up, and her face bathed in cream, for +that was also burned, her pretty wreath having proved a very poor +protection from the sun, Bertha was invited to share the midday meal of +the children. Being very hungry, she gladly sat up to the table and +took her share of milk and oatmeal cakes, or bannocks. She liked the +milk, but the bannocks scratched her throat and almost brought the +tears to her eyes. She wondered how the others could eat them so +ravenously. +</P> + +<P> +After dinner the children did their best to amuse their visitor, by +playing games, running, leaping, and tumbling about, all very kindly +meant, but rough, noisy, and almost terrifying to Bertha, who was not +sorry when the younger ones ran out of the house to play under the +trees. Hughie sat by her side on the settle, and told her stories, +till she fell asleep. She was very weary, and slept a long while, +against some cushions which Hughie placed behind her. When she awoke, +she looked around wonderingly, and, missing the dear faces of her +mother and nurse, burst into tears. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter wi' my bonnie bairn?" asked Mrs. MacWillie, tenderly. +</P> + +<P> +"I—want—to—go—home!" sobbed Bertha. +</P> + +<P> +"And ye shall gae hame; sae dinna greet (weep), my lammie," said the +good woman. +</P> + +<P> +In a very few minutes the gamekeeper, who, by the way, had watched the +children all the morning, from behind some thick bushes by the loch, to +see that no harm befell them, came to the door with the family +carriage,—a two-wheeled vehicle, called a "dog-cart," drawn by a +shaggy old pony. Bertha was helped into this, and, having taken a kind +but rather hasty leave of her rustic friends, was driven, in a little +lazy, shuffling trot, towards the Castle. About half-way, who should +they meet but Lady Blantyre, driving Lilly MacWillie home in her +pony-phaeton! She did not seem to see the dog-cart at all, but dashed +by it at a furious rate. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Little Lilly had scarcely had a better day than Bertha. From the first +hour of her visit to the Castle she had felt ill at ease, and almost +homesick. Everything there was so strange and magnificent, that all +the kindness she met with failed to make her feel happy and +comfortable. Lady Blantyre devoted herself to her amusement; she +showed her the conservatories and the aviaries, and led her through the +long picture-gallery. This last was an awful place to Lilly; she was +frightened at the array of old-time Blantyres,—fierce soldiers in +armor, grim judges in enormous wigs, and grand ladies in vast hoops and +stupendous head-dresses. +</P> + +<P> +At lunch, Lady Blantyre had her little guest sit beside her, and +pressed her to eat of delicate wild-fowl and luscious fruit. But Lilly +was scared out of the little appetite she had, not by his lordship, who +sat opposite, but by the solemn footman who stood behind her chair. +After lunch, Lady Blantyre played and sung for her, and showed her +Bertha's books and toys. +</P> + +<P> +At length she left her alone for a time, while she went to dress. When +she returned to the drawing-room she could not see the child anywhere; +but presently she heard a stifled sob behind the curtain of a window, +looking towards the gamekeeper's cottage. She went to Lilly, and put +her arms about her, saying, "What are you grieving about, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Let me gae hame! I maun gae hame!" (I must go home) said Lilly. +</P> + +<P> +"So you shall, darling," replied the lady. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +When Lady Blantyre returned from the cottage, she found Bertha in the +nursery, sitting on the lap of her kind nurse Margery. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, has my little daughter learned content from this day's +experience?" said the lady, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mamma," replied Bertha. "I find that one must belong to the +MacWillies, to do as they do, and like it; but somehow, I wish I had +been used to their ways from the first, that is, if you and papa had +been so too. It seems to me that God meant that all people should live +nearly alike, and only have houses just big enough to hold them +comfortably, like the nests of the birds; and that all children should +run among the hills, and play with the brooks. Did n't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps he did, my child." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +As for Lilly, she spoke her mind that night, to her pet kitten, as she +hugged it in her arms before dropping to sleep. "Are ye na glad that +we are na fine ladies, eh, Winkie?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>first</I> is fair, as when it graced<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The bowers of Paradise;</SPAN><BR> +It glows in Cashmere's vale, and climbs<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Where snowy Alp-peaks rise:</SPAN><BR> +It glads the peasant-woman's heart,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the Queen's imperial eyes.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> is a sacred name,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A name of high renown,</SPAN><BR> +By poets sung, yet common 'tis,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As daisies on the down,</SPAN><BR> +Though ladies grand and royal dames<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Have worn it as a crown.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When William's ship rocked in the bay,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Impatient to be gone,</SPAN><BR> +And William took his seaward way<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Across our dewy lawn,</SPAN><BR> +To pluck my <I>whole</I> to give her love,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Rose Mary with the dawn.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Rose-mary.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +JAMIE'S FAITH. +</H3> + +<P> +Margaret Grey was a widow, who, with three young children, lived in a +small cottage on the estate of Lord Dundale, in Scotland. When her +husband died, Margaret had been compelled to give up the land he had +farmed, with the exception of a little garden, and a patch of pasturage +on which she supported a cow and a shaggy Highland pony, called Rab. +</P> + +<P> +This last was a very important member of the family, as without him the +widow could not have conveyed to market the butter and eggs, on the +proceeds of which the frugal little household subsisted. For his part, +Rab seemed fully conscious of his own important and responsible +position in the widow's family, gave up all frisking and frolicking +ways, and conducted himself in a staid and sober manner on his way to +and from the market-town, and assumed towards the children in their +little rides a sort of protecting, patronizing, paternal character, +which was really edifying to behold. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Dundale was a young man, very handsome and stately, but gentle and +gracious, and much beloved by his family and tenants. The children on +his estate looked up to him with loving reverence, as to a superior +being, from whom nothing but good and happiness were to be expected by +the deserving. For them his youth, beauty, and elegance had especial +poetic charms; their sweet, simple affection, their timid, grateful +devotion, were laid at his feet,—so that when moving among them he +trod on unseen flowers. They loved to hear and to tell of the grand +and beautiful things at that fairy palace, the Castle,—a noble old +edifice, with massive towers, a moat, a lofty gateway, and an ancient +drawbridge and portcullis, which stood high in the midst of great +forest-trees. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Dundale, being in delicate health, was able to spend but a few +months of each year in Scotland, the climate being too severe for him; +but he loved the place of his birth, and was never so happy as when, +like Rob Roy, he could say, "My foot is on my native heath." +</P> + +<P> +To his tenants his yearly visit to his Scottish estate was always a +season of festivity: they hailed the signal of his return, the running +up of a flag on the highest tower of the Castle, with shouts of hearty +rejoicing. +</P> + +<P> +The cottage of the Grey was on a shady lane, through which the young +lord often rode in the pleasant autumn mornings or evenings, sometimes +with a gay party of ladies and gentlemen, guests at the Castle, +sometimes, when the hour was early, quite alone, and sometimes with one +beautiful dark-eyed lady, fresh as a rose and proud as a lily, who it +was said was one day to be the mistress of Dundale Castle. The Grey +children, little Effie and Jamie, noticed that when the young lord rode +by himself, or with ever so large a party of riders, he never failed to +acknowledge their bows and courtesies with a nod and a pleasant word +and smile; but that when he and the dark-eyed lady together ambled +slowly past, he did not seem to see their wistful little faces at all. +So, in their secret hearts, they took something very like a spite +against the beautiful Lady Evelyn, and hoped their young lord would +change his mind. +</P> + +<P> +One autumn evening, as Margaret Grey rode homeward from the +market-town, she noticed that Rab, the pony, was languid and slow, that +he hung his head dejectedly, and made no effort to browse along the +hedge-rows as usual. She supposed that he was tired with his day's +work, but trusted that he would be well in the morning. Alas! when the +morning came, poor, faithful old Rab was found dead, stretched out +stiff and cold in his paddock! +</P> + +<P> +Effie and Jamie grieved passionately over their lost friend and +playfellow. They sat down beside him on the grass, and, looking at his +poor, helpless feet, worn in their service, wept bitterly that they +would carry them along the lane and up the hillside no more; they +patted half fearfully the shaggy neck; which would arch to their +caresses never again; they drew back with a shudder, after touching the +cold lips which had so often eaten the sweet clover from their hands, +and turned with a sense of strange wonder and awfulness from the +death-misted eyes, which had always shone upon them with an almost +human affection. +</P> + +<P> +Margaret Grey wept also,—fewer tears than her children, but sadder. +She had many sweet and mournful memories connected with poor Rab. Her +dear old father gave him to her on her eighteenth birthday. She +remembered many a joyful gallop on his back, through the lanes and over +the moors. She remembered how sometimes she rode him slowly, with his +rein on his neck; for young Angus Grey walked by her side and told her +pleasant news,—always pleasant and interesting, though always about +the same thing. She remembered how once he checked Rab's rein under +the shade of a hawthorn-tree, and asked her to be his wife. She +remembered, too, how Rab had borne her to the Kirk, to be married to +Angus Grey; and she thought of three other Sundays when he had carried +her and her baby to the christening; and of yet one other time, when he +had drawn slowly away from her door a hearse, whereon lay the beloved +husband and father. She thought, too, with tender anxiety, that now +the last help of the widow, her humble fellow-laborer, was taken from +her; and the grim wolf of want and hunger seemed to stand in poor dead +Rab's place. Even the baby seemed to feel something of her anxiety and +distress, and put up its pretty lip to cry; so to comfort it and to +calm herself by her usual household labor, she returned to the cottage, +leaving Effie and Jamie still sitting beside old Rab. Their grief had +somewhat moderated; yet they sobbed as they talked of the virtues of +the deceased, and wondered what life would be without him. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Jamie," said Effie, "inna you wish the Lord was here now? You ken +mither told us how He cured sick folk, and how He once made a mon alive +again that had been dead four days. He could make our Rab alive wi' a +touch of His finger, gin (if) He would try, Jamie." +</P> + +<P> +Wee Jamie was a simple-hearted child, scarcely four summers old: his +little brain was easily bewildered. For him there was but one Lord, +the good and generous young nobleman at the Castle. Of <I>his</I> power and +goodness Jamie could believe anything, and though he opened his eyes +wide at his sister's story, his face grew radiant with joy, as just at +that moment he caught sight of Lord Dundale trotting slowly down the +lane on his beautiful thoroughbred bay mare. In a moment he was over +the fence, in the road, in the very path of the rider, crying out in an +agony of entreaty, "Stop, stop, my lord! our Rab is dead; ye maun +(must) make him alive again!" +</P> + +<P> +Lord Dundale checked his horse, and looked down on his little +petitioner in silent astonishment, while Mrs. Grey ran out of the +cottage, with baby in her arms, and, catching hold of Jamie, strove to +lift him out of the way. But the little fellow resisted sturdily, +crying still, "Let him make Rab alive! He <I>maun</I> make him alive!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, my little fellow," said the Earl, smiling, "if Rab is really +dead,—and I am very sorry to hear it,—<I>I</I> cannot make him alive: how +could you think of such a thing?" +</P> + +<P> +But Jamie stood his ground, answering, "My mither says you once made a +big mon alive after he had been dead four days. Rab is only a sma' +pony, and he's been dead but a wee bit while; so it's na a hard job for +you. Dinna say you will na do it." +</P> + +<P> +"What <I>can</I> the little lad mean, Mrs. Grey?" asked Lord Dundale, +utterly bewildered. +</P> + +<P> +"I dinna ken (do not know), my lord," she replied, "unless, Heaven save +us! he takes you for the Lord of lords. I didna think the bairn was so +heathenish and so daft (foolish). You maun forgie (must forgive) the +poor child." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Dundale dismounted, and, taking the little fellow by the hand, by +a few simple questions, soon found that this was indeed Jamie's strange +delusion. +</P> + +<P> +"My poor little laddie," he said, "you are wofully mistaken. I cannot +bring your dear old pony back to life. You can never play with him, or +feed him, or ride him among the heather or along the burnside again. +Rab's work is done, and it is time he should rest. But, Jamie, I can +give you another pony in his place, one that I hope may serve your good +mother as well as Rab, and that you and Effie must love for my sake. +And now good by. I hope Jamie will yet know well the Lord most great +and good and loving, the only true Lord of life and death." +</P> + +<P> +Taking a kindly leave of Mrs. Grey, the young Earl then rode on, but in +the course of the day the groom of the Castle galloped down to the +widow's cottage, leading the new pony, a handsome, sturdy little +animal, and so gentle and docile that not only Jamie but timid little +Effie could ride him with safety; and even the baby, when set on his +back, played with his mane and answered his whinny with a triumphant +crow. +</P> + +<P> +So Jamie's faith, though mistaken, was rewarded; and his innocent, +fervent little prayer was answered, not by a Divine miracle, but by a +generous human heart, which also found its reward in proving the truth +of the Master's words,—"It is more blessed to give than to receive." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If my studious Lillian,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">This charade will careful scan,</SPAN><BR> +With knit brow and red lips pursed,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">She will then unconscious show</SPAN><BR> +To all such as care to know<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">An example of my <I>first</I>.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> is what divine truths are,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And Alpine heights that gleam afar,</SPAN><BR> +And hills of Scottish heather;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And what are <I>not</I> all human blisses,</SPAN><BR> +The little loves of little misses,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Winds, waves, and April weather.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If from my <I>second</I> some sad dawn<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">You find your favorite palfrey gone,</SPAN><BR> +Don't lock the door, and don't<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Sit down and cry. To chase the thief</SPAN><BR> +Despatch my <I>whole</I>: it's my belief<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">He 'll catch him, or—he won't.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Con-stable.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="irish"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ABOUT SOME IRISH CHILDREN +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE TRUE LORD. +</H3> + +<P> +Philip Alfred Reginald, Lord Alverley, only son and heir of the Earl of +Ellenwood, was taking a morning walk in the park of Alverley Castle, in +the beautiful county of Wicklow, Ireland. He was a very little lord +indeed, only about six years old, and he was accompanied by a very +stout nurse, Mrs. Marsham, quite a dignified and important personage. +The family had but the day previous arrived from London, after an +absence of four years. +</P> + +<P> +Philip was an only child, fondly beloved by his parents, and, as the +heir to a great estate, much petted and flattered by all about him. He +was a pretty child, always richly and daintily dressed, and had much +the air of a little courtier, or the pet page of some gay young queen. +</P> + +<P> +This morning, as Mrs. Marsham led him down one of the broad walks of +the park, they encountered a little peasant lad, who looked a good deal +impressed, but saluted the small nobleman with a bashful bow, and was +about hurrying on, when the lordling asked, condescendingly, "What is +your name, little boy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Arty O'Neill, may it please your lordship," was the reply. +</P> + +<P> +"What, a son of Norah O'Neill?" asked Mrs. Marsham. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, then, my lord, he is your foster-brother. Norah O'Neill, the +lodge-keeper's wife, was your first nurse, and a very good creature she +is, I believe," said Mrs. Marsham, attempting to move on. +</P> + +<P> +But Philip, who had always, in spite of his grandeur, felt a little +lonely, was caught by the term "foster-brother," and held back to +examine the boy more attentively, and to ask him several childish +questions. +</P> + +<P> +In spite of his uncouth dress, Arthur or Arty was a fine-looking little +fellow, and though modest, was by no means awkwardly shy; so the small +folk got along very well together. The next day Philip insisted on +making a visit to the lodge, where he was greeted by his old nurse +Norah with an exhibition of true Irish emotion,—tears, laughter, and +passionate caresses, that rather annoyed than gratified him. "What a +fine little gentleman he has grown, bless God," she exclaimed, wiping +her eyes with her apron. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," replied Mrs. Marsham, "and your Arty is also a fine, sturdy +little lad. Was he not a delicate baby?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, yes indeed, ma'am; we did n't think to raise him till he was well +past three. Then he grew stout and rosy, and sturdy on his legs, the +saints be praised!" +</P> + +<P> +A day or two later, the weather not allowing of walking, Philip felt +lonely, and sent for Arty to come and play with him. The child went, +and returned to the lodge at night quite loaded with playthings, the +gifts of the little lord and his mother. After this he was often sent +for from the Castle, and gradually became a decided favorite with Lord +and Lady Ellenwood, and consequently with all their retainers. As for +Philip, he soon grew devotedly fond of his peasant playmate, and +declared he could not live a day without him; and, as his will was +already law at the Castle, even this whim for a companionship quite +unsuited to his rank was indulged. +</P> + +<P> +Norah O'Neill dressed her son in his best for those grand visits; but +even his holiday suit was soon pronounced too rude for his new +position, and an entire new wardrobe was provided for him. It was a +pretty page-like costume, and singularly becoming, so much so that Lady +Ellenwood, after regarding him with a pleased smile for some minutes, +remarked to Mrs. Marsham, "Really, that child has something superior +about him; I certainly should not take him for a peasant boy." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, my lady, you surprise me. The child is well enough for an +O'Neill, but he lacks the <I>noble look</I>, after all. I can see the +common bird through all the 'fine feathers.' Only mark, my lady, the +vast difference between him and my little lord." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, yes, I can see that Philip is the more dainty and delicate, but +Arty is, in some respects, the handsomer child of the two; and, in +truth, I think he has quite a high-bred look. There is a certain +resemblance to my own family, which struck me when I first saw him. He +has decidedly a Cavendish nose, and I have heard my old nurse say that +my hair was once of that same golden auburn. I have never seen a child +of any rank that my heart has been so drawn towards as towards this +same little O'Neill. Surely we must do something for him." +</P> + +<P> +This partiality for the lodge-keeper's child did not prove a mere fine +lady's passing freak. Like little Philip, she grew more and more fond +of little Arty; and when, after a six months' stay in Ireland, the +noble family returned to London, little Arthur, really though not +formally adopted, went with them. He received his earliest instruction +with Philip from a kind governess, with the best of care and the most +affectionate counsel. Lady Ellenwood was very gracious and motherly +towards him, and the Earl always kind; yet he never forgot his humble +Irish parents, whom he was allowed to visit every year. +</P> + +<P> +Thus years went on, and Arty was regarded as a beloved member of that +high family,—as the chosen friend, the brother elect, of his young +master. They were taught by one tutor, and finally sent to school +together, always keeping along hand in hand, in the utmost brotherly +good feeling, with a great, tender love between them,—a love neither +tainted by haughty condescension on the one side, nor by flattering +subserviency on the other. It was a beautiful and marvellous affection. +</P> + +<P> +At length the lads were spending their last vacation at home, in the +old Castle in Wicklow. They were nearly sixteen, and as fine looking, +gallant lads as the country could boast. Such loving, inseparable +companions were they, that they were playfully named "David and +Jonathan." +</P> + +<P> +The pleasure of this visit to the Castle was only marred by the illness +of Mrs. O'Neill, who was thought to be in a decline. Arthur, though so +far removed from his simple life by the patronage of the great, had +always been a good and dutiful son, while Philip had ever evinced a +remarkable fondness for the warm-hearted foster-mother, whose sad blue +eyes dwelt on his merry face with a singular expression of yearning, +sorrowful tenderness. +</P> + +<P> +It was the sixteenth birthday of Philip, Lord Alverley, and his happy +parents gave a ball in honor of the occasion. All the "best people" of +the country were present, and all was brightness, music, and +gayety,—joyous hearts keeping time to light, dancing feet. But, in +the midst of the festivities, the young lord of the <I>fête</I> and Arthur +were summoned from the ball-room by Terence O'Neill, the lodge-keeper, +who came to tell them that his poor wife had taken a turn for the +worse, and was sinking rapidly, and that she desired to see her two +dear lads before she should pass away. +</P> + +<P> +Without a moment's hesitation the friends set out together for the +Lodge. Terence O'Neill left them there and hastened away to summon the +parish priest. So it happened that the lads found themselves alone by +the bedside of Norah O'Neill. They sank on their knees beside her and +burst into tears. The dying woman gazed at them with a look of wild, +passionate love, which seemed struggling with a strange fear, or +remorse. +</P> + +<P> +"O my poor lads!" she said, "I have loved ye both, yet ye have both +much to forgive. When the priest comes I will tell you before him all +my sin,—all the wrong I have done ye both." +</P> + +<P> +They looked bewildered, but waited silently and patiently for the +coming of Terence and the priest. But the anxious minutes went on, and +no one came. At last Norah half raised herself in bed and hoarsely +whispered, "He does not come, and I am dying! I must confess to <I>you</I>, +boys; but if you can't forgive, don't curse your poor broken-hearted +mother when you know all. You, Arthur, <I>are not my son</I>, though you +were nursed at my breast, and became like the very pulse of my heart. +<I>You are the Earl's own son; and you, Philip, are not Lord Alverley; +you are my first-born, my only son.</I> I changed you in your cradles. +The Countess was very ill for weeks, the Earl never left her to visit +her poor, puny baby. It was sickly; I was sure it would die; I was +tempted to put my own healthier child in its place. I meant a kindness +to my lord and lady, yet I have never known an hour's peace since that +day. Nobody knew my secret, not even my husband, for he was away in +England, with some harvesters, at the time. He never suspected. I +never dared lisp a word of it to the priest. I shut it all close in my +heart, where it stung like a serpent and ate like a poison. It is +killing me. O my poor, dear, injured lads, can you forgive me before I +die?" +</P> + +<P> +There was an agony of supplication in the straining eyes and in the +broken sob. +</P> + +<P> +Philip spoke first, very tenderly: "As for myself, mother, I forgive +you, though you have wronged me by making me a party to a great wrong; +but it was very wicked of you to keep so noble a boy as Arthur so long +out of his rights." +</P> + +<P> +"O no," cried Arthur, "I have really suffered no wrong. God so +wonderfully overruled the evil for good. I have had all the happiness +I could have had as the heir of Ellenwood Castle, and added to it, your +love, my more than brother. So, mother dear, I too forgive you, fully +and freely, and do not despair of God's forgiveness, now that all is +well between us three." +</P> + +<P> +Norah O'Neill lifted her bowed head and stretched out her arms with a +cry, half joy, half sorrow, then fell back on her pillow. A mist +gathered over her eyes, and she spoke no more, but her hands groped +about till they found a hand of each of her boys. These she raised one +after the other to her lips, and, meekly kissing them, she died. +</P> + +<P> +The poor lads had never looked upon death before: they were both +awe-struck, silent, and motionless for a while. Then Philip bent down +and closed his mother's eyes, and pressed his lips on her forehead. +But Arthur spoke first. Laying his hand on Philip's shoulder, he said, +in a tone of eager imploring, "Dear brother, we two only know of this +sad revelation. Let us bury it in our hearts, and let all be as though +this had never been. You are far better suited to your present +position than I am. You are one of Nature's noblemen. It would make +me wretched beyond expression to have to take from you wealth, title, +parents, everything. I would rather die. Let us both keep a life-long +silence about this sad affair. I beg, I implore you." +</P> + +<P> +"O Arthur!" cried Philip, reproachfully, "I did not look for this from +<I>you</I>. Though a peasant born, it seems, I am not base enough to do +anything so dishonorable as that. You are the last one I would wrong. +I will strip myself of everything that belongs to you. You shall have +your birthright." +</P> + +<P> +"I will not take it, Philip." +</P> + +<P> +"You <I>must</I> take it, and you will yet see it is right for you to take +it. But we have never quarrelled yet, and we must not begin by the +side of our dead mother. Ah! here comes O'Neill, <I>my father</I>. We will +not tell him all now." +</P> + +<P> +The lodge-keeper, coming too late with the priest, was so absorbed by +his grief that he noticed nothing unusual in the manner of the lads, +scarcely knew when they took leave of him and returned home. +</P> + +<P> +On the way, Arthur again urged Philip to conceal the strange secret +just revealed to them. Philip said no word in reply, but shook his +proud young head very firmly. As soon as they reached the Castle, +Philip strode with the step and bearing of a man to the ball-room, at +the head of which stood the Earl and Countess in a gay circle of +friends. They pleasantly welcomed back the lads, but all were struck +by the paleness of the two faces,—by the look of heroic determination +in Philip's, and by Arthur's expression of agonized entreaty, as he +clung to the arm of his friend. +</P> + +<P> +With strange clearness and calmness of voice, Philip spoke: "My Lord, +and my dear Lady, I have something strange and startling to tell you, +and I desire to say it before all these guests of ours. <I>I am not your +son and heir.</I> There was a fraud perpetrated upon you in my infancy, +by the nurse, Norah O'Neill, my unhappy mother. But you suffer no loss +now; you rather gain, for here, in our dear Arthur, is your <I>real</I> son, +the true Lord Alverley." +</P> + +<P> +After a time of blank amazement and incredulity, followed by scores of +eager questions, which Philip calmly answered, the truth of the strange +story was admitted, and the Earl and Countess turned to embrace their +new-found son. But the painful excitement of the scene had been too +much for that grateful, generous heart. With a piteous look at Philip, +and a gasping sob, the poor boy fell in a swoon at the feet of his +parents. +</P> + +<P> +Well, the strange, perplexing change about was arranged after a while, +even to the names of the lads, and Philip became plain Arthur O'Neill, +and Arthur found himself Philip Alfred Reginald, Lord Alverley, &c. +</P> + +<P> +It was long before he was fully reconciled to the greatness thrust upon +him at the expense of his best friend. He hated his title like a born +Democrat. Indeed, it was said that when he was first my-lorded by his +brother's valet, he flew into a most unbecoming rage. He took to his +new condition more kindly, however, when he found that Philip was not +desperate or unhappy, that he was not too proud to accept from him such +aid in life as an older brother might give. They went to the +University and travelled over the Continent together. Then Arthur +O'Neill entered the army, and his regiment was soon after ordered to +India. +</P> + +<P> +Seas rolled between the foster-brothers for years, yet their hearts +were not divided. "Many waters cannot quench love," neither can the +floods of death drown it. The "golden auburn" locks of the last Earl +of Ellenwood were scarcely touched with silver when the coffin-lid hid +them from sight. +</P> + +<P> +Colonel O'Neill fell in the wilds of Afghanistan. One was "the true +lord," one was a hero; both were noblemen. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A REBUS. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Entire, I circle Kitty's wrists<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or deck small Percy's breast,</SPAN><BR> +Or Annie's night-robe, or beneath<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Mamma's soft cheek am prest.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Behead</I> me, and I wander free,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In wood or meadow fair,</SPAN><BR> +Leap down the rock on mosses soft,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tall ferns, and maiden-hair;</SPAN><BR> +Or linger in the sedgy deep,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And baby-lilies rock to sleep.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Behead</I> again, and to your door,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If I presume to come,</SPAN><BR> +I warn you, bid the porter say,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">"To <I>him</I> I'm not at home.</SPAN><BR> +Heaven save me from the visitations<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of all that sort of poor relations!"</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Frill-rill-ill.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="french"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +STORY OF A FRENCH SOLDIER. +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE CONSCRIPT. +</H3> + +<P> +In the wars of the great Napoleon, thousands of French soldiers were +raised by conscription,—that is, taken by lot from the working classes. +</P> + +<P> +These conscripts, though they generally made good soldiers, often went +with great unwillingness and even sorrow from their humble homes and +their loved ones, to endure the hardships of weary campaigns, to risk +life and limb in desperate battles, for they scarcely knew what, with +people against whom they had no ill-will. +</P> + +<P> +On a cloudy morning in early May, a company of conscripts were marched +away from a pleasant little hamlet in the South of France. For some +distance on their way they were followed by loving friends, some +weeping and some bravely striving to cheer them up. +</P> + +<P> +At last these fell off, and the conscripts pursued their march in +melancholy silence. On the brow of a hill, their road passed the gates +of an old chateau, the seat of the ancient lords of the manor, the +Counts De Lorme. The present Count, an old man, had lately been +permitted to return from exile in England, to his half-ruined estate; +but, in acknowledgment for this act of clemency, he had felt obliged to +offer to the service of the Emperor his only son, who was now a captain +in the grand army. +</P> + +<P> +Just outside the gates, on this morning, stood Count De Lorme, +evidently awaiting the conscripts. He addressed a few words to the +sergeant, who brought his men to a halt, and called forward one Jean +Moreau, a tall, sturdy young man, with a frank, honest face, now sadly +overcast. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Jean," said the old nobleman, kindly shaking the conscript's +hand, "you must go, it seems, this time. I am sorry we could not buy +you off again; but you are built of too tempting soldier-stuff to +remain a peaceful village blacksmith." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, <I>Monsieur le Comte</I>," said the sergeant, "it is n't often we find +such stalwart fellows nowadays. The villagers all speak well of him, +and seem to begrudge him even to the Emperor." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," replied the Count; "Jean is a good boy. I know him well; he was +the foster-brother of my son. Here, Jean, is a letter to the Captain. +You may meet him somewhere. You may possibly serve in the same +regiment. If so, I commend him to you. He is not so strong as you +are, and he is brave to rashness. Watch over him, I pray you." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, <I>Monsieur le Comte</I>, believe me, I would gladly give my life for +dear Captain Henri." +</P> + +<P> +"I <I>do</I> believe you, Jean. Adieu!" +</P> + +<P> +"Adieu!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean Moreau, the handsome young blacksmith, left in his native hamlet a +widowed mother, a good, sensible woman, formerly nurse at the chateau, +but who, since the Revolution, had adopted the calling of a +<I>blanchisseuse</I>, or laundress. "Mother Moreau," as everybody called +her, had another son than Jean, fortunately too young to be drafted as +a conscript. Years before, this good woman had taken home a poor +little orphan girl, who had grown up to be as a daughter to her, and +more than a sister to Jean. Marie Lenoir, the pretty young +<I>blanchisseuse</I>, was in truth his betrothed wife. The little bouquet +of May rosebuds and forget-me-nots in his button-hole was her parting +gift. As on the hill by the chateau he turned for his last look at the +dear little hamlet, nestled in the pleasant valley, he was not ashamed +to press those flowers to his lips,—not ashamed of the tears that fell +on them. He was too manly to fear being thought unmanly. +</P> + +<P> +Months went by,—months of sad anxiety to Mother Moreau and Marie +Lenoir, for they heard very unfrequently from Jean, and knew that he +was always in danger. He did not take kindly to a soldier's life, but +he tried faithfully to do his duty, so could not be altogether unhappy. +After he had once seen the great Emperor, he felt the enthusiasm which +that wonderful man always inspired, and longed to do something grand to +merit his praise. Then, by a strange and happy chance, he found +himself in the same regiment with his beloved foster-brother, Captain +De Lorme. +</P> + +<P> +At length there rang over France the news of the great battle of +Austerlitz, where the Emperor commanded in person, and defeated his +foes with fearful slaughter. After a time of painful suspense, the +Count De Lorme had word that his son had been badly wounded, and set +out at once for the hospital in which the young officer had been left. +But many weeks went by, and no tidings, good or evil, came to the +friends of the conscript. Mother Moreau, who was a brave woman, inured +to trouble, kept up a hopeful heart; but Marie Lenoir rapidly lost the +roses from her cheeks and the spring from her step, while the laughing +light of her soft brown eyes gave place to a look of sadness and fear. +</P> + +<P> +But where was Jean? Not dead, as his friends feared. Not buried +forever out of their loving sight, in the soldier's crowded and bloody +grave. He was lying at the same hospital which had received his +foster-brother, very ill from several severe wounds; and when at last +he rose from his bed, and staggered out into the court, one sleeve of +his military coat hung limp and empty at his side. If Jean Moreau had +not given his life for Captain Henri, he had laid down in his service +what was almost as dear,—his good right arm. This was the story of +it. In a part of the field where the battle raged most fiercely, +Captain De Lorme's company, in which Jean was then enrolled, was +engaged. At one time they were right under the eye of the Emperor, and +fought with renewed ardor and courage. +</P> + +<P> +The enemy was in great force here, and desperate charges were made on +both sides. Seeing the standard-bearer of his regiment fall, and the +banner in the hands of the enemy, Captain De Lorme dashed forward to +recover it. This he did, and was gallantly fighting his way back to +the French ranks, when he fell, pierced in the breast by a ball, and +bleeding from more than one bayonet-thrust. In an instant there stood +over him the tall, powerful form of the young blacksmith. Flinging +down his musket, and seizing the sword which the wounded officer had +dropped, he kept off all assailants, or cut them down with terrible +strokes of that keen and bloody weapon, flashing about him, here, +there, on every side, like red lightning. Lifting the fainting young +noble, together with the standard, and bearing them on his left arm, +Jean actually fought his way out of the enemy's ranks, step by step, +defending both his precious charges. He received several wounds, but +none that disabled him, till a musket-ball went crashing through the +bones of his right arm, and it dropped helpless at his side. When at +last he fell, and closed his brave eyes in a long, deep swoon, which he +believed the sleep of death, he was at the foot of a little eminence on +which Napoleon sat on his war-horse, surveying the terrible scene of +carnage,—the surging sea of battle that raged around him. Jean +wondered if the smoke of the cannon veiled from his calm eyes the agony +of dying men, and if their groans came to his ears between the volleys +of musketry, in the pauses of stormy battle music. +</P> + +<P> +As soon as Jean was able to leave his ward, he was permitted to visit +his captain, who, however, was still very low from a fever induced by +his wounds. For the most time he was unconscious or delirious, and +recognized no one. The old Count was with him, but evidently knew not +who had saved the life that flickered faintly in the breast of his son, +and Jean was not the man to inform him. +</P> + +<P> +About a fortnight later, near the close of a weary day, two discharged +and maimed soldiers approached the secluded hamlet of De Lorme. The +elder was crippled by a shot in the knee, the younger had lost an +arm,—his right arm. He was pale and thin from illness, and on one +cheek was a bright red seam, from a deep sabre-cut. So Jean, the +handsome young conscript, came home. +</P> + +<P> +He had borne his misfortune very cheerfully at first, but now at every +step he grew gloomy and lost courage. To his comrade, Jaques Paval, he +frankly confided his trouble. +</P> + +<P> +It was a fear that, maimed and disfigured as he was, his Marie would no +longer be willing to accept him for her husband. This fear grew so +strong on him, that, when they came in sight of the dear old cottage, +he paused in an olive-grove, and sent his friend forward to prepare his +betrothed and his mother for the sad change they must see in him. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-083"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-083.jpg" ALT="He paused in an olive-grove." BORDER="0" WIDTH="336" HEIGHT="371"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 336px"> +He paused in an olive-grove. +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Jaques found Marie leaning over the gate, looking down the street. She +was always looking out for returned soldiers now. She seemed +disappointed that Jaques was not Jean, but greeted him kindly, and soon +drew from him all he had to tell of her doubting lover. Calling Mother +Moreau, and Jean's young brother, she ran before them down the street, +and soon cheered the sinking heart under the olive-trees with a glad +embrace and a welcome home. Then came the young brother, laughing loud +to keep from crying, and affecting not to see that dangling +coat-sleeve, or to miss the grasp of the lost right hand. Then the +mother, thanking God, as she fell on the breast of her son, putting the +hair from his scarred forehead and blessing him. Pretty Marie had +shrunk a little from that ugly red mark on his cheek, but the mother +kissed that very spot most tenderly, with murmurs of pitying love. +</P> + +<P> +The next day, Jean generously offered to free Marie from her +engagement; but she would not be freed, reproaching him with tears for +thinking so poorly of her as to suppose she would forsake him when he +needed her most. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Marie," he said, "we shall be so poor. My pension will be small, +and I can do little with only a left arm." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Jean, I am young and strong, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"God and the saints will help us," interposed Mother Moreau. +</P> + +<P> +Jean and Marie responded by silently crossing themselves; and the +marriage was fixed for the first Sunday of the next month. +</P> + +<P> +On the evening before the wedding the Count De Lorme, who had lately +returned to the chateau, sent word to Mother Moreau, that, with the +permission of the wedding-party, he would be present at the church, to +give away the bride. +</P> + +<P> +With that perfect punctuality which is a part of true politeness, he +came at the exact time appointed; and, leaning on his arm, there came a +slight, pale young officer, Captain Henri, now Colonel De Lorme. With +respectful eagerness Jean stepped forward to greet him, and, in his joy +and faithful devotion, would have kissed the hand held forth, but that +De Lorme, with a sudden impulse of affection, extended his arms, and +the brothers in heart embraced. This is a custom in France with men, +but only when they are equal in rank. At this moment the young noble +caught sight of that mournful empty sleeve. A look of pain crossed his +face; he gently lifted the sleeve and pressed it to his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," he said at last, in a soft, unsteady voice, "I bring you good +news! The Emperor himself witnessed your gallant conduct in rescuing +me and our colors, and if you had not been disabled, you would have +been promoted. As it is, you will receive the pension of a lieutenant. +And, Jean, I give you joy, <I>mon frère</I> (my brother), <I>he</I> sends you +<I>this</I>, the highest reward of a brave soldier of France, the best +wedding present for a hero." +</P> + +<P> +With these words the young Colonel placed on the breast of the poor +conscript a shining ornament,—the grand cross of the Legion of Honor! +</P> + +<P> +So the wedding of Jean and Marie was a merry one after all. The good +old Count not only gave away the bride, but gave with her a nice little +<I>dot</I>, or portion. All the villagers who were rich enough gave them +presents, and the poor gave blessings, which doubtless turned into good +things in time. +</P> + +<P> +Marie Moreau proved such an energetic, devoted wife, that Jean felt +that he had more than got his right arm back again; yet he was no +idler, for he found that with practice he could do many things with his +left arm, and at length adopted the business of a vine-grower. +</P> + +<P> +As he grew older, his beard grew heavier, so that in a few years little +Henri, his son, had to part, with his chubby fingers, the thick, crisp +hair, to get at that sabre-scar, when he wanted to hear the story of +the hard fight for the young captain and the banner, and of the great +Emperor on the hill overlooking everything with his keen, gray, +unflinching eyes. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>first</I> is often caught in church,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Is dear to dog and cat,</SPAN><BR> +Oft shuns the couch of kings, to bless<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The slave upon his mat;</SPAN><BR> +And like the "willow," in the song,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Is "all around my hat."</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> an exclamation is,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A single, simple sound,</SPAN><BR> +That tells of fear, surprise, or joy,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For friends, or treasures found;</SPAN><BR> +And sometimes holds a world of woe<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Within its little round.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>third's</I> a lordly name, a land<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For which the Genoese</SPAN><BR> +Went forth upon his god-like quest,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And ploughed through unknown seas,</SPAN><BR> +And gave to Europe old a world<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of golden mysteries.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I>, a mighty conqueror,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Filled earth with his renown;</SPAN><BR> +His life-bark rode on Fortune's flood;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Till the heavens began to frown,</SPAN><BR> +And it struck upon a rock at last,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In storm and night went down.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Nap-o-leon</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="swiss"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ABOUT SOME SWISS CHILDREN. +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DRUMMER-BOY. +</H3> + +<P> +A scene very similar to those we so often witnessed during the sad days +of our war, occurred one sweet June morning, about sixty years ago, in +a quaint little village in Switzerland, on the borders of France. A +company of recruits were about departing to join a regiment in a +neighboring town, from whence they were to march to Italy, where +Napoleon, then First Consul, was conducting one of his great campaigns. +Around these recruits, all of them young, gathered their friends and +relatives, with tears and embraces and touching words of farewell. +</P> + +<P> +About a young drummer-boy, named Leopold Koerner, gathered a little +group on whose grief few could look without tears. First, around the +lad's neck clung his pretty blue-eyed sister, Madeline; then his +younger brother Heinrich, ever till this day a merry, light-hearted +little fellow. Then came their sturdy old grandmother, trying to put a +brave face on the matter, and winking vigorously to keep back the +tears. Leopold's father had been killed in the great French +Revolution,—his widow had died soon after, "of a decline," it was +said; but doubtless sorrow helped her on toward the great, sweet rest. +The children were left to the sole care of their grandmother. She was +poor and old, but she had a stout, faithful heart,—she was devout and +determined, and battled with want and poverty like a true soldier of +the Lord. She kept the children together, and brought them up "in the +way they should go." +</P> + +<P> +It was for the sake of relieving this noble old friend of some of her +heavy care, more than from any love of a soldier's life, that Leopold, +at the age of fourteen, enlisted as a drummer. +</P> + +<P> +At parting with her darling, the good woman said little, but to charge +him to remember his father's honesty and bravery, his mother's +goodness, and the love of the true hearts left behind him. "Make all +thy noise with thy drum, lad; neither boast nor swear, and remember, +the better man the better soldier." +</P> + +<P> +"Keep up good heart, brother," said Heinrich, with a quivering lip, +"thou wilt come back to us some day, safe and sound, a grand +officer,—the General of all the drummers." +</P> + +<P> +"Adieu, dear Leopold," sobbed Madeline; "O, what can I do without thee? +I pray the holy saints and angels to turn the bullets away from thee. +Take with thee our mother's prayer-book. The <I>Forget-me-nots</I> pressed +in it are from her grave. I shall cry my prayers now; but they will +all be for thee. Adieu! adieu!" +</P> + +<P> +Just then came the command, "Forward, march!" Leopold hastily thrust +his sister's gift into his bosom, kissed her for the last time, and +with a sad wave of the hand to his old friends, moved on in his place, +sturdily beating his drum, a tear-drop falling at every stroke. +</P> + +<P> +Leopold first saw real hard fighting in Italy, at the great battle of +Marengo. In the early part of the engagement, as his regiment was +marching past a little hill, on which were a group of mounted officers, +Leopold's boyish eye was caught by the figure of a tall, handsome young +general, mounted on a magnificent white horse. He was very singularly +and splendidly dressed, in a rich Eastern-looking uniform, of scarlet, +azure, and gold. At his side hung a diamond-hilted sword, suspended by +a girdle of gold brocade. On his head he wore a three-cornered +chapeau, from which rose a long, white ostrich plume, and a superb +heron feather. The band that held these was clasped with brilliants of +great value. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, there is the great General Bonaparte!" cried Leopold, to a +comrade. "I knew him at a glance." +</P> + +<P> +"Which, my lad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, that splendid officer, talking to the pale little man, in a gray +surtout and leather breeches." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, no, my little comrade," replied the other drummer, laughing, "that +is Murat, General of Cavalry,—the little man in the gray surtout is +General Bonaparte. However, you need not blush for your hero; he is a +wonderful fellow at the head of a charge. Wherever his white plume +goes, victory follows. You should see Bonaparte watch it, gleaming +above the fight, as the French cavalry goes thundering up against +Austrian bayonets or batteries. They say the mad general sometimes +shouts to the Austrian dragoons, 'Ho! who of you wants Murat's jewels? +Let him come and take them!' And they come one after another, to go +down under his sword, which falls upon them swift and sure as the +lightning. Ah! he is a terrible fellow." +</P> + +<P> +Leopold found a battle to be something yet more awful than he had +imagined. The roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the clang of +swords and bayonets, the stormy gallop of cavalry, the groans and +shrieks of wounded and dying men, appalled his very soul. But though +his cheeks grew deathly white, and his eyes large and wild, he had not +one cowardly impulse to fly from his duty. Again and again, he gave +the quick drum-beat for the advance. +</P> + +<P> +In the height of the battle, Murat dashed forward in one of his +overpowering cavalry charges. Leopold, in the midst of the horrors of +the fight, gazed with wonder and admiration at the plumed and jewelled +officer, on his magnificent white horse, with its trappings of gold and +azure. It was like a beautiful vision in that awful place, and a wild +huzza broke from the boy's lips. Just then a cannon-ball rushed before +him, like a small whirlwind, and carried away his drum, in a thousand +fragments. He saw the same ball pass harmlessly between the legs of +the white horse of Murat, who was then engaged in a hand-to-hand combat +with a tall Austrian dragoon. Relieved from duty, the boy stood +watching the fiery general, forgetful of danger, scarcely hearing the +horrible singing of the bullets through the air. He saw the tall +dragoon go down, and another dash forward to fill his place. While +General Murat was dealing with him, Leopold saw an Austrian officer +spur forward, and wheel sharply a powerful black horse, with the intent +to attack the rash French hero from behind. While his followers were +engaging those of Murat, he plunged forward, with his gleaming sword +lifted high in air. Leopold never know how he did it, but he broke +frantically through the ranks of infantry, in among the furious, +trampling cavalry, at the last moment, seized the Austrian's black +horse by the bit, and throwing his whole weight upon it, brought him to +his knees. As he did so, he screamed at the top of his voice, "This +way, General Murat!" The consequence was, that the sword that would +have struck down his general, fell on his own presumptuous arm, nearly +severing it from his shoulder. But on the instant, the white-plumed +hero wheeled, with his avenging sword uplifted, and the next thing the +drummer-boy saw, as he lay bleeding on the ground, was a great black +horse dashing riderless away. +</P> + +<P> +General Murat saw at once the great service Leopold had done him, and +all that the daring act had cost the poor lad. He paused there, and +stood guard over the boy, till he had seen him carefully removed to the +rear. Then with his sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, and the +bridle in his teeth, he dashed forward again in a last wild, tremendous +charge, which carried the day for the French. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning, Leopold found himself an inmate of the crowded +hospital, surrounded with the wounded and the maimed, the fevered and +the dying. But he was especially well cared for, at the command of +General Murat, to whose interest perhaps it was owing that his arm was +saved, as at first the surgeons were for taking it off, and so making +an end of a troublesome job. But with skilful treatment, aided by the +lad's youth, good habits, and patience, the great wound healed at last. +</P> + +<P> +One day, while Leopold yet lay on his cot, forbidden to stir, and +feeling very lonely and homesick, the dreary hospital was illuminated +by the entrance of General Murat, accompanied by his beautiful young +wife, who was a sister of General Bonaparte. After bowing graciously +to the other patients, they came to the little drummer-boy. The +General inquired kindly after his wound, and Madame Murat thanked him +in the sweetest manner for saving the life of her husband. +</P> + +<P> +"Glory gives you a rough hand-shake at first, eh, my lad? But, never +mind; it is a brusque way she has," said the General, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"I am thankful that she did not shake my hand off altogether, my +General," replied Leopold. "I fear as it is, 't will be long ere I can +hope to help drum the way to another victory." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, well, my child, when you get strong enough to handle the +drum-sticks, we may find better work for you. We shall see. Adieu!" +</P> + +<P> +"Adieu, my General! Adieu, Madame!" +</P> + +<P> +Well, when Leopold applied for his old position in his regiment, he was +informed by his Colonel that he was to be sent to the Polytechnic, a +military school in Paris, to be educated for a cavalry officer, under +the patronage of General Murat. This was a great up-lift in life for a +poor peasant-boy; but he received the news with modest gratitude and +joy, unmingled with the faintest trace of pride or conceit. +</P> + +<P> +He obtained leave to visit his home on his way to Paris, and never +forgot that humble home or its inmates, as he got on in his profession. +He proved to be a good student, and grew up into a fine, soldier-like, +honorable man. +</P> + +<P> +General Murat and his wife continued to befriend him, even after they +became king and queen of Naples. +</P> + +<P> +In the battles of the Empire, the young lieutenant of cavalry so +distinguished himself that he rose to a high rank. So one day, before +his brown hair was turned gray, and before his good grandmother's white +head had been hidden in the grave, Leopold Koerner entered his native +village a General,—though not as his brother Heinrich had prophesied, +"the General of all the drummers." +</P> + +<P> +This was not his first visit home after leaving the Polytechnic. Once +he had returned to purchase, with his well-saved pay, a small property +for his brother, who had chosen the peaceful calling of a miller; and +once again, to give away in marriage his sweet sister Madeline, who +became the wife of the village Notary. +</P> + +<P> +At this time Leopold offered to return to the bride her mother's +prayer-book, which he had always worn, he said, over his heart, on +weary marches, and into battle. +</P> + +<P> +"No, my brother," said Madeline, "I will not take it. Wear it still, +to remind thee of our mother and of Heaven. Prayer is a soldier's best +breastplate." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A REBUS. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Entire, at an army's head I stand,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Marches and sieges I command,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The foremost fighter of the time:</SPAN><BR> +<I>Behead me</I>, on the mimic stage<BR> +I pass for fine, poetic rage,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Passion and agony sublime.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Behead again</I>, complete the fall,<BR> +From a mighty Major-General<BR> +To an insect most exceedingly small.<BR> +'T is marvellous, yet we have seen<BR> +Such magic changes before, I ween.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Grant-rant-ant.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LITTLE CARL'S CHRISTMAS-EVE. +</H3> + +<P> +"Come in!" shouted together the host and hostess of a little German +wayside inn, near the banks of the Rhine, and not far below the city of +Basle, and the borders of Switzerland. It was Christmas-eve, and a +tempestuous night. The wind was raving round the little inn, and +tearing away at windows and doors, as though mad to get at the brave +little light within, and extinguish it without mercy. The snow was +falling fast, drifting and driving, obstructing the highway, blinding +the eyes of man and beast. +</P> + +<P> +The "come in" of the host and hostess was in answer to a loud, hurried +rap at the door, by which there immediately entered two travellers. +One, by his military dress, seemed a soldier, and the other appeared to +be his servant. This was the case. General Wallenstein was on his way +from Carlsruhe, to his home in Basle. He had been delayed several +hours by an accident to his post-carriage and by the storm, and now +found himself obliged to stop for the night at this lonely and +comfortless little inn. +</P> + +<P> +When the officer threw aside his plumed hat and military cloak of rich +fur, and strode up to the fire, with his epaulettes flashing in the +light, and his sword knocking against his heels, cling, clang, the +gruff host was greatly impressed with his importance, and willingly +went out to assist the postilion in the care of the horses. As for the +old hostess, she bustled about with wonderful activity to prepare +supper for the great man. +</P> + +<P> +"Ho, Carl!" she cried, "thou young Rhine-sprite, thou water-imp, run to +the wood for another bundle of fagots! Away, haste thee, or I 'll give +thee back to thy elfin kinsfolk, who are ever howling for thee!" +</P> + +<P> +At these strange, sharp words, a wild-looking little boy started up +from a dusky corner of the room, where he had been lying with his head +pillowed on a great tawny Swiss dog, and darted out of the door. He +was coarsely dressed and bare-footed; yet there was something uncommon +about him,—something grand, yet familiar in his look, which struck the +traveller strangely. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that your child?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No indeed," said the old dame; "I am a poor woman, and have seen +trouble in my time, but, blessed be the saints! I 'm not the mother of +water-imps." +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you call the boy a water-imp?" +</P> + +<P> +"I call him so, your excellency," said the woman, sinking her shrill +voice into an awe-struck tone, "because he came from the water, and +belongs to the water. He floated down the Rhine in the great flood, +four years ago come spring, a mere baby, that could barely tell his +name, perched on the roof of a little chalet, in the night, amid +thunder, lightning, and rain! Now, it is plain that no human child +could have lived through that. My good man spied him in the morning +early, and took him off in his boat. I took him in for pity; but I +have always been afraid of him, and every flood-time I think the Rhine +is coming for his own again." +</P> + +<P> +The traveller seemed deeply interested, and well he might be; for in +the very flood of which the superstitious old dame spoke his only +child, an infant boy, had been lost, with his nurse, whose cottage on +the river-bank below Basle had been swept away by night. +</P> + +<P> +"Was the child quite alone on the roof of the chalet?" he asked in an +agitated tone. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said the hostess, "all but an old dog, who seemed to belong to +him." +</P> + +<P> +"That dog must have dragged him up on to the roof, and saved him!" +exclaimed the general; "is he yet alive?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, just alive. He must be very old, for he is almost stone blind +and deaf. My good man would have put him out of the way long ago, but +for Carl; and as he shares his meals, and makes his bed with him, I +suppose it is no loss to keep the brute." +</P> + +<P> +"Show me the dog!" said the officer, with authority. +</P> + +<P> +"Here he lies, your excellency," said the dame. "We call him +<I>Elfen-hund</I>" (elf-dog). +</P> + +<P> +General Wallenstein bent over the dog, touched him gently, and shouted +in his ear his old name of "Leon." The dog had not forgotten it; he +knew that voice, the touch of that hand. With a plaintive, joyful cry, +he sprang up to the breast of his old master, nestled about blindly for +his hands, and licked them unreproved; then sunk down, as though faint +with joy, to his master's feet. The brave soldier was overcome with +emotion; tears fell fast from his eyes. "Faithful creature," he +exclaimed, "you have saved my child, and given him back to me." And +kneeling down, he laid his hand on the head of the poor old dog and +blessed him. +</P> + +<P> +Just at this moment the door opened and little Carl appeared, toiling +up the steps with his arms full of fagots, his cheerful face smiling +brave defiance to winter winds, and night and snow. +</P> + +<P> +"Come hither, Carl," said the soldier. The boy flung down his fagots +and drew near. +</P> + +<P> +"Dost thou know who I am?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah no,—the good Christmas King, perhaps," said the little lad, +looking full of innocent wonderment. +</P> + +<P> +"Alas, poor child, how shouldst thou remember me!" exclaimed General +Wallenstein, sadly. Then clasping him in his arms, he said, "But I +remember thee; thou art my boy, my dear, long-lost boy! Look in my +face; embrace me; I am thy father!" +</P> + +<P> +"No, surely," said the child, sorely bewildered, "that cannot be, for +they tell me the Rhine is my father." +</P> + +<P> +The soldier smiled through his tears, and soon was able to convince his +little son that he had a better father than the old river that had +carried him away from his tender parents. He told him of a loving +mother who yet sorrowed for him, and of a little blue-eyed sister, who +would rejoice when he came. Carl listened, and wondered, and laughed, +and when he comprehended it all, slid from his father's arms and ran to +embrace old Leon. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning early General Wallenstein, after having generously +rewarded the innkeeper and his wife for having given a home, though a +poor one, to his little son, departed for Basle. In his arms he +carried Carl, carefully wrapped in his warm fur cloak, and if sometimes +the little bare feet of the child were thrust out from their covering, +it was only to bury themselves in the shaggy coat of old Leon, who lay +snugly curled up in the bottom of the carriage. +</P> + +<P> +I will not attempt to tell you of the deep joy of Carl's mother, nor of +the wild delight of his little sister, for I think such things are +quite beyond any one's telling; but altogether it was to the +Wallensteins a Christmas-time to thank God for, and they did thank him. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>first</I> the softest, loveliest grace<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Nature to beauty gives;</SPAN><BR> +While love and truth and modesty<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Stay in the heart, it lives.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> is so like my first,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My first its shadow seems;</SPAN><BR> +It sweetens all the sunny day,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">All night in fragrance dreams.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I>, sweet one, I love to trace,<BR> +Soft glowing in that tell-tale face,<BR> +When Arthur whispers in your ear<BR> +Those "nothings" I must never hear:<BR> +Ah! then it comes, all warm and clear,<BR> +Your answering blush, Rose, my dear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Blush-rose.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="italian"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ABOUT SOME ITALIAN CHILDREN. +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GIUSEPPE AND LUCIA. +</H3> + +<P> +In a little mountain town not far from the beautiful lake of Como, in +the North of Italy, in the early part of the last war between the +Austrians and the Italians, a poor peasant-woman lay dying. Beside her +bed stood a fine, sturdy-looking lad, some fourteen years of age, +listening reverently to the last words of his mother. On the bed, with +her face hidden against that dear mother's breast, lay a little girl of +six or seven, trying to keep down her sobs, and to take into her +half-broken little heart the fond farewells, the tender and solemn +advice of the beloved one who was going home to God. +</P> + +<P> +The dying mother grieved to leave her poor children alone in the world, +for they were fatherless, and had no near relatives; but she believed +that the same Heavenly Father who was calling her from them would care +for them and bring them home to her at last. To the tender love of +that Father, and to the protection of the holy saints, she commended +them, kissed them and blessed them, and went softly to sleep, to awake +in Heaven. +</P> + +<P> +After the burial of their mother, Giuseppe and Lucia found themselves +nearly penniless. They had no friends except among the poor, so they +must help themselves, or suffer extreme poverty. The boy possessed a +great deal of musical talent, and played well upon several instruments. +He resolved that somehow he would make this talent serve for the +support of himself and his little sister. He could have enlisted as a +drummer, but he regarded the Austrians, who then held that part of +Italy, as the cruel oppressors of his country. He had an especial +horror of them, from the fact that his father had been shot several +years before, for joining an unsuccessful rising against them in Milan. +</P> + +<P> +At last, Giuseppe Benedetti fixed upon a calling. With the small sum +of money which a sale of the cottage furniture brought he purchased a +set of puppets, or <I>marionettes</I>,—quaint little figures, that would +dance very nimbly if not gracefully to the notes of the pipes, which he +played like a master. This is a rather rude, but quite an inspiring +musical instrument, belonging mostly to the mountain regions of Italy. +Those who play it are called <I>pifferari</I>, or pipers. +</P> + +<P> +When all was ready, Giuseppe and Lucia took an affectionate leave of +their kind neighbors, and set bravely out on their travels, to seek +their fortune. They tramped from town to town, sometimes getting very +weary and discouraged, but often having very pleasant times together, +and never suffering from actual want. One day they found themselves +within a few hours' walk of Mancini, the little village in which their +mother had died, and concluded to revisit it. At noon, they stopped to +rest in an olive-grove by the wayside. After eating their simple +dinner of brown bread and fresh figs, and drinking from a cool spring +near by, Lucia, who never tired of the wonderful performances of the +marionettes, asked her brother to play for them, and sat watching the +dancing of the miniature men and women with true childish delight. +</P> + +<P> +In the midst of their enjoyment, they were startled by the tramp of +horses and men coming up the road. Giuseppe ran forwards, and looked +down on a band of some two hundred Italian soldiers, led by a +noble-looking man, mounted on a fiery white horse; but wearing, instead +of a showy uniform, a red-flannel shirt, gray trousers, and a slouched +felt hat. As this officer saw Giuseppe standing on the high bank, with +little Lucia behind him, peering timidly between his legs, he reined up +horse, and asked in a voice sweet and sad, yet grand and commanding, if +there was a spring of water near by. Giuseppe replied by offering to +show him the one he had found, and soon conducted him and his men to a +little green nook, where the water gushed up sweet and fresh. The lad +noticed that the noble-looking leader waited till all his soldiers had +quenched their thirst before he drank. +</P> + +<P> +When he was ready to resume the march, he thanked the peasant-boy, and +kindly asked his name. +</P> + +<P> +"Giuseppe Benedetti." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, <I>Giuseppe</I>! that is my name also," said the officer. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, General, Giuseppe <I>Garibaldi</I>," said the lad, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +The General started, and asked how he knew him. +</P> + +<P> +"My father served under you at the siege of Rome, and he had a picture +of you." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, your father, I remember him; where is he now?" +</P> + +<P> +"He was shot at Milan, General." +</P> + +<P> +The noble face of Garibaldi grew stern, but softened again as he looked +pityingly on the orphans. After giving them a little money—he was +himself too poor to give them much—he turned away and began consulting +with one of his officers in regard to their march. Giuseppe understood +that their plan was to go on to Mancini, where they expected to raise +some more men, and to camp for the night near the village. After a few +energetic words away he dashed, followed by his brave, devoted band. +</P> + +<P> +When they were gone, Giuseppe and Lucia lay down on the soft turf, and +talked of all they had seen and heard, till, overcome by the heat and +lulled by the murmur of the brook, they fell asleep. They slept till +late in the afternoon, when they were awakened by the tramp of soldiers +again coming up the road. +</P> + +<P> +"Here comes more of our brave Italians," exclaimed Lucia. +</P> + +<P> +"No, these are Austrians," said Giuseppe, looking down upon them from +the olive-grove. "I know them by their hateful colors, black and +yellow. I 'm afraid they are after Garibaldi. If they overtake him +they will cut his little band to pieces, for here is a whole regiment +of the bloodthirsty tyrants." +</P> + +<P> +Just then an Austrian officer caught sight of the lad, and leaped his +horse up the bank, followed by a file of soldiers. "Tell me, my boy," +he said, with a terrible scowl, "have you seen anything of Garibaldi +and his men?" +</P> + +<P> +Giuseppe stood quite still, but replied not a word. The officer drew +his sword and threatened him with instant death, yet still he would not +speak. But poor Lucia could not see her brother murdered; she flung +herself between him and the officer, crying out, "Yes, we <I>did</I> see +him; but please don't hurt him, or any of his brave soldiers." +</P> + +<A NAME="img-113"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-113.jpg" ALT="Giuseppe and Lucia" BORDER="0" WIDTH="353" HEIGHT="390"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 353px"> +Giuseppe and Lucia +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +The Austrian laughed a cruel sort of a laugh, and asked, "Which way did +they go?" +</P> + +<P> +Poor Lucia could not say any more for sobbing, but pointed with her +hand up the road,—never in her innocence thinking of misleading him. +It was enough; in another moment he was leading on his men, with the +hope of soon surprising and destroying the Italians. +</P> + +<P> +When they were out of hearing, Giuseppe flung himself on the ground, +crying bitterly. "Ah, little Lucia," he said, "how could you betray +our General, the hope of Italy? Why did you not let the Austrian kill +me?" +</P> + +<P> +"O brother, brother," replied the child, weeping, "how <I>could</I> I let +him? I love <I>you</I> better even than Garibaldi; besides, he is such a +great fighter, may be he will kill them all." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no," groaned the poor lad, "they are too many for him, if they +take him by surprise." +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly he sprang up, his face looking all bright and eager, and said, +"Little sister, now you have done our General so much mischief, are you +brave enough to try to save him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, what can such a little thing as I do?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell you. You can stay here with the pipes and marionettes, +while I run over the mountain by a little path,—a cross-cut I +know,—and warn Garibaldi that the Austrians are after him. I will be +back by midnight, I hope, but you must stay here till I come; there +will be moonlight, and it will not be cold. Dare you stay alone?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," answered Lucia, firmly, though turning quite pale; "the blessed +Mother of our Lord will watch over me, and may be our mother will come +with her. I think she 's a saint; I am sure she ought to be made one." +</P> + +<P> +With a tender kiss on the lips of his heroic little sister, Giuseppe +sprang away and soon disappeared over a ridge of the mountain. After +some narrow escapes in pursuing his perilous path along precipices and +over torrents, he reached Mancini in time not only to warn Garibaldi, +but to allow him to march back through a deep ravine and intercept the +Austrians. Taken by surprise, and in the dim evening light mistaking +Garibaldi's dashing little band for a large force, they made little +resistance, but such as were not killed in the first charge, fled or +surrendered. After sending his prisoners to one of his secret mountain +strongholds, Garibaldi despatched a trooper with Giuseppe to the +olive-grove, whore Lucia had been left alone. They found her safe, +quietly sleeping, with her sweet little face upturned in the soft +moonlight. The trooper took her up before him, on his strong, black +horse, and the three returned to Garibaldi's camp. +</P> + +<P> +Giuseppe and his little sister remained with the brave mountain men for +several weeks. The little girl became a great pet with the rough but +kindly soldiers, and many a night she sat with them beside the +camp-fire, sometimes on Garibaldi's knee, and sung sweet, wild songs, +while Giuseppe played on his pipes, and the funny little marionettes +danced right merrily. +</P> + +<P> +But at last, General Garibaldi found for the good little girl a home +with a kind lady, who promised to bring her up as her own child. That +home was in a pretty villa, on the lovely shore of Lake Como. Giuseppe +remained with Garibaldi, and became a soldier. +</P> + +<P> +After the Austrians had been driven from Milan, he entered that city in +the suite of his beloved general. One day, he went to the spot just +outside the walls, where a few years before his poor father was shot. +He picked a wild poppy, and put it in his bosom, thinking that it might +be it had received its rich red color from the life-blood of that brave +father. Then, as he looked over the beautiful city, and saw waving +from every public building the banner of the gallant King of Sardinia, +instead of the ugly flag of Austria, he thanked God for Victor Emanuel, +Garibaldi, and liberty. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>first</I> we wish our dear ones' lives to be,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And all the joys and loves that Hope discloses,</SPAN><BR> +And fairy-tales, and picnics by the sea,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Purses, and golden curls, and times of roses,</SPAN><BR> +And lashes dark, to shade a beauty's glances,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And rides, and sails, and pantomimes, and dances.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> is the place where thousands meet,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Like ships at sea, who never meet again,—</SPAN><BR> +Fair maids, and soldiers brave, and children sweet,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And ruddy boys, and silver-haired old men;</SPAN><BR> +The surging mob, the monks' procession holy,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gay bridal trains, and funerals moving slowly.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I>, he was a Southern leader brave,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Whose flaming sword to Richmond barred the way;</SPAN><BR> +'Mid smoke and shot, he saw his banners wave,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">He rode victorious, joying in the fray.</SPAN><BR> +Till fickle Fortune set the hero learning<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">'Tis a long lane, or street, that knows no turning.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Long-street.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="home"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +HOME STORIES. +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MY PET FROM THE CLOUDS. +</H3> + +<P> +How odd it was! Such a funny little event! +I have often told the story to my one little +chick, but it has always seemed to me too absurd +to put into print; yet you see I have finally made +up my mind to tell you all about it. +</P> + +<P> +I was seven years old that summer,—seven, +"going on" eight, as we country children used to +say. It was the term during which I commenced +the study of geography,—dear old Peter Parley's +charming little book, which first formally +introduced me to the great world we live in, or rather +on, and first made me realize that it was round, +and all that. It was on an afternoon in the early +part of July, I am not sure, though, that it was n't +in the latter part of June, that it happened,—the +singular event I am going to tell you about. It +had been dreadfully hot all day,—so hot that the +very hillsides seemed to pant, like the sides of the +poor cattle, in the parched pastures. I thought it +extremely lucky that my geography lesson that day +was in Greenland. I don't believe I could have +been equal to a lesson in Mesopotamia. I +remember saying to Bob Linn, at recess, that I wished I +was a seal, riding on an iceberg; and he said he +wished he was a white bear, climbing the North +Pole and sliding down backwards. That was so +like Bob Linn. He used to climb the lightning-rod +of the meeting-house, and ring the bell at very +improper hours, till Deacon Jones tarred it,—the +rod, not the bell. I wonder where he is now,—Bob, +not the Deacon. He was the first schoolmate +to whom I told what had happened that July, or +June afternoon. As I think I have said, it was a +very hot day; but, just before school was dismissed, +there came up a refreshing thunder-shower. How +we revived, in the cool, moist air, like the poor +wilted field-flowers! The shrunken stream in the glen +grew, and took heart, and went tumbling down the +rocks, in its old, headlong spring-fashion. The +cattle stopped panting and whisking off flies, and stood +dripping and chewing, while a smile of brightening +greenness ran over the faded face of the pasture. +</P> + +<P> +I had a half-mile walk home. One of the girls +who lived nearer the school-house invited me to +stay all night with her; but I thought that I, who +was old enough to study about oceans, avalanches, +earthquakes, and volcanoes, ought not to be afraid +of such rain, thunder, and lightning as we had in +our free, enlightened, and Christian country. So +I thanked her "no," which was very well; for, if +I had stayed, that wouldn't have happened that +did happen,—or, at least, I would n't have seen it. +Well, I set out for home, bravely breasting the +wind, and really enjoying the rain, in spite of my +new sun-bonnet getting every minute more limp and +flappy. I remember wondering if it was raining +at that very time in China, right under my feet. +If so, study on it as I would, I could n't make it +seem any other way than that it rained upwards +there. I was thinking of such things, and not +expecting anything particular to happen, till I got in +sight of home, past the old Phillips place, where it +did happen. It was here I first noticed over my +head the blackest of black clouds, big with barrels +of rain. I started into a run, to get out of the +way, when—now it is coming, what I was going +to relate! No, I must first tell you that there was +near me then no house, nor tree, nor even bush, +that it could have dropped or jumped off from. +Now it really is coming! Well, right down before +my eyes, straight out of that cloud, fell—<I>a little +frog</I>!! There, it is out! I like to take people by +surprise, and not, like some story-tellers, drag my +listeners all "round Robin Hood's barn" before I +get at a thing. +</P> + +<P> +I stood stock still for a moment, in wonder +and astonishment. Then, half afraid, I picked the +little creature up out of the sand. He was of a +greenish-brown, brightening to gold in the sun. +His limbs were extremely delicate, and his eyes +were as bright as diamonds. I carried him gently +home, and ran with him in the greatest +excitement to my mother, exclaiming, "O mamma! do +look at this lovely little frog! It is n't human! It +came right down to me out of the sky. I do +believe it is an angel-frog!" +</P> + +<P> +My mother laughed, but, on being told the story +of Froggy's descent from the clouds, said it was a +great marvel and mystery where he came from, and +how he got there. Glad of a chance to display my +learning, I said, "Why, mamma, you know the +stars are round balls, like our earth, swinging in +the air; and may be he was whirled off one of them, +or maybe he jumped off the horn of the moon last +night, and has been travelling ever since. Poor +little fellow! how tired he must be!" +</P> + +<P> +When my father came in, he gave it as his +opinion that the frog had been carried up by a +waterspout, from a lake about twenty miles distant, kept +up and borne along by currents of air. At all +events, he was a hero and an adventurer, and I +resolved to keep him as a curiosity. So I put him +in a large rain-water trough, at the back of the +house, where he lived in apparent content, the +monarch of all he surveyed. During dry times, I +kept him well supplied with fresh water from the +well, and I frequently threw in broad dock-leaves, +for him to take shelter under from the heat. He +soon grew to know me, and would actually come +at my call from the farthest end of the trough. He +was very shy of others, and I was not sorry, for I +wanted all his affection, and was proud of his +discernment. This was thought so singular that I +was often sent out with visitors, to show off my pet. +I don't believe that the keeper of the hippopotamus +can be prouder of his mud-loving monster than +I was of my lively little friend. +</P> + +<P> +My brother Will built for him a neat little ship, +on which he sailed about, being captain, crew, +cabin-boy, and all. One morning, while I was +playing with him, he hopped down the hatchway. +I shut him into the little cabin, and was careless +enough to forget to let him out before going to +school. When I came home, I found him lying +on the cabin floor, still and lifeless! He had been +suffocated in the close, hot air. I am not ashamed +to own that I cried heartily over the poor limp +little body. I wrapped it tenderly in a +plantain-leaf, and laid it beside my last lost kitty. +</P> + +<P> +In the evening, when I told my father of my loss, +he by no means made light of it, knowing my pet +was no common frog. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor fellow!" he said, "it was as bad for him +as the 'Black Hole of Calcutta.'" I did n't know +what that meant then; I know now, but haven't +time to tell you. Besides it is n't a pleasant story. +Then papa added, "Perhaps, after all, it is only a +case of suspended animation. Your little frog may +have only been in a swoon. If you open his grave +in the morning, you may find that he has come to." +</P> + +<P> +That was a pleasant hope to go to bed on, and +you may believe I rose bright and early in the +morning, to run with my shingle-spade to the +cemetery of all my dead pets. With an anxious heart, +I removed the earth, and unfolded the plantain-leaf. +Sure enough, there was my pet, "alive and +kicking!" He hopped out on to a full-blown +dandelion, and looked about him as pert and knowing +as ever. I caught him up, and ran with him into +the house, crying, "Froggy is resurrected!—Froggy +is resurrected!" +</P> + +<P> +After this, nothing especial happened to him for +some months. He grew in intelligence and lively +graces, but not in size, remaining precisely the +same pretty, tiny creature as at the first. This +fairy-like, unchangeable youthfulness, and his +little, piping note, "most musical, most melancholy," +made me still half believe that he was a frog of +another and a higher race than ours,—star-born, +or a native of cloud-land. After the frosty nights +of November, I used to remove the thin ice from +his tank, so that he could swim freely, and he did +not seem to suffer much from the rigors of the +season. But, on the first morning in December, I +found to my grief that the shallow water in the +trough was frozen solid, and—Froggy with it! I +could see him tightly imprisoned in the clear ice, +about midway from the surface. His limbs were +extended, showing that he had bravely kicked against +his hard fate to the last. I gave him up, then, and +went into the house disconsolate. But my mother +was still hopeful. Under her directions I heated +the kitchen shovel, and with it thawed out a block +of ice some inches square, with Froggy in the +centre. This I placed on the hearth before the fire. +You see I did not dare to break the ice, for fear of +breaking with it the frozen limbs of my pet. I +watched the melting of the block with affectionate +interest. It was slow work, but it came to an end +at last, and Froggy was free. Still, for a time he +lay motionless, and I feared he was dead. Then, +one limb twitched, then another, and then he was +alive all over, and began to hop away from the fire. +I rejoiced over him with great joy, put him in a +tub of water, with a piece of bark to sail on, and +began laying plans for keeping him in-doors all +winter. But my mother said it was impossible,—that +there was but one way to save the life of my +pet, and that was to take him down to the +millstream and fling him in. There the water was +deep, and the frogs lived under the ice, cosey and +comfortable all winter. +</P> + +<P> +"O mamma," I said, "I can't make up my mind +to do that. He would miss me so, and I don't +believe that the other frogs would treat him well. He +is n't of their kind, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"I think it more likely," she answered, "that +they will have sense enough to perceive his +superiority, and will treat him accordingly,—perhaps +make a Prince or President of him. He will come +among them as a distinguished stranger,—a +travelled adventurer." +</P> + +<P> +This consoled and determined me. I put on +my cloak and hood, and set out at once, for fear I +should lose courage. I ran all the way, talking to +my funny little pet, and saying, I doubt not, many +silly things, but which, I am sure, went no further. +</P> + +<P> +When I came to the bank of the stream, I +thought perhaps he would hop in of his own +accord. I bade him farewell, and held him out over +the water. But I suppose it looked big and dreary +to him, for he did not stir. I even fancied that +he looked at me reproachfully for thinking that he +would be so willing to leave me. I was obliged to +give him a toss, and the next instant he +disappeared forever under the dark, wintry waters, +among the reeds and rushes. +</P> + +<P> +So now you know all I know about My Pet +from the Clouds. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +FOR WILLIE WINKIE +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So Will, my lad, you beg that I'll<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Concoct you a charade;</SPAN><BR> +Well, dear, here goes: My <I>first</I> is first<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Your favorite little maid;</SPAN><BR> +The hearts of roses too are it,<BR> +And vine-blooms under which I sit;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And childhood's dreams, and sinless thoughts,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And tones attuned to love,</SPAN><BR> +"The uses of adversity,"<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The cooings of the dove,</SPAN><BR> +And Lilly's eyes, and Kitty's lips,<BR> +And Tommy's 'lassed finger-tips.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> was the royal name<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of England's conquering foe.</SPAN><BR> +Who set his foot on Saxon necks<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Eight hundred years ago;</SPAN><BR> +The name too of a poet-king,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Who still rules many a land;</SPAN><BR> +No soldier he, but a knightlier soul<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Did ne'er shake spear or brand.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I> is no exotic rare,<BR> +A common flower found everywhere;<BR> +In form 't is somewhat like the pink,<BR> +But its scent is finer, I declare,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Than musk, or your patchouli.</SPAN><BR> +You 've guessed it now, I really think,<BR> +So I'll refrain from wasting ink.<BR> +Sweet Will, I am<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Yours truly,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 4em">GRACE GREENWOOD.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE TWO GEORGES. +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A TRAGEDY. +</H4> + +<P> +The summer that I was eight years old I went +to school, at our little brown country +schoolhouse, alone; my elder sister going to a select +school in the village, where she actually studied +grammar and wrote compositions! Our +school-mistress was Miss Grey, quite a pretty young lady, +but folks said not a good teacher. They said she +had "no government," and certainly we had a +very easy time of it. She was what is called +"absent-minded," and often forgot to hear some of our +lessons, and we thought it would n't be polite to +remind her of them. She had a soft and mournful +voice, and a droopy sort of a look, especially about +her hair. She dressed a little queer sometimes, +and played on the accordion, so it was whispered +about that she wrote poetry. I know she read it +a good deal, and novels too. She had in her desk +a very long romance, called "The Children of the +Abbey," which she used to read at noontime and +recess. She read it through, and then she +appeared to read it backward, for it lasted nearly all +summer. It seemed to me that the story went on +and on, till it came to the last page of the book, +then turned round and went the other way. +</P> + +<P> +I said I went to school alone; yet after a while +I had company, which no one else would have +thought of much account, but which was quite a +comfort to me. One day I made a purchase with +my own money. It was only a little pocket-handkerchief, +but such a handkerchief! On it was +printed, in bright blue, a picture of General George +Washington, in full regimentals, with his sword in +his hand, flanked by the Ten Commandments, and +with a scroll labelled "Constitution" for his base. +</P> + +<P> +At first I looked upon that stern face, with its +strong, tight mouth, like a steel-trap just sprung, +with a good deal of reverence; but as I grew +familiar with him I became fond of him, and part of +the time treated him as a doll; indeed, he seemed +to me more real than any doll I ever had, and far +dearer. I folded him carefully every morning and +laid him in my dinner-basket, over my rations, +grieving that I was obliged from limited space to +fold under his legs, giving them an amputated look. +But I laid him out at full length in my desk, and +often lifted the cover to take an admiring look at +him, during the day. At night, I laid him in one +of my dolls' beds, and actually "tucked in" the +"Father of his Country," calling him "George, my +boy," and telling him to be good, and not to get +up in the morning and go to hacking away at +cherry-trees, with that sword of his. +</P> + +<P> +He was two in one,—George I. and II. He was +little George, or the great General, just as the +occasion demanded. On the Fourth of July, I +remember, he appeared in all his glory to deliver an +oration to "a large and appreciative audience" of dolls +and kittens. He spoke in this wise: "Fellow-Citizens, +and your wives and daughters, I 'm a +warrior, not an orator. I only want to say—to +say—to tell you that if it had n't been for me you +would n't have had any Fourth of July the year +round, nor any parades, nor rockets, nor squibs, +nor star-spangled banners, nor pumpkin-pies, nor +ginger-pop. We should all have been British, or +Irish, and worn red coats, and ate blood-puddings, +and drank ale, and hurrahed for King George +forevermore. This is the truth, fellow-citizens, for I +cannot tell a lie,—you know I cannot tell a lie. +But I don't want to brag over you, and if you will +still be good Yankee Christians, brave and +industrious, I will still be the father of your country, +world without end, Amen! Band, please strike up +'Hail Columbia!'" +</P> + +<P> +By the middle of the summer the poor General's +face became as badly soiled as ever it was after a +long march, over dusty summer roads. Yet I +declined to have him washed, fearing that, after all, +his colors might not be "true blue." +</P> + +<P> +One Monday morning my mother sent by me a +note to Miss Grey, inviting her to accompany me +home that day, and spend a week with us. With +my head full of thoughts of this invitation, I +hurried away to school earlier than usual, and for the +first time left General George behind me, lying on +his bed in my chamber. I missed him sadly during +the day, but came home in triumph at night, +bringing Miss Grey with me. I took her at once about +the premises, to show her my pets. I exhibited +with much pride my tame hawk Toby, but she was +afraid of him; though I assured her that he was a +hawk of most exemplary character, and civilized to +such a degree that he respected the rights of all the +mother-hens and ducks, and never asked for +spring-chickens, but contented himself with frogs, like a +Frenchman. Then I took her to the woodshed, to +see my cat, with almost a barrelful of young +kittens. What a lovely sight it was! Then I led her +to where my speckled hen kept house in a coop, +with half a dozen cunning little chicks. The +hen-mother was frightened as we came near, and called +to her little ones to come in out of danger; but +they would n't mind, and she was very angry, and +ruffled up her feathers, and scolded furiously at +their disobedience. "I think biddies are very +unamiable creatures," said Miss Grey. I said +nothing, but I thought to myself, "Ah, Miss Grey, if +you were a mother, with ever so many children, +playing around the door so peacefully, and you +shut up in jail, for no crime but scratching up +food in gardens for them, and you should love +them <I>dreadfully</I>, and should see two giantesses, +a big giantess and a middling-sized giantess, come +tramping right in among them, and you not able +to help them only by ruffling up your feathers and +scolding, you 'd be a little unamiable too, perhaps, +for I've heard my mother say that hen nature +was a good deal like human nature." Then I +showed her our gray goose's nest, with an egg in +it. But when I expected her to be astonished, she +only said, "Why, I thought the egg of the fowl +that saved Rome was much larger than this." Now +this goose laid the largest eggs of any goose +in the neighborhood. "Did you expect it to be +as big as the <I>roc's</I> egg in 'Sinbad the Sailor'?" I +asked. +</P> + +<P> +As we were passing through the yard, going to +the stable, to see my brother's little colt, we +encountered the week's washing, hanging on the line, +and right before my eyes swung my handkerchief, +with the beloved portrait almost washed out! +Indeed, scarce a ghost of the great and worthy George +remained. I caught it off and burst into tears, +crying, "O, it's all faded out,—it's all faded +out!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you silly child," said Miss Grey, "don't +cry so for a little scrap of a handkerchief like that." +</P> + +<P> +"It ain't only a handkerchief," I sobbed, "it's +General Washington and my boy George both +together. I 've seen you cry, Miss Grey, over the +'Children of the Abbey,' and mother says they never +lived; but General Washington did live, and was +the Father of his Country; and then there were +all the Ten Commandments, too. I declare Nancy +is as bad as Moses was, when he smashed the tables +of stone." +</P> + +<P> +But Miss Grey only laughed at my sorrow, and +went into the house. When I followed her, I +whispered to mother, "Have we got the 'Children of +the Abbey'? If we have, please give it to Miss +Grey to amuse herself with." +</P> + +<P> +Then I went up stairs and laid out my dead +George, and had my foolish little cry out. After +all, my great General had faded and wilted away +into an unsightly little rag of a handkerchief. +What a fall was there! We have seen some very +like it in these days. +</P> + +<P> +I had no heart to keep him by me any longer, so +I gave him to my little brother, who put him to +every possible use except that of a handkerchief. +That was a hard campaign for the feeble old +General. Sometimes he did service as the sail for a +boat; sometimes green apples, or rabbit feed, or +worms for bait were tied up in him. His feet, with +what was left of the Constitution, were torn off and +rammed into a small cannon's mouth for wadding; +and, finally, he went up on the tail of a kite. In +mid-air he became detached, and dropped into a +tall thorn-tree. Here he got stuck fast, and so +remained till he fluttered himself to pieces bit by +bit. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>first</I> the poet Cowper loved,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A creature soft and fleet;</SPAN><BR> +To vote my _second_ to valiant puss,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The long-tailed sages meet.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It calls to prayer; at dead of night<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Rouses the city street;</SPAN><BR> +And to the bridal train sends out<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A greeting wild and sweet.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I> would shine all dewy bright<BR> +In your golden hair, Bell, to-night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Hare-bell.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE LITTLE WIDOW'S MITE. +</H3> + +<P> +On a nice little farm, on the shore of one of our +beautiful Western lakes, lives a noble young +German girl named Bertha Johansen, but oftener +called "little woman," for her womanly qualities, +and her staid, quaint ways; and for a while, among +her family-friends, still oftener called "little +widow," for a reason I will give by and by. Early in +the war against the Rebellion, Bertha's father and +three brothers enlisted in one regiment, and were +very soon marched away to the front, taking with +them the tender, tearful blessings of the lonely little +household left behind. The good wife and mother, +Ernestine Johansen, took upon her brave heart and +strong hands the entire business of the little farm, +having for a while only the assistance of a young +adopted son, an orphan nephew, who had lived with +the Johansens from his infancy. But after having +seen his uncle and cousins go forth so bravely to +their grand though dreadful duty, the lad Heinrich +grew discontented and unhappy. He had a man's +heart in his boyish breast,—a heart full of patriotic +ardor and devotion; and at last his good aunt +consented that he too should go to the war, in the only +capacity in which he could be accepted, as a +drummer boy, in a regiment just ready to march to the +front. +</P> + +<P> +Bertha had grieved deeply, though quietly, in the +brave, uncomplaining, submissive spirit peculiar to +her, at bidding adieu to her dear father,—to +Gustave, and Fritz, and Carl, her brothers,—but she +grieved no less at parting with Heinrich Holberg. +The two children had always been to each other the +best and dearest of friends. Almost from her +babyhood, Heinrich had called Bertha his "little wife," +and she had early learned to play the character, in +the most demure and charming manner. She had +for him a tender and clinging affection; she +believed in him with all her heart, and he was not +altogether unworthy of such love and confidence,—he +was a very good boy, as boys go. +</P> + +<P> +Well, Heinrich marched away with the rest of +the admirable German band, proudly and gayly +they said,—the pluckiest of drummer-boys. But +he had seemed neither proud nor gay, a few hours +before, when he had run down to the little +lakeside farm, to take leave of his aunt and cousin. +He had looked pale and very sad. He had said +farewell in a voice choked with sobs, and when he +ran down the little garden walk to the road, great +tears were dropping fast on the bright buttons of +his new uniform. His "little wife" went to her +little chamber, knelt down beside her little bed, +and said a little prayer for him,—then dashed the +bitter dew from her sweet violet eyes, and went +about her household duties, like the dear little +woman that she was. +</P> + +<P> +Alas, it was the same old sad story! The father +was killed at Pittsburg Landing, and the oldest +brother wounded and taken captive: he afterwards +died in Libby Prison. The second brother returned +home, after a year's hard marching and fighting, a +pale, wan invalid, with one sleeve of his worn blue +coat hanging empty. The third brother is now an +officer in the triumphant Union army, and let us +thank God for him, for his work is nearly done. +</P> + +<P> +The sorrow of the little German household did +not end with the death of the beloved father, and +of brave Gustave, and the loss of the good right +arm of poor Fritz. Heinrich was also taken +prisoner, in a sudden night attack on his regiment +in Tennessee, and carried off by one of the robber +bands of the barbarous Forrest. His tender age, +and gentle, prepossessing ways, won him no pity. +He was shut up, with thousands of others, in one of +those horrible slaughter-pens of the South, called +a "stockade," where he languished for many +months, bearing all his hardships with the utmost +sweetness and patience, feeling that his suffering +was but a drop to the great ocean of human agony +and despair around him. +</P> + +<P> +Heinrich had been religiously brought up, and +while many brave men about him lost all faith and +hope, and believed themselves forgotten by the God +who made them, he believed that over their +loathsome prison-yard hovered hosts of pitying angels, +and that above and around the vast field of +fraternal strife brooded an infinite fatherly love, and +"the peace of God that passeth all understanding." +He had never a doubt but that Heaven was very +near to their prison-pen,—that the "many +mansions" of the Father would be all open to those +martyrs of freedom,—that there rest and sweet +refreshment awaited them,—that there pitiless hate +and cruel wounds, hunger and fierce heat and +bitter cold, would torture them no more forever. +</P> + +<P> +From the time of his capture, nothing more was +heard of poor Heinrich in his sad home on the Lake +shore, and he was at last given up as dead by all +his friends, except little Bertha. She had a +"feeling," she said, that he was living still, and would +come back one day, if only she could keep up heart +for him. He might be so weak and ill, she thought, +that he would die if she once should give him +up,—but not till then. O little woman, great +was thy faith! Bertha knew not that she was +already called by neighbors and friends "the little +widow." She would have passionately rejected +the title. She "could not make him dead." +</P> + +<P> +She had little time for fretting about her absent +friend. Her mother's brave spirit had bent under +the successive burdens of sorrow, and her bodily +strength for a while gave way. Carl, the invalid +soldier, had much difficulty in managing the affairs +of the farm, and nearly all the cares of the +household came upon Bertha. O, nobly she bore herself +under them. She so completely took the place of +her sick mother, that all went well in that humble +and peaceful home, till the bitterest trouble was +past, and the good mother rallied and was able to +take part of the burden of labor and care, which, +however cheerfully borne, was quite too heavy for +such young shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +Bertha's wise little head was perplexed. There +was to be a great Sanitary fair in the city near by, +and she felt a passionate desire to contribute +something towards the great and good work. What +could she do? She was not rich enough to give +money; she could not paint nor embroider; she had +not the skill to manufacture elegant trifles; she was +not old or pretty or fashionable enough to stand +behind one of the tables. What could she do? +</P> + +<P> +At last it occurred to her that she could +contribute to the refreshment department a roll of +butter of her own churning, from the milk of her +own little snow-white cow. So, with her good +mother's consent, she saved all the cream off the +rich milk of her pet for a week, and dedicated the +golden product to the soldiers. She had two +churnings, and the result was five pounds of +delicious butter. Her pleasant work was done in the +open air, before the side-door of the cottage, in +sight of the beautiful lake. On the day of her +second churning, her thoughts were peculiarly +sweet and cheerful. She sung as gayly as the +robin, nestling in the vine-leaves over the cottage +window. Her soul was as serene as the sky, her +heart as tranquil as the lake, sleeping in the still +sunshine. +</P> + +<P> +As Bertha worked with all the strength of her +vigorous little arms, and with a gay good-will, +little jets of cream now and then spirted up around +the dasher, sometimes sprinkling her round, rosy +face, and once or twice reaching her smiling lips +to dissolve in sweetness there; and she said to +herself, "How many sweet and beautiful things have +gone to make up this golden cream!—the tender +bloom of the early summer clover and daisies, and +dew and sunshine, and by and by, when it hardens +into more golden butter, and goes to the 'Sanitary,' +won't more beautiful things still be added to it?—pity, +and love, and patriotism, and the blessing of +God?" Then her thoughts wandered, and her +face clouded, and she murmured, "O our poor +sick and wounded soldiers! O the poor prisoners! +O my poor, dear Heinrich!" +</P> + +<P> +Just then she heard her mother call her in an +eager, trembling voice. She ran into the cottage +to see, seated in the neat kitchen, a young soldier, +in a faded and tattered uniform,—a pale, emaciated +figure, childlike in weakness, but old in suffering. +</P> + +<P> +Bertha knew him rather by heart than by sight, +and, falling on his neck, cried, "Dear, dear +Heinrich! I have always said the Lord would bring you +back, and He has, has n't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, little wife, all that the Rebels have left of me." +</P> + +<P> +The drummer-boy's story was sad and strange +but such stories are painfully common now-a-days. +He had escaped from the stockade with a party of +friends; they had been chased by bloodhounds and +all retaken. Heinrich escaped again, alone; he +was befriended, fed, guided by loyal negroes; he +made his way, on foot, through the mountains of +Tennessee, and, after countless hardships and +adventures, reached the glorious Northwest, and his +home. He was ill with a disease brought on by +starvation and exposure, and though he had no +battle-wounds to show, there were, on his neck +and arms, the terrible marks of the bloodhound's +teeth,—surely honorable scars. On the whole, +Bertha Johansen thought her cousin Heinrich a +hero, and I think she was right. +</P> + +<P> +But to return to the Sanitary butter,—"the +little widow's mite." Bertha made it up into +beautiful rolls, which she printed with a stamp +representing buttercups and clover-flowers, and it +looked deliciously tempting. "There is only five +pounds," she said, as she walked towards the Fair +Grounds, bearing her offering in a neat basket, +covered with a snowy napkin. "Only five pounds; +how I wish there were fifty. If our dear Lord +were only here on earth, He could easily make +them fifty. If He could multiply loaves of bread, +I suppose He could rolls of butter. But, O dear, +He <I>is n't</I> here!" +</P> + +<P> +Dear Bertha, our Lord is always on earth, in the +hearts of good men and women,—is always ready +to work through them His miracles of love and mercy. +</P> + +<P> +Bertha presented her humble gift most modestly +to one of the lady managers, who received it very +graciously. This lady was one of Bertha's +neighbors, and knew of her beautiful life of duty, +obedience, and cheerful self-sacrifices. +</P> + +<P> +She told the simple story of the child to some +friends about her, and showed the five rolls of +golden butter. A group of gentlemen soon +gathered near. "I will give a dollar a pound for that +butter," said one. "I will give two," called out +another. Then there was a laugh. Then other +bids were made,—three, four, five dollars. It +was getting to be a nice little frolic, and those +grave business men entered into it like boys. +Higher and higher they went, till at last Bertha's +butter was knocked down at fifty dollars,—ten +dollars a pound. +</P> + +<P> +As the purchaser laid down a roll of "greenbacks" +for the golden rolls of butter, a gust of +wind caught the bills and blew them over the +counter, where the lady secured them. "So riches +fly away in your Sanitary Fairs," said the +gentleman, smiling. "Yes," replied the lady, "but with +<I>healing</I> on their wings." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A COUPLE OF CHARADES +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I.<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>first</I> is the sweet diminutive<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of a name we love to hear;</SPAN><BR> +The name of one—while here we live<BR> +We find not earth or Heaven can give<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A friend more true and dear.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> should bring pride and joy<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To parent-hearts, alway,—</SPAN><BR> +Should bear the fresh soul of the boy<BR> +Into the earnest man's employ,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And ne'er from honor stray.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I> has ever stood for one<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Who rears, with toil and care,</SPAN><BR> +Block after block, stone after stone,<BR> +On city street, or prairie lone,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A building plain, or fair.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But now the name once honest, stands<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For one who has not feared</SPAN><BR> +To seek to level with the sands<BR> +The glorious structure, by the hands<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of Washington upreared.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II.<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The stealthy fox, the prowling rat,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The serpent, Heaven-accursed,</SPAN><BR> +The cruel tiger, and the cat,<BR> +The weasel, and the vampyre bat,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Have all been called my <I>first</I>.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> is a shadowed place<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of forest bloom and song,</SPAN><BR> +Where mosses creep o'er the rock's stern face,<BR> +Vines climb and swing in wildest grace,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And a streamlet laughs along.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I> upbore the traitor's crest,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And gloried in his crime;</SPAN><BR> +Yet England took him to her breast,<BR> +Which once received a like brave guest,—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Our Arnold, of old time.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BESSIE RAEBURN'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I. +</H3> + +<P> +Bessie Raeburn was a very nice little girl +indeed, truthful, trustful, generous, and +affectionate. But she was by no means without some +spicy little faults of her own. She was impulsive +to rashness, and decidedly self-willed. She was +given to odd little romantic fancies and secret +schemes, which sometimes got her into trouble, +when she attempted to carry them out. She was +an only child, and much petted and indulged in +a happy and luxurious home, having everything +which a reasonable little lady in short frocks and +long curls could ask for. Yet she was not +contented; having a foolish ambition to distinguish +herself by doing something quite out of the +ordinary line of little girls,—something that would +make people stare, and say "wonderful!" +"surprising!" "a most extraordinary child!" She +liked to say "I dare!" and "I 'm not afraid!" "I +don't <I>fear</I> anything there is," she would say, "not +even lions, or spiders, or bears, or bumblebees,—but +I don't like them near me; they are disagreeable." +</P> + +<P> +She learned to read when very young, and took +most eagerly to books of travel and adventure. +She passionately longed for adventures of her own, +and often planned out exploits of a most perilous +and surprising character. +</P> + +<P> +One Christmas-eve, when Bessie was between +seven and eight years of age, a wild little scheme +came into her head, as she sat curled up on a sofa +in the library, listening to her father, while he read +to her sweet young mother a very sad account of +the poor of New York, especially of the poor +children, and of the noble efforts that were being made +by a few good men and women to alleviate their +wretched condition, to clothe them, teach them, +and lift them into a better life. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Charles," said Mrs. Raeburn, "what a +sad, comfortless Christmas many of those poor little +creatures will have,—children as dear to their +parents as our little girl is to us. Only to think +of it! cold, hungry, ignorant, helpless, and +hopeless. It is dreadful." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, mamma," exclaimed Bessie, "won't they +have any Christmas gifts?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, darling; I fear many must be without all +the good and pleasant things by which we remind +one another that our dear Lord's birthday has come +round again." +</P> + +<P> +"What, mamma! No toys, no nuts, no candies?" +</P> + +<P> +"None, my child." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, then, how can they wish one another a +<I>merry</I> Christmas? I should think they would all +have a <I>crying</I> Christmas together. I should think +they would feel as though <I>they</I> had no Lord Jesus; +as though he only belonged to the rich people. +And yet, mamma, he was dreadful poor, and spent +the first day of his life in a manger, with cows and +things; though, to be sure, he had beautiful +presents, those the wise old gentlemen that came from +down East brought him, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, dear, he was very poor, and in remembering +him we should not forget the poor around us, +and should always be ready to assist, as far as we +can, the worthy and honest unfortunates who need +our help. But it is your bedtime. You will wish +to be up bright and early to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +Bessie sprang up promptly, and kissed her father +good night. At the foot of the stairs she paused, +and called him in her pretty imperious way, and +he came to her, like the good, obedient papa that +he was. Bessie kissed him again, and called him +"a dear, handsome old darling," and then, with +another last coquettish kiss through the balusters, +she bounded laughingly past her mamma, up the +stairs, into her little room and behind the door, +from which point of vantage she emerged with a +terrific "boo!" intended to startle her mamma out +of her senses,—but I don't think it did. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Raeburn, having heard her daughter repeat +her simple prayer, kissed her and returned to the +library; and soon after the maid, having seen her +nicely in bed, and put everything in order for the +morning, left her quite alone. And then the +wonderful scheme that had flashed into her brain down +stairs was thought over and resolutely arranged, +and a famous little plot of mischievous benevolence +it was, as you shall see. +</P> + +<P> +Amid all the joyful excitement and merry +confusion of Christmas morning, Bessie found time to +think over her plan; and she would set her red lips +very firmly whenever she felt her courage giving +way the least in the world. She <I>would</I> be a heroine +for once,—would have a real adventure of her own +to relate to a wondering and admiring circle, that +very Christmas night. +</P> + +<P> +While mamma and servants were occupied in +preparations for a large dinner-party, Bessie found +opportunities for packing a little basket with tiny +tarts, apples, nuts, and candies; then she put on +her pretty winter coat, trimmed with fur, and her +new velvet hat, with a long scarlet plume, the pride +of her heart, and her warm tippet and soft gloves +and high Balmoral boots. Then she took from her +drawer a dainty <I>porte-monnaie</I>, well filled with +bright new pennies and small silver coin, and +containing a little compartment lined with crimson +satin, wherein two gold dollars dwelt together in +state, like a Mongolian king and queen. Then +taking her basket on her arm, and thrusting her +hands into her little muff, she stole down stairs on +tiptoe, and made her escape from the house, +unperceived by any one. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Raeburn lived in the aristocratic part of the +city of New York; and Bessie, thinking that she +could not there carry out her plan in a perfectly +satisfactory manner, hailed a down-town stage. +Driver and passengers looked surprised to see a +child taking a trip all alone; but Bessie had such +an old, authoritative manner, that they supposed +that all was right. After a long, long ride, she +alighted somewhere in the neighborhood of the +poorest and least respectable part of the city. I +may as well tell you now, if you have n't guessed +it, Bessie was bound on a mission, a charitable +visit to the poor,—the miserably poor, of whom she +had heard her father read. She anxiously looked +around her for a beggar-child, who should act as +her guide to some home of unmerited misfortune, +where virtuous poverty pined, and wept, and +waited. Alas! there were plenty of sad little +mendicants on the streets that day, but Bessie was +not easily satisfied. "It must be a little girl," +she said to herself, "very, very poor,—pale, and +thin, and ragged, and sorrowful, but still pretty, +and mild-looking. And she must have a pretty +name too, like the little girls that beg in magazine +stories, or sell matches, and are stolen by gypsies, +and sing ballads for dreadful organ-grinders, and +all that." It was a long time before she found +one at all to her mind, but finally she was accosted +by a little girl, who looked wretched enough, to be +sure,—tattered, and sickly, and starved. She +was not quite up to the mark as to prettiness, +though she had soft, sorrowful eyes and a delicate +mouth. Hunger, cold, and ill-treatment are not +very favorable to beauty. Then the name she +gave was decidedly unromantic,—<I>Molly Magee</I>. +But the poor child told a piteous story, which soon +brought tears to Bessie's gentle eyes,—how her +father was dead of fever, and her mother a +suffering invalid; how she was obliged to beg in the +streets, from morning till night, to obtain food for +that poor dear mother, three darling little brothers, +and two sisters, twins and <I>blind</I>! It was a hard +case, surely, and Bessie offered at once to go home +with her petitioner, to see what she could do +towards alleviating the family distress. The little +mendicant hesitated at first, and attempted to +dissuade her, but at last, as Bessie obstinately insisted +on her own plan of benevolence, she yielded, and +rather sullenly led the way homeward. Ah, what +a way it was! down one dirty street and up +another,—through vile courts and alleys reeking with +filth, swarming with idle, loud-voiced men, +wretched-looking women, slatternly girls, and forlorn +children. Bessie's heart grew sick and her +courage failed her. If she had known the way back, +she would gladly have made an inglorious retreat! +</P> + +<P> +The guide at last conducted her down a flight of +slippery steps, leading to the basement of a squalid +old tenement-house, in the five stories of which +more than as many families were packed, layer on +layer, and Bessie found herself in the very bosom +of the distressed family of her humble little friend. +This home of virtuous poverty was not exactly what +she looked for. It was darker, dirtier, more +confused and noisy; it smelt worse. There were the +"three darling little brothers," to be sure, and +they were quite satisfactorily ragged. But Bessie +looked in vain for the twin-sisters, whose blindness +had so engaged her sympathies. But she said to +herself, "Perhaps they, too, have gone out +begging, with a pair of twin dogs to lead +them." The invalid mother was surely on the mend, for +she looked quite stout, and her face was flushed, +though that might be from fever. She sat by an +old stove, smoking a short black pipe. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-155"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-155.jpg" ALT="Bessie" BORDER="0" WIDTH="361" HEIGHT="405"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 361px"> +Bessie +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"Well, Molly, what have you brought us?" +exclaimed this interesting invalid, in a voice by no +means agreeable. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>I</I> have n't got anything," was the reply; "but +here's a rich little miss, as says she has got +something for us; she <I>would</I> come herself, instead of +giving it to me." +</P> + +<P> +The woman took her pipe from her lips, and +fixing a pair of hard, hungry eyes upon Bessie, as she +stood smiling kindly, with her basket on her arm, +like a dear little Red Ridinghood, broke out with, +"And what put it into the head of such a fine lady +to come anear the likes of us the day?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted to see how poor people live," replied +Bessie, honestly, "and I have brought you +something for Christmas," she continued, stepping up a +little timidly, and offering her basket. +</P> + +<P> +The woman caught it eagerly, and turned its +contents into her lap. "And is this all?" she growled. +"A pretty dinner, <I>indade</I>, for a starving family; +nuts and candies and the like! No bread, not the +<I>laste</I> taste of butter or <I>mate</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"O, I thought you would have such common +things," said Bessie; "but I have some money to +buy them with." +</P> + +<P> +At this, a tall figure sprang up from a heap of +rags in a dark corner, and came forward,—a very +dirty, disreputable-looking man. Bessie, who had +taken him for a sick man, was surprised to see that +he also had a fine color in his cheeks, and even in +his nose, but she noticed that he seemed very weak +in his legs. "Hello! my little angel," he cried; +"give <I>me</I> the money," and rudely caught the +<I>porte-monnaie</I> from Bessie's hand. +</P> + +<P> +His right to it was disputed by the woman, and +they two quarrelled over pennies, dimes, and +dollars, as "the three darling little brothers" +quarrelled over apples, nuts, and candies. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is that man?" asked Bessie, beginning +to be frightened. +</P> + +<P> +"It's father," replied Molly. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you told me your father was dead. What +makes you tell such stories?" exclaimed Bessie, +greatly shocked. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>She</I> makes me," said Molly. "May be you +would tell stories, rather than be beaten half to +death." +</P> + +<P> +At last the disreputable-looking man, having +secured the lion's share of the money, snatched up an +old hat and staggered towards the door. He stopped +a moment beside Bessie, saying, "I 'm obliged to +you, darling. This will get me something good for +Christmas." +</P> + +<P> +"Some new clothes?" asked Bessie. +</P> + +<P> +"No, miss; something better nor clothes." +</P> + +<P> +"Food?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; something better nor food." +</P> + +<P> +As he held a big bottle in his hand, Bessie next +suggested "Medicine?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, bless your swate sowl, do I look like a +sick man?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir; but I thought you walked as though +something was the matter with your legs." +</P> + +<P> +Patrick Magee gave a loud, foolish laugh, as he +stumbled up the slippery steps, and reeled down the +dirty alley. When he was gone, Bessie proposed +to take leave of her pensioners, saying, "I must +go home now, or I shall miss my dinner, and they +will be troubled about me. Will you show me as +far as Broadway, Molly?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not so fast, if you plase, miss," said Mrs. Magee. +"You have <I>seen</I> how poor people live; now I +want you to <I>feel</I> how they are clad, this biting +winter weather. Take off your fine clothes, just, and +change with Molly there." +</P> + +<P> +"O please, madam, I would rather go home," +cried poor Bessie. "Do let me go! Mamma has +often said, that, if I could be poor for one hour even, +I would know better how to pity the poor; but I +really think I have <I>seen</I> enough to-day. I am very +sorry for you, indeed. I 'll ask papa to help you, +and give you all you want; only let me go home." +</P> + +<P> +"So you shall, my pretty bird, but you must +drop your fine feathers first. Off with them! And, +Molly, take off all thim lovely holiday clothes of +yours. Sure, exchange is no robbery." +</P> + +<P> +Poor Bessie saw it was vain for her to resist, to +plead, or to cry. In a very short time she found +herself divested of every article of her nice warm +apparel, and clad in the dirty, coarse, tattered street +clothes of Molly Magee. +</P> + +<P> +To do the beggar-child justice, she seemed +shocked at this cruel proceeding, this wicked +outrage, and pleaded for Bessie as long as she dared. +But Bridget Magee, a bad-tempered woman at the +best, had been drinking bad whiskey all the +morning, and the brutal rage of drunkenness blazed +in her hard black eyes. Molly was evidently in +mortal fear of her, and could only give Bessie +stolen glances of regret and sorrow. Very pretty +she looked in Bessie's beautiful dress, though her +face was far sadder than before. In the midst of +her trouble, Bessie noticed this, and thought how +different was the poor child from all the rest of the +household of Magee. When the change was +completed, Mistress Bridget whispered for a minute or +two to the eldest of the three little boys, and then, +turning to her victim, said, with a horrible laugh, +"There now, ye poor little simpleton, follow where +Larry will <I>lade</I> ye. Be off wid ye! I 'm thinking +ye know a little more about poor folk than you +did a bit ago, when ye came prancing into a <I>dacent</I> +house to show off yer grand airs and yer finery. +It's an adventure as will be good for your proud +young stomach, miss." +</P> + +<P> +As Bessie, too much frightened and shocked to +speak, was hastening out after Larry, Molly sprang +forward, caught her hand, kissed it, and sobbed +out, "O, forgive me! forgive me! I did n't think +they would treat you so, or I wouldn't have let +you come!" +</P> + +<P> +The next instant the poor girl was dashed +backwards by a sudden blow from her mother's heavy +hand, and Bessie saw her no more. +</P> + +<P> +Master Larry Magee, a sharp-eyed and fleet-footed +little vagabond, hurried Bessie off in a +different direction from that in which she had come, +and by many different and devious ways, for his +object evidently was to confuse her, so that it would +be impossible for her to act as a guide to the den +of thieves in which she had been robbed. There +was little danger. Poor child, she had not even +thought to take note of the name of the miserable +little alley to which she had been conducted by the +melancholy Molly. +</P> + +<P> +At first, in her joy at having escaped alive from +that dreadful Irish ogress, Bessie was hardly +sensible of the cold; but at length it pierced through +her thin and ragged garments, and struck chills to +her very heart. It seemed to clutch at her bare +throat, and to snip her ears, under the old cotton +handkerchief which covered her head. Her hands, +muffless and gloveless, grew stiff, and the rosy tips +of her fingers changed to a dismal purple; while +her poor little toes, peering through great holes in +shoes and stockings, looked as piteous as little baby +birds, left unbrooded to the storm, in dilapidated nests. +</P> + +<P> +After a long, bewildering, winding walk, or +rather run, the two children reached a wide, +respectable-looking street, when they came suddenly +upon a policeman, at sight of which officer Master +Larry halted, wheeled, and executed a brilliant +retreat down a dark alley. But Bessie, who in her +innocence believed in a policeman, as a sort of +street guardian-angel, went confidently up to this +one, the star on his breast shining as the star of +hope to her, related to him her wonderful +Christmas adventure, and begged him to conduct her +home. To her surprise and grief, he refused to +believe a word of the story, but, taking her for the +little vagrant she seemed, gruffly ordered her to +"move on," adding, "You can't gammon <I>me</I>: I 've +heard too many such yarns." +</P> + +<P> +My private opinion is, that that policeman was a +crusty old bachelor, with not a chick nor +child,—not even a little sister to his name. +</P> + +<P> +With her feelings a good deal hurt, and her feet +benumbed with cold, poor Bessie tottered on, she +knew not whither. Happily, at the very next +corner, she encountered another policeman,—a +cheery, kindly, family-looking man. To him +Bessie sobbed out her piteous story; and he, having a +little girl of his own at home, was touched by her +distress, and, looking into the clear depths of her +innocent blue eyes, believed her. Immediately +calling a cab he put her in, and got in himself, +and taking off his warm blue overcoat, wrapped +her in it, which was the street guardian-angel's +way of brooding; and so they went away up town, +to a large brown-stone house on Madison +Avenue,—Bessie's home,—where they found everybody in +great distress. Papa and mamma were almost +wild with anxiety, for Bessie had been gone four +long hours, and a dozen police officers were already +searching for her, and street-criers were tramping +up and down, ringing bells, and shouting dismally, +"A child l-o-s-t!" +</P> + +<P> +Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn with difficulty recognized +their daughter in her ragged disguise. They were +shocked by her appearance, fearing she might be +made ill by the exposure. They were pained and +indignant at hearing all she had suffered, but they +both said it would prove a good experience, if it +should teach her to be less rash, venturesome, and +self-assured. They hoped, they said, it would cure +her of forming secret schemes, even of benevolence, +and of an unchildlike ambition to act in matters +of importance independent of the aid and advice +of her parents. It did all this, I believe; and if +you care to hear, I will tell you, by and by, what +other good thing came out of that Christmas adventure. +</P> + +<P> +That night, Bessie Raeburn added to her usual +prayer these words: "O Father in Heaven, I thank +thee more than ever for my warm bed, and +everything so comfortable. Forgive me for running off, +and giving dear papa and mamma so much trouble. +Make those wicked people sorry for what they have +done, and then forgive <I>them</I>. And please put it +into Mrs. Magee's heart to send home my muff, if +she keeps all the other things. And bless my good +policeman, and pity and help poor Molly Magee. +Amen." +</P> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II. +</H3> + +<P> +Little Bessie Raeburn never got back her darling +muff, nor any other article of her stolen wardrobe. +Her friend the good policeman, and other officers, +searched diligently for the dismal den of thieves to +which she had been led; but either they failed to +find the exact spot, or the wretched family had +removed. When all search was abandoned, Bessie +was sadly disappointed, not because they had failed +to recover her pretty street dress, as her loss had +been at once made up to her by her kind parents, +but that they had failed to find Molly Magee. For +ever since her adventure, Bessie had cherished a +humane and romantic desire to save and befriend +that poor little mendicant, whose pity for her, and +vain intercession in her behalf, had touched her heart. +</P> + +<P> +"She is so different from the others, mamma," +she would say, "I do believe she was changed in +her cradle by some wicked nurse, if there are not +any such things as malignant fairies. O, I 'm so +sorry I can't believe in fairies any more, they were +so convenient; we could account for so many things +that way; but it is n't sensible and religious to +believe in them, so I won't. But, mamma, what was +I saying? O, I do believe that some wicked nurse +changed her in her cradle,—took her from some +beautiful mamma and a great fine house to +Mrs. Magee's dreadful homo, and took back a little +Magee and put in her place. And may be her name +is n't Molly Magee after all, but Lilly Livingston, +or Isabella Van Rensselaer, or Gertrude +Stuyvesant, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Stop, stop, my child! You are going on in +your old romantic way. You must not let your +imagination gallop off with you in that manner. +Take care lest it carry you into the basement of a +tenement-house again," Mrs. Raeburn would say. +Then Bessie would blush and be silent; but she +could not help thinking of poor little Molly Magee; +and she so constantly looked for her on the street +that it was hardly a pleasure to her papa and +mamma to walk or drive with her. But the +winter went by without her catching sight of the +beggar-girl who had obtained so strong a hold on her +sympathies. +</P> + +<P> +But one sunny day in the early spring her +generous, faithful desire was granted. She had been +driving with her papa in the Park, and for a little +change and exercise they had left the carriage and +were walking beside one of the ponds, watching the +swans, when all at once Bessie exclaimed, "O papa, +there's Molly Magee!" And surely, right before +them stood the beggar-girl! her face paler, thinner, +and sadder than before, while she wore a still more +wretched garb than the one Bessie had been +compelled to take from her. Her head was covered, +but scarcely protected, by a large, dilapidated straw +bonnet, through the rents of which peeped +rebellious curls of her soft brown hair. A faded band +of ribbon, half detached from the crown, fluttered +like a tattered pennon in the April wind. +</P> + +<P> +On hearing Bessie's exclamation, the child stood +as motionless as though turned to stone. The next +moment Mr. Raeburn's hand rested firmly on her +shoulder. She looked up in mute terror, then +turned a pleading glance on Bessie, who answered +it by saying kindly, "Don't be afraid; he is my +papa, and he won't hurt you. We have been +looking for you ever so long. We want to do +something for you, don't we, papa?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Molly," said Mr. Raeburn, gently, "we +want to help you, if we can. My little girl says +you were better than the rest of your family. Do +your father and mother still get their living by +robbing little girls?" +</P> + +<P> +"O, sir, <I>she</I> is dead!" sobbed out Molly. "They +sold all thim things, and bought whiskey with the +money, and drank and drank, and one morning I +myself found mother dead and cold. Father +behaved a little better for a while, but he is as bad +as ever now, and keeps me and the boys begging, +and when we have bad luck, beats us till we are +like to die." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor, poor child!" said Mr. Raeburn, "you +must come home with us, and we will see what we +can do for you." +</P> + +<P> +Molly looked surprised, but passively allowed +herself to be led to the carriage and lifted on to +the front seat, to the immense astonishment, not to +say horror, of the coachman, a very grand +personage, with four capes to his coat. +</P> + +<P> +When they reached home, Mr. Raeburn took +Molly at once to his wife's room, and those two +good people had a long talk with her. They +questioned her kindly but closely about her life, and +her story was such a sad one that tears soon fell +from Mrs. Raeburn's eyes, while her husband +turned to the window to hide his. +</P> + +<P> +A little later Molly found herself again stripped +of her rags, and clad (after a warm bath) in some +of Bessie's clothes. Molly looked intensely +grateful, but was evidently too thoroughly bewildered +to say much. When she was taken to Mrs. Raeburn's +parlor, she gazed about her curiously,—not +in admiration, but with a strange, perplexed look, +which struck Mrs. Raeburn. "What are you +thinking of, my child?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, ma'am, it seems to me I remember <I>all</I> +these grand things,—carpets and curtains and +pictures,—or things just like them." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps your mother has taken you to such +houses, or you went by yourself, sometime?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, lady, <I>she</I> never took me with her; and the +servants of grand houses never let the likes of me +come farther than the alley gate or the kitchen +door. No, it must be I <I>dreamed</I> it all. Many +is the lovely things I see in my dreams, ma'am. +I see blue water, with vessels sailing softly by, like +the great white swans in the Park, and mountains +and trees, and flowers that smell like fine ladies' +handkerchiefs on Broadway; and many's the time, +when I am tired and footsore, I seem to sleep, as I +tramp, and dream of a good, kind gentleman, who +takes me up in his arms and carries me. And +sometimes at night, when I am cold and hungry, I +dream of a sweet lady, who parts my hair, and pats +me, and kisses me, and hugs me up warm. I call +those my <I>dream</I> father and mother." +</P> + +<P> +As Mrs. Raeburn sat reflecting on the words of +the child, Bessie brought a story-book to her young +friend. Molly turned over its leaves sadly, saying, +"I don't know how to read, miss." +</P> + +<P> +"Nor write?" asked Bessie. +</P> + +<P> +"No, miss." +</P> + +<P> +"Nor cipher, nor find places on the map?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, miss." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear me! Do you know any hymns?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, miss. What are they, thin?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hymns? Why hymns are a sort of singing prayers." +</P> + +<P> +"O, thin, miss, I do know one. I say it every +night; and when I 've had to tell a great many lies +I say it over and over <I>hard</I>:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +'Now I lay me down to sleep,<BR> +I pray the Lord my soul to keep;<BR> +If I should die before I wake,<BR> +I pray the Lord my soul to take.'"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"Who taught you that?" asked Mrs. Raeburn. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know, ma'am. It seems to me my +dream-mother taught it to me." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Bessie soon grew very fond of her protégée (a +French word, meaning one whom you protect); +and her romantic mind rushed at once to the +conclusion that she was to have an adopted sister. +But her parents had other plans for Molly. They +felt that it would be much better for the child, if +she could be wholly removed from the city, in +which she had lived so unhappy and discreditable +a life, and where it was to be feared she would +always be subject to the degrading influence or +annoying interference of her father. +</P> + +<P> +Following Molly's directions, Mr. Raeburn, +accompanied by Mr. Blair, the good policeman, +sought out Patrick Magee, and by sternly +threatening him with arrest and a long term in prison, +for his share in the robbery of little Bessie, made +him sign away all claim to the persons or services +of his children. For when Mr. Raeburn came to +see the three little boys, he was so touched by +their worse than heathenish condition that he +resolved to try to do something towards saving +them, as well as their more interesting sister. +</P> + +<P> +Then he called at the office of the noble <I>Children's +Aid Society</I>, and placed the poor little street +waifs under the protection of its excellent officers, +pledging himself for their clothing, instruction, +and support, till proper homes should be found +for them. +</P> + +<P> +I am glad to say, that, under kind Christian care, +the poor little lads improved rapidly, grew healthy +and happy, and showed quite an eager desire to +learn. Before a year had passed, comfortable +homes were found for them in the West, where I +believe they still are. +</P> + +<P> +To return to Molly. The account of her dream-home +and parents so impressed Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn, +that they put an advertisement in the daily +papers, stating that they had taken in a little street +wanderer, who had evidently been born in a +happier and higher condition, and begging any parents +who may have had a little girl stolen from them, +eight or nine years before, to call, with the hope of +identifying her. But weeks, months went by, and +no answer came, and Molly was not claimed, +except by a hideous old German organ-grinder, who +could n't prove property, so could n't take her +away,—but took herself off, scolding in very low +Dutch. +</P> + +<P> +That advertisement met many thousands of +careless eyes, but not the sad, yearning eyes to which +it would have come like the message of angels,—"Glad +tidings of great joy." Those eyes were then +gazing on strange tropical scenes, on orange-groves +and jessamine bowers, and on the purple sea that +washes the lovely shores of Florida. +</P> + +<P> +All hope of finding Molly's <I>dream</I>-home being +abandoned, her good friends set about finding a +<I>real</I> home for her. At last, through the Reverend +C—— B——, the Chief Shepherd of the Lord's +lost lambs in the great wicked city, they succeeded. +A farmer and his wife, good, kindly, intelligent +people, living pleasantly and comfortably near a +village among the hills of Berkshire, Massachusetts, +offered to take her to their home and hearts,—to +adopt her as their own, for they were childless. +</P> + +<P> +Bessie was grieved at the prospect of being +parted from her friend, whom she really loved, +but was comforted by the promise of an annual +visit to her, in Berkshire. +</P> + +<P> +Poor little Molly wept much when she left her +good friends. They had not only taught her what +human kindness and affection were, but had taught +her much about her Heavenly Father,—had led +her straight to the arms of His infinite love. So +her tears were not all of sadness, but of tenderest +gratitude, as she went from their door with kindly +Farmer Morton. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III. +</H3> + +<P> +Our little friend Molly spent five peaceful, happy +years in her home among the grand old hills of +Berkshire, with Farmer Morton and his kind, good +wife. She was treated in every respect as a +daughter, well instructed in religious duties and moral +obligations, and in all useful housewifely arts. +Nor was school education withheld. As soon as +she had acquired the first rudiments of knowledge, +she was sent to the excellent village academy, +where she proved an apt and diligent scholar. In +return for all this generous, fostering care, Molly +(or <I>Mary Morton</I> as she was usually called) gave +to the kind pair who had so generously adopted +her, all the affection, respect, and obedience due +to parents; added to a gratitude inexpressibly deep +and tender. Her life as a beggar-girl, half fed, +half clad, and always abused, had been so terribly +sad that she could never forget it; and her present +life seemed one of heavenly serenity and security +in contrast. +</P> + +<P> +She did not see her "<I>dream</I>-father and mother" +as often as formerly. She did not need them. +But when they did come to her in her slumbers, +they looked happy, and smiled over her. +</P> + +<P> +Molly was now in her fifteenth summer,—a tall, +graceful girl, with a sweet, delicate face. She was +still pale and slender, for she had not quite +outgrown the effects of the old sorrow, starvation, and +exposure. Her face often wore an expression of +pensive sadness, unsuited to her years,—a faint +shadow of her unhappy childhood still lingering +about her,—but it was always ready to brighten +into cheerful smiles at a kind word or look. +</P> + +<P> +Molly had made more than one visit to her +friends in New York, and now the Raeburns were +spending some weeks in the pretty village which +was scarcely a mile from the farm-house of +Mr. Morton. They were as kind as ever to Molly, +and quite proud of her. They took her with them +on all their drives among the hills, or rows upon +the lakes. Bessie always spoke of her friend as +"My Molly," seeming to think she had in her +"certain inalienable rights," chief of which was +the right of discovery. Molly never thought of +disputing those rights. She looked up to pretty, +wayward, impulsive Bessie Raeburn as to a +superior being,—an angelic deliverer. In her +half-adoring gratitude and love, she could have "kissed +the hem of her garment," or the lower flounce of +her pretty organdie dress. She would often say, +"O, where would I have been now, if it had not +been for <I>you</I>, dear Bessie? In a pauper's grave,—or +worse, in prison,—or worse still, on the streets, +a wicked, lost girl, loving nobody, and only +knowing of God and Jesus by hearing their names in +dreadful oaths." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Molly dear," replied Bessie,—"I <I>must</I> +always call you Molly,—I have done so little, after +all. In thanking me, don't forget papa and your +father Morton." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't forget them, nor my Father in heaven +either; but you, Bessie, were the first to pity me +and try to help me, though I had done you +wrong." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, as for that, Molly," said Bessie, seriously, +"perhaps God had more to do with that wild +Christmas expedition of mine than anybody +thought at the time. It seemed so rash and +foolish. I have always thought that good policeman +an angel, an Irish angel, in the rough, though he +did not know it. I don't believe that angels and +saints ever have a very high opinion of themselves, +do you?" +</P> + +<P> +This was the happiest summer of Molly's life,—it +was also to prove the most memorable. +</P> + +<P> +One afternoon, as she was returning from the +village, down a quiet, shady lane, which led through +her father's farm, she was suddenly confronted by +the tyrant of her unhappy childhood, Patrick +Magee. He was even a more wretched looking +creature than of old,—shabbier, dirtier, with every +mark of the most degrading vice. As he stepped +from behind a hazel-bush, where he had been +skulking, into her path, Molly gave an involuntary +shriek, and shrank back from him in fear +and aversion. +</P> + +<P> +"Whist, darling!" he exclaimed in a wheedling +tone. "Be aisy, just; it's not meself that will +harm a hair of yer head. And sure this is not the +way you should meet yer poor ould unfortunate +father. Is this the kind of filial piety you 've larned +from your grand friends?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not believe you <I>are</I> my father," replied +Molly, looking directly into his bleared eyes, that +quailed under her gaze. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, now, whoever heard the likes o' that?" +began Patrick, with a shocked expression. "Denies +her own father, that tiled and spint for her! Why, +Molly dear, you are the image of me, barring the +color of the hair, mine being a trifle foxy, while +yourn is a darkish brown; and barring the lines +of care and trouble on my brow,—the hard lines +I 've had no child's hand to smooth away, the +saints pity me!" +</P> + +<P> +Hero Molly's soft heart was touched, and she +asked, gently, "Where do you come from now? and +what do you want of me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I came last from New York, when, after +a power of trouble, I found out your whereabouts. +My heart so cried out for my daughter and my +darling boys. You see, for the five years past +I 've been, so to speak, in retirement on the Hudson." +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" asked Molly, bewildered. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, in a quiet town called Sing Sing; but; +faith! it's little singing I did there." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean that you have been in the +penitentiary?" said Molly, startled. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes. +But you see it's a hard word to pronounce, that +same. I got into what gintlemen call 'difficulties,' +pretty soon after my Biddy died, and my poor +children was torn from my arms. Somehow, I had no +heart to keep up a good character. I was what +they call <I>desperate</I>; so I went into a gintleman's +house one avening, without ringing the bell and +sending up my card, as in my better days I should +have done, you know. I went in head foremost, +through a back window, and when I was coming +out with a trifle of silver, the police nabbed me, +and it was all up for a while with poor Pat Magee. +Now what do I want with you? I want to know +about my darling boys, of course. Are they living +and respectable?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," replied Molly; "they are well and doing +well. I hear from them twice a year, and write to +them oftener." +</P> + +<P> +"Doing well, are they! but doing nothing for +their poor ould father. Ah, this is a hard world." +</P> + +<P> +Molly could not refrain from saying, "They <I>used</I> +to think it so, but they don't now. They have good +friends, comfortable homes, and are happy and +industrious." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Industrious!</I> and isn't it myself that taught +them to be that same? Niver did I spare the rod +when they came home empty-handed from a day +on the streets." +</P> + +<P> +Molly made no reply, but tried to pass on. Again +Patrick stopped her, and said, with a strange, +cunning smile, "And so, miss, you don't believe I 'm +your rale father." +</P> + +<P> +"No," answered Molly, firmly. "I have always +had indistinct recollections of a very different home +from that wretched cellar in the Five Points, and +of other parents than you and Mrs. Magee. <I>I +believe you stole me when I was very young.</I>" +</P> + +<P> +"No, indade. I had nothing to do with it," +replied Patrick, hastily. +</P> + +<P> +"Then your wife did it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, yes. You see, my dear, when I 'm fairly +cornered, I scorns to lie. That same <I>was</I> one of +the little thaving operations of the late Mrs. Magee, +Heaven rest her sowl!" said Patrick, rolling +his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"O, then, for mercy's sake, tell me who and +where are my parents!" cried Molly, clasping her +hands in an agony of entreaty. +</P> + +<P> +"Softly, softly; bide a bit, my darling. Nothing +is sold for nothing. I can niver consint to blacken +the memory of my poor departed Biddy without a +consideration." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pay me fifty dollars, and I 'll make a clane +breast of it, and tell you all you want to know." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Mr. Magee," cried Molly, in distress, "I +have not so much money. I have only a very few +dollars of my own in the world; but I will promise +to give it to you, and more too, as soon as I can +earn it. Only tell me." +</P> + +<P> +"No, miss, I must be paid down. 'A bird in +the hand is worth two in the bush.' If you have n't +the money, belike your new governor, Mr. Morton, +would pay a trifle like that for the sake of getting +rid of you." +</P> + +<P> +"He <I>might</I> advance it for me; though he is not +rich, he is so good," rejoined Molly. "I would +ask you to come up to the house and see, only he +is away from home, and is not expected back till +late in the evening. Please, <I>please</I> tell me now, +and trust me for your reward. Indeed, indeed, I +will pay you some time, and be your friend always." +</P> + +<P> +"Your servant, miss," replied Patrick, with a +mocking bow, "but I 'd rather not trust a fine lady +as has just scorned an ould friend in reduced +circumstances, who, if he is n't her father, sure it's +no fault of his. Tell your Mr. Morton that I 'll call +to-morrow morning, ready to arrange matters in +a business-like, gintlemanly way. But mind, <I>no +money, no sacret</I>. I 'll not have my family affairs +paraded in the newspapers for nothing, and all +Mrs. Magee's little wakenesses exposed, after she's +left this wicked world, and the <I>crowner</I> has set on +her, and she's been dacently buried at the city's +expinse, hard on to six years." +</P> + +<P> +Molly reached home in a state of intense excitement, +but, on relating her strange story, was soothed +and cheered by Mrs. Morton's tender, motherly +sympathy. Mr. Morton came home earlier than +he was looked for, and was at once informed of the +important revelation which Mr. Magee proposed to +make for a "consideration." Doubtful what course +to pursue, he hurried into the village to consult +with Molly's first friends, the Raeburns. The +consequence of this consultation was, that the next +morning, when Patrick Magee appeared at the +farm-house, he was confronted, not alone by +Mr. Morton, but by Mr. Raeburn and the sheriff of the +county. Taking these as mere witnesses, however, +he was not abashed, but greeted all with a jaunty +air, and the old Irish expression, "The top of the +morning to ye, gintlemen." +</P> + +<P> +On Mr. Morton referring to the secret he had to +reveal, he said, with the utmost assurance, "Well, +Mr. Morton, I 've slept on that same matter, and +I 've concluded that I can't in conscience consint +to blacken the memory of the late Mrs. Magee for +less nor a <I>hundred dollars</I>. And sure, your +honors, a rale live father and mother, rich and +respectable, are chape at that, to say nothing of the +reputation of a poor, hard-working woman, that's +dead and gone, and can't defind herself." +</P> + +<P> +"These, Mr. Magee, are the best terms you +offer, then?" asked the farmer. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; but if you don't close the bargain immadiately, +I may rise a trifle. I 've been too aisy, on +account of poor Molly. My feelings are too much +for me." +</P> + +<P> +"Then, Mr. Sheriff," said Mr. Morton, "you +must do your duty." +</P> + +<P> +So Patrick Magee found himself again in the +stern grasp of the law. He was taken to a +magistrate's office for examination, but there he +obstinately refused to reveal a word of the important +secret, saying he would die first. So he was +committed to the county jail, there to await his trial +on a charge of kidnapping. +</P> + +<P> +For more than a week the prisoner remained +sullenly silent, while poor Molly suffered agonies +of suspense, and her friends were fearful that for +lack of sufficient evidence the villain might yet +escape justice, carrying his secret with him. +</P> + +<P> +But at last he yielded,—subdued, not by hard +fare, hard words, or solitude, but by the mad thirst +of the inebriate. Since leaving the penitentiary +he had been drinking very hard, and now, being +suddenly deprived of all stimulants, his spirits +sunk, his strength and appetite failed, and he was +threatened with the terrible disease of the +intemperate,—<I>delirium tremens</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Being told by the doctor that he thought Magee +must have some brandy, Mr. Raeburn paid a visit +to the jail. He found the prisoner sitting on his +narrow bed, looking haggard and ill, but as sullen +as ever. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Magee," said Mr. Raeburn, pleasantly, +"have you made up your mind to tell all you +know of the parentage of that stolen child? You +have confessed that you connived at, if you did not +assist in the crime, and it may go hard with you +at the trial." +</P> + +<P> +Patrick replied, with a furious oath, "Niver a +word more will I spake about the matter, if they +hang me." +</P> + +<P> +"If I will endeavor to get you discharged; if I +will promise to give you some decent clothes, and +to furnish you with easy and constant employment, +will you tell?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"If I will give you a glass of good brandy, will +you tell?" +</P> + +<P> +Patrick started, and his dull eyes flashed, but +with his old cunning he replied, "Show me first +the brandy." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Raeburn took a flask from his pocket and +poured out a glass nearly full. With a trembling, +outstretched hand, the poor sot cried, "Yes, yes, +yer honor, give it to me, and on my word, on my +sowl, I'll tell." +</P> + +<P> +The glass was given him, and he drained it with +a sort of frantic relish; then almost immediately, +and very hurriedly, began his story. +</P> + +<P> +"Molly's father is Squire Phillips, a mighty +clever lawyer and a rich man. He lives at +Newburgh, on the Hudson, forninst Fishkill; you mind +the town?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and I have heard of Mr. Phillips; go on." +</P> + +<P> +"I should have said he has an office in +Newburgh, but he lives on a fine place up the river, +out of town, a couple of miles or so. You see, +when ill-luck sent me over from Ireland, where I +lived in ease and plenty, never taking up a spade +but for devarsion, after a hard day following the +hounds or riding steeple-chases, I lived with +Mr. Phillips as gardener. But he and I niver could +agree, and so parted; and soon after my Biddy, who +was the cook, was discharged for taking a drop too +much just. You see she fell down stairs with the +tea-tray. So she had a spite against the master on +my account, and against the mistress on her own +account, and vowed by all the saints she 'd be aven +with them. After we settled in New York, many's +the trip she took up the river to prowl about the +place (women is quare cratures, yer honor) for a +chance to balance accounts. But she never got a +shy at them till one afternoon, just before dark, +she found little Miss Mary, Mistress Phillips's one +child, playing alone on the river-bank, out of sight +of the house; it's likely she 'd run away from a +lazy nurse. My Biddy wasn't one of the kind +that dilly-dallies or shilly-shallies: she pounces +on the child like a hawk on a chicken, stops its +mouth so it could n't as much as peep, and carries +it into a wood near by and hides till dark. Then +she takes it over to Fishkill, where she has friends, +who lend her proper clothes for the child, and give +it a drink that hushes its crying like magic just. +Then she takes the night-boat for New York, and +in the big, crowded city the child was as completely +lost as the small chicken I likened her to would +be if the hawk should drop it in a wide sea-marsh. +There was a great hue and cry about 'the mysterious +disappearance of the only child of John Phillips, +Esq.,' (just as if no poor, hard-working man +ever lost an only child!) but most of the +newspapers drowned her, I believe. Biddy kept her +mighty close for a time, and sheared off her curls, +but niver a hound of a detective smelt at our door. +</P> + +<P> +"I always told Biddy that trouble would come +of this same matter sooner or later, and sure had n't +we a power of trouble with Molly herself,—what +with her pining and crying, (though Biddy soon +learned her to cry <I>silent</I>,) and her sickly turn, and +her ungrateful disposition? And didn't she +forsake us at last,—me a lone widower, and the poor +motherless boys?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Magee, what an awful hypocrite you are!" +exclaimed Mr. Raeburn; "but go on." +</P> + +<P> +"What more do you want to know, thin?" +</P> + +<P> +"How old was the child when your wife stole it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should say that the child was a trifle over +three years old when Mrs. Magee adopted her," +replied Patrick, with imposing dignity. +</P> + +<P> +"Are Mr. and Mrs. Phillips both living?" +</P> + +<P> +"It 's not ten days since I was towld they were, +yer honor." +</P> + +<P> +"I start for Newburgh to-morrow morning, with +Molly—Miss Phillips," resumed Mr. Raeburn; +"but you must remain where you are, in close +confinement, at least until we have ascertained if +your statement be true. If it be found so, I will +do my best to effect your release. Meanwhile, I +hope you will improve the time in repenting of +your past life, and resolving to begin a better, for +you are a great sinner, Patrick." +</P> + +<P> +"Arrah, yer honor, don't be too hard on a poor +man! And sure you won't lave me without an' +other comforting drop of brandy?" +</P> + +<P> +"You can have more if the doctor prescribes it +again. He will know what is best for you. But I +hope you will think on what I have said. If you +wish to be a better man, you shall not want for help." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you kindly, Mr. Raeburn, but I doubt +it's too late. 'It's mighty hard to tache ould dogs +new tricks,' but if you 'll spake a good word for +me to the doctor about the brandy, I'll try." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +At bedtime Molly kissed her father and mother +Morton good night with tender and tearful +emotion, but without a word,—her heart was too full. +On reaching her pleasant chamber, where her trunk +stood ready packed for the journey, she sank on +her knees beside her dear little bed, and prayed +for the parents she was about to leave, and for +those she was about to seek; for her generous +friends, the Raeburns, and for poor, sinful Patrick +Magee, who needed somebody's prayers so much. +When she laid her head on her pillow, she could +not sleep, but lay in a tremulous, excited state, +half joy, half sorrow. Then Mrs. Morton came in +to kiss her once more, and to tuck her in, as she +used to do when Molly first came to her a sad and +feeble child. As she bent to kiss her she fell on +her neck and wept, saying, "My child, my child, +how can I give you up?" +</P> + +<P> +"O mother, dear!" replied Molly, embracing +her, "you must never give me up. I must still +be your child as well as <I>hers</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want <I>very much</I> to go to her, darling?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, though you have been so good, so <I>good</I>, +and I love you very dearly, I have always had a +sort of blind yearning in my heart for her. It +seems to me that the cry of my infancy, +'Mamma!' 'Papa!' which the cruel blows of Mrs. Magee +hushed, has always been whispering in my +soul, and <I>must</I> be answered. But if I love them, +and they love me ever so much, I shall love you +and dear father Morton all my life and into God's +forever." +</P> + +<P> +"It is well, dear child, and the Lord's will be +done. Good night!" +</P> + +<P> +Molly was wakened early in the morning by the +carol of an oriole, but she could make nothing of +his song but "Good by, good by, good by!" and +the clambering roses by her window seemed +sending in sweet farewell sighs. Soon after breakfast, +Mr. Raeburn drove up in his carriage, and so Molly +set out to seek her fortune and her parents. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV. +</H3> + +<P> +It was the afternoon of a cool, showery summer +day, when Mr. Raeburn and Mary drove through +a handsome stone gateway, and up an avenue of +maples, to the fine old-fashioned mansion of +Mr. Phillips. As they stood on the steps, Mr. Raeburn +noticed that Mary had been much agitated by +recognizing scenes once familiar to her baby eyes, and +he begged her to try to be calm. "Remember," +he said, "we have no positive, reliable evidence +that you are the lost child of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. +You must not suddenly proclaim yourself. +They have probably despaired so long that they +will be unable to credit your story, if too abruptly +told, and any repulse would be very painful to you. +Leave it to me to let the joyful light gradually in +upon their minds, and second me when I refer to you." +</P> + +<P> +"I will do so; trust me," replied Mary, in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +When the servant came to the door, Mr. Raeburn +inquired for Mr. Phillips only, thinking it +best that the first communication should be made +to him alone. They were shown into a pleasant +library, opening on to a piazza by French windows, +looking towards the river. Mary seated herself on +a sofa, in the most shadowed part of the room, and +kept her face hidden by a thick veil. She sat in +silence, except that to her ear the beatings of her +loving, impatient heart were audible. It seemed +to her a long hour that they were kept waiting, +though it was probably not more than fifteen +minutes. Then the door gently opened, and Mr. Phillips +entered. Mary half rose, then sank back, faint +with happiness, for she had recognized his +face,—<I>it was that of her dream-father</I>! +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Phillips was of middle age; the dark-brown +curls of his hair were slightly tinged with silver. +His face was very thoughtful, if not sad in +expression. His form was stately, and his manner +courteous and refined,—a gentleman, every inch of him. +</P> + +<P> +He pleasantly greeted by name Mr. Raeburn, +who then introduced his companion as "Miss +Morton." Mary rose, courtesied, and again sank into +her seat. The galloping heart was getting almost +too much for her,—she was gasping under her veil. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Phillips apologized for keeping his visitor so +long waiting, and added, "When word was brought +me of your arrival, I was assisting in carrying +Mrs. Phillips from her sitting-room to her bedchamber. +She is ill." +</P> + +<P> +Mary started, and a new terror seized her. +</P> + +<P> +"Not seriously ill, I hope?" said Mr. Raeburn. +</P> + +<P> +"No, we trust not, now; but she has been very +ill from a fever, and is still extremely delicate. +She has been a good deal of an invalid for the past +fifteen years," said Mr. Phillips with a sigh. +</P> + +<P> +After a plan formed that morning, Mr. Raeburn +then requested the opinion of Mr. Phillips, as a +lawyer, on an important land claim in which he +was interested. +</P> + +<P> +As they talked on and on, Mary still sat silent +and motionless. She was hardly impatient any +longer, for had she not her father's face to watch, +and his voice to listen to? +</P> + +<P> +At length there was a pause; then the two +gentlemen began to talk about the lovely scenery +around them, the river, the estate, the Phillips +mansion and family, and finally Mr. Raeburn said, +"I think I have heard, Mr. Phillips, a sad story of +your having once lost a little child in some +mysterious way. Perhaps at this remote day you will +not be unwilling to give me the facts of this loss." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not, my dear sir," replied Mr. Phillips, +"if you care to hear so melancholy a tale. +All I myself know can be soon told. Our first child +was a daughter,—a lovely, engaging little +creature, the very light of our eyes. She was rather +delicate, and most carefully tended and watched +till she was past three years of age. Then, one +summer day, I invited my wife to accompany me +to New York, where I had business, and she +had—as what woman has not?—shopping to attend to. +She hesitated, as little Mary's nurse was young +and rather thoughtless, but I over-persuaded her +and she went, giving at the last moment many +charges to the young girl concerning the child. +</P> + +<P> +"I remember how lovingly little Mary kissed us +good by that morning, and how, still unsatisfied, +she ran after the carriage, commanding the +coachman, in a pretty, imperious way she had, to stop +till she could get another kiss. I was a little vexed, +fearing we should miss the train, yet she was +obeyed, lifted up, kissed, and put down into her +nurse's arms, and that was the last we ever saw +of her. How thankful I have always been that we +stopped for her good-by kiss. Many a time since, +in my sleep, I have felt that last kiss on my lips. +</P> + +<P> +"We had intended to stay till the afternoon of +the next day, in New York, but at evening +Mrs. Phillips grew so strangely anxious about her baby +girl, whom she had never before left for a night, +that we took a late train for home. Just as we +reached our station, I noticed a New York boat +put off from the landing. I have since thought it +was possible our child was on that boat." +</P> + +<P> +Here Mary could scarcely restrain herself from +crying out, "She was! she was!" but she shut +her lips and clasped her hands tight, and was still. +</P> + +<P> +"When we reached home," continued Mr. Phillips, +"we found all in confusion and consternation, +Our darling little one was missing! She had not +been seen since five o'clock, at which time she had +been left by her nurse fast asleep, and to all +human apprehension in perfect safety. On that day +she had been allowed to have the range of the +house, and taking a freak to have her belated +afternoon nap on the drawing-room sofa, was there +put to sleep. +</P> + +<P> +"The nurse took the opportunity to have a little +gossip with the cook and coachman, in the kitchen, +and it was a good deal more than an hour, I +believe, though she declared it was not half that time, +before she went to look after her charge. The +room was empty; the low window was open, and +our bird had flown forever! +</P> + +<P> +"It was some time before the servants were +really alarmed, as it was thought she was +somewhere in the house or garden, hiding, after her +roguish way. I think it was actually dark before +they made any serious and thorough effort to find +her. Indeed, I set on foot the first systematic +search. I roused all our neighbors, and employed +the police of our town, and afterwards of New +York and other cities; but all was in vain, utterly +in vain! No real trace of her could be found. +We could not even hear of any child answering to +her description, as having been taken from the +town on that day, in any direction,—except one, +who was seen on the New York boat I have +mentioned, and who must, I think, have been younger +than ours, or it was ill or stupid, as it was said the +woman who had charge of it carried it constantly +in her arms, where it lay quite still. Even this +child we could only trace as far as New York. It +seemed to disappear in the great city as a +snowflake melts in the sea. +</P> + +<P> +"Our friends all believed that our little Mary +had fallen from the river-bank and had been +drowned, and the body carried away by the swift +current. Some lads, who were out on the water +that day in a sail-boat, said that they saw a child +on the bank a little below our house, running +about quite alone, apparently chasing butterflies. +But it was several months before we relaxed our +efforts to find her. So many lost children were +brought to us in answer to our advertisements,—so +many poor little homeless ones, whom nobody +owned,—that it looked as though we were about +to set up an orphan asylum. In truth, we sometimes +felt like it, for dear little Mary's sake. We +could not give her up, for we could not believe +her dead. Our sorrow was such a <I>live</I> anguish—without +comfort, without rest—that we felt that +the dear object <I>must</I> be living and suffering. The +tender ties that had bound our hearts to her +quivered with pain, but we felt that, though sorely +wounded, they were not quite severed. +</P> + +<P> +"Then we had strangely vivid dreams of her. +Very sad dreams they were; she always appeared +to us pale, and sorrowful, and thin, as though +pinched with want. Of late years we have +dreamed of her more seldom; and, singularly +enough, when we have dreamed, she has worn +to both of us a changed and happier look. So +we feel at last that somewhere, in this or a +better world, 'it is well with the child.' +</P> + +<P> +"The health of Mrs. Phillips received a great +shock in this loss; in fact, she has never been quite +well since. She has been threatened with +consumption, and has been obliged to spend most of +her winters in the South. I think she still mourns +for her first-born; no other child has yet been able +to fill her place." +</P> + +<P> +"You have then other children?" said Mr. Raeburn. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, three; two boys, of eleven and nine, and +a little girl, now nearly five years old." +</P> + +<P> +Here Mary felt a happy glow overspread her +veiled face, and her heart palpitated with a new joy. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Believe me, my dear sir," said Mr. Raeburn, +after a pause, "I have not drawn from you this +painful story from mere curiosity. My friend now +present, Miss Morton, is acquainted with a young +girl who believes herself to have been stolen in her +early childhood, from a happy home and kind +parents, by a vulgar and cruel woman, who hid her +for years in a wretched den in the worst part of +New York. But, my dear Miss Morton, you can +tell the story better than I; will you not do so?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary began in a voice low and tremulous, but +of penetrating sweetness, thus: "That poor young +girl was, while yet a child, not wholly lost and +wicked, rescued from a life of sin and beggary by +some good kind friends, whom God will bless for +ever and ever! When they took pity on her, she +had forgotten her true last name; it had been +frightened out of her memory, or driven out by +blows; but she knew that her first name was +Mary, though she was only called <I>Molly</I>, and she +had not forgotten her true parents, though she +called them her <I>dream</I> father and mother, because +they came to her in her sleep, to kiss her and +comfort her. She was surrounded by squalor and +wretchedness; but she never quite forgot her old +beautiful home, for her dim sweet memories of it +were all she knew of heaven." +</P> + +<P> +Here Mary rose and threw back her veil, as she +continued, "And she hopes, she believes that <I>this</I> +is her old home, for she recognizes everything +around her. O yes, I know that carved mantel, +that ebony writing-case, that screen, that bust, and +that picture over the cabinet. <I>It is mamma's portrait!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Phillips uttered an exclamation of joyful +surprise and started forward, but immediately +fearful of some mistake, calmed himself, and +merely said, "Will you let me see you without +your bonnet?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary hastily uncovered her beautiful head, and +stood before him, a soft, timid smile playing about +her lips, and a tremulous light of love and joy in +her eyes. Mr. Phillips looked from that yearning +young face to the one on the canvas,—so +wonderfully like they were! "It is enough!" he +exclaimed; "I <I>know</I> you for our daughter, our +long-lost lamb! O Father in heaven, I thank Thee!" +</P> + +<P> +And the next moment Mary was clasped in her +father's arms, her head on his breast, her arms +about his neck, laughing and weeping in her +passionate emotion, so long restrained. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Raeburn rose and softly loft the room, +passing out on to the piazza, where he stood for many +minutes, apparently admiring the fine scenery, +though in fact he could see but little for the tears +of tender sympathy that would spring to his +kindly eyes. Whichever way he looked there was a +water-view. +</P> + +<P> +He returned just in time to see the two boys, +George and Herbert, introduced to their sister. +They received the good news at first in a +bewildered, boyish, awkward way. They blushed and +stammered, stepped forward and back, then stood +stock still, and looked at Mary in silent, wide-eyed +wonder and admiration. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, boys," she said, "I suppose I seem to you +like one come back from the dead, or like another +Undine, risen from the water; but won't you take +my hand? see, it isn't cold!" Then she shook +hands with them and kissed them, and they +rapturously returned her caress, and all was right. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, my dear boys," said Mr. Phillips, "you +have a task of self-restraint before you. It is +necessary that this great joy of ours should be kept +awhile from your mother. She is not strong +enough to bear it. But she must see Mary and +get accustomed to her as soon as possible. I have +a plan. A new nurse is needed for Lilly; will +you accept the position for a few days, my darling?" +</P> + +<P> +"Most joyfully, papa." +</P> + +<P> +"I give you warning, sister, that it will not be +a very jolly life for you," put in Master George. +"Lilly is awfully spoiled, and will order you about, +and put on all the airs of old Queen Bess." +</P> + +<P> +"That will do, George," said his father, with a +wave of his hand. "You, Mary, I am sure, will +soon win Lilly's heart, though she is quite too +young to be intrusted with our secret. Having +charge of her, you can have frequent access to +your mother, and perhaps gradually reveal yourself +to her. We must contrive to have you get your +first glimpse of her unseen, otherwise you might +betray yourself by your emotion. +</P> + +<P> +"And now, my daughter, if you are sufficiently +calm, you will give me a brief account of your life +since we were so sadly parted, more than twelve +long years ago." +</P> + +<P> +Mary told her piteous story very simply, passing +as lightly as possible over her early sorrows and +hardships, but again and again bringing tears to +the eyes of her father and brothers. +</P> + +<P> +When Mr. Phillips heard the name of Patrick +Magee, he exclaimed, "Why, I had that villain +under pay for months for pretending to search for +you in New York, and all along he had you hid in +his vile den! He must be made to suffer for it." +</P> + +<P> +"He will suffer, he does suffer, father. Poor, +lost creature! I am willing to leave him to God," +said Mary, gently. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Raeburn returned to his hotel in the town +that evening, but called at the Phillips mansion +in the morning, to say good by to Mary and her father. +</P> + +<P> +Mary came to him, all radiant with her new +happiness. "I have seen my mother twice!" she +said. "The first time she was asleep. I stole up +softly to her bedside, and held my breath as I bent +over her. Her face is no longer rosy and dimpled, +like the pictured face, yet far lovelier. In repose +it seemed worn and sorrowful, but O, so gentle and +sweet! I stood by her a long time, and looked +and looked, trying to make up a little for what I +had lost. Her dear hand lay on the counterpane. +I longed to kiss it, but I dared not. I did kiss a +braid of her hair that fell over the pillow, and such +a thrill went through me! Her hair is as beautiful +and dark as ever, and so are her eyes. I looked +straight into them, once this morning. Papa +presented me to her, as Lilly's new nurse. She looked +so kind and gracious, I thought I should have sunk +at her feet, to beg her to bless her child. I could +not speak, and papa apologized for me by saying +that I was very diffident, but that Lilly seemed to +take to me, and he hoped I would do well; and +then she smiled on me, and I took that for the +blessing. +</P> + +<P> +"I slept in the nursery with Lilly last night, in +the very bed, I believe, I used to sleep in; and +when I knelt beside it, I could think of no words +to say but those of my little childish prayer, '<I>Now +I lay me down to sleep.</I>' Was n't it strange?" +</P> + +<P> +At this moment Lilly came dancing into the +parlor, to claim her new friend. The child was a +dainty little thing, as restless and radiant as a +butterfly,—evidently a little spoiled, yet very +charming. +</P> + +<P> +The tears sprang to Mary's eyes, as her good +friend rose to take leave. She weighed down his +memory with messages for the dear ones to whom +he was going; and, as he gave her his hand in +parting, she lifted up her sweet, ingenuous face, +with a timid, grateful smile, and kissed him, for +the first time. She had never before felt that she +had a social position equal to his and dear Bessie's. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Phillips accompanied Mr. Raeburn to the +station, and parted from him with much regret and +many heartfelt thanks and blessings. +</P> + +<P> +A few days later there came to Mary letters from +all her friends in Berkshire,—letters of loving +congratulation, most grateful to her heart. One +from Mr. Raeburn contained the intelligence that +Patrick Magee had been released from prison in a +very solemn way. After a terrible attack of +delirium, he had fallen into a stupor, and died. So +that sinful and blinded soul had gone stumbling +down the dark valley, and forth into the unknown +world, where neither human pity nor judgment +could reach him. +</P> + +<P> +"O, I hope God forgave him at the last, as I +forgive him," said Mary, weeping. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, sister Mary," said George Phillips, "you +are n't crying for that old reprobate, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Georgie; only crying because nobody <I>can</I> +cry for him. You see, Georgie dear, I have been +wicked myself, and know how to pity the erring." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>You</I> wicked, Mary! I suppose you have in +your mind the few little lies you told when you +were the bound slave of that old Irish ogre and +his ogress. It's my opinion the angel that writes +down things don't make much account of such sins." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Day by day, Mary won her way to the inmost +hearts of all the household. Mrs. Phillips was +especially interested in the young stranger, who +seemed so superior to her station,—who moved +about so softly, and was so careful and watchful. +She loved to have her in her apartments, and +often sat and gazed at her, so mournfully, so +searchingly, that Mary longed inexpressibly to +kneel by her side and tell her all. +</P> + +<P> +At last the time came. It was Sunday, and +little Lilly's birthday. Mrs. Phillips was so much +better that she was brought down stairs, for the +first time for many weeks, and seated on the +vine-shaded piazza, overlooking the river. She looked +very happy, and there was a delicate rose-tint on +her cheek. All the family were gathered around +her; it was a jubilee of love. Her husband sat at +her side; the boys stood near, leaning over the +railing, watching the graceful sloops sailing by. +Mary sat on a low stool before her, showing some +Bible pictures to Lilly, who wore a birthday wreath +of blue violets and white rosebuds. Suddenly the +child was heard to say, "This is my birthday, you +know, Mary, and that's why it's so pleasant. +When is your birthday?" +</P> + +<P> +"O, never mind," said Mary, blushing, "look at +this picture." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, not till you tell me when your +birthday comes." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot tell you, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, don't you know? I 'm only five years +old, and I know mine." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, how is this, Mary?" asked Mrs. Phillips; +"don't you really know your birthday?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary hesitated a moment, then replied, "There +were some sad circumstances in my childhood that +prevented me from knowing much even about +myself. I do not know <I>exactly</I> how old I am, but I +think about fifteen." +</P> + +<P> +"About fifteen!" repeated Mrs. Phillips, in a +dreamy way, "and your name <I>Mary</I>. John, our +Mary would have been just about her age, could +we have kept her; and do you know I fancy she +would have looked very much like this young girl. +I suppose this coincidence of age and name has +given me a peculiar interest in her. I felt strangely +drawn towards her at first sight. I have an odd +idea that she looks like our family, somewhat as I +used to look; and, stranger still, like <I>you</I>, John." +</P> + +<P> +At this, all instinctively drew near to the +mother. Mr. Phillips took her hand, and said +calmly, "My dear Caroline, nobody on earth has +a better right to look like our Mary, like you and +like me, than this dear young girl." +</P> + +<P> +"O John, John, tell me! Can she he! O +blessed God!—" +</P> + +<P> +She could not utter a word more, but she +stretched out her trembling arms, and Mary crept +into them and lay on her mother's breast, the long +hunger of her heart satisfied at last! +</P> + +<A NAME="img-202"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-202.jpg" ALT="Mary and her mother" BORDER="0" WIDTH="358" HEIGHT="379"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 358px"> +Mary and her mother +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"Yes, dear, this <I>is</I> our lost child, given back to +us by a gracious God," said Mr. Phillips. But +there was no need to tell her that; she knew all +now. Kissing her darling, patting her head, and +murmuring over her sweet pet names, as though +Mary were still the baby girl she had lost, she sat +for a few bewildered, rapturous moments, then +sank back in a swoon. She lay with such a smile +on her lips that those about her were little alarmed. +She had only fainted under her burden of +happiness. She afterwards said that this swoon was like +a trance of heavenly joy. She revived with a sigh, +thinking it all a dream,—but we know it was n't. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +I don't know that I have anything more to tell +you, except that Mrs. Phillips got well very +rapidly, and did n't have to go South with the birds +that year. Joy and Love are very good physicians, +though they practice without a diploma, in defiance +of medical professors and all the college of surgeons. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, one other thing. There was a great +Christmas gathering at the Phillips mansion that year. +The Raeburns and Mortons were there, with a +host of Mary's uncles, aunts, and cousins, and +actually two pairs of grandparents. Only think how +rich she was! +</P> + +<P> +On Christmas-eve there was dancing and +charade-acting, there were games and <I>tableaux</I> in the +great hall; and last and best of all, there was +story-telling around the fragrant wood-fire in the +library. +</P> + +<P> +Of all the stories told that night, there was none +to compare, everybody said, with the one related +by pretty Bessie Raeburn, of a certain Christmas +adventure of hers, and of what came of it. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CHARADE +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love my <I>first</I> on a summer eve,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or a breezy autumn morning;</SPAN><BR> +My soul bounds with it, and my heart<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Laughs out, all trouble scorning.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love it by the wild sea-beach,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When fades the sunset splendor,</SPAN><BR> +And the new moon, like a fairy boat,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Sails through the sky-deeps tender.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>second</I> brings up visions sad<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of life's most fearful duty,—</SPAN><BR> +Of green mounds hiding from our sight<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Dear forms of youth and beauty.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>third</I>, if speaking slowly, clouds<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The brightest day with sadness;</SPAN><BR> +If quickly, thrills the air, and wakes<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The gloomiest morn to gladness.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It calls, and through the churchyard gate<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A funeral is creeping;</SPAN><BR> +It calls, and down the old church aisle<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A bridal train is sweeping!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My <I>whole</I> grew in a garden old,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Round which my heart still lingers;</SPAN><BR> +Its azure petals formed a cup<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Fit for a fairy's fingers.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Canterbury-bell</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Stories of Many Lands, by Grace Greenwood + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF MANY LANDS *** + +***** This file should be named 26736-h.htm or 26736-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/7/3/26736/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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