diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-0.txt | 5800 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-0.zip | bin | 138956 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h.zip | bin | 1852894 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/66655-h.htm | 8325 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 231823 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/frontispiece.jpg | bin | 192152 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/i_026.jpg | bin | 216473 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/i_033.jpg | bin | 235491 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/i_083.jpg | bin | 202876 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/i_164.jpg | bin | 241364 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/i_207.jpg | bin | 206480 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/66655-h/images/i_248.jpg | bin | 189992 -> 0 bytes |
15 files changed, 17 insertions, 14125 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5799996 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66655 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66655) diff --git a/old/66655-0.txt b/old/66655-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b107daa..0000000 --- a/old/66655-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5800 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A New Story Book for Children, by -Fanny Fern - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A New Story Book for Children - -Author: Fanny Fern - -Release Date: November 2, 2021 [eBook #66655] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from - images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NEW STORY BOOK FOR -CHILDREN *** - - -[Illustration: LITTLE EFFIE.—Page 305.] - - - - - A - NEW STORY BOOK - FOR CHILDREN. - - - BY - - FANNY FERN. - - - NEW YORK: - MASON BROTHERS, 7 MERCER STREET; - BOSTON: MASON & HAMLIN; - PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. - 1864. - - - - - Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by - - MASON BROTHERS, - - In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the - Southern District of New York. - - - JOHN F. TROW, - PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER, - 50 Green Street. - - - - - THIS BOOK - - IS - - AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED - - TO - - =“Little Effie.”= - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - A STORY ABOUT MYSELF, 7 - - GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD, 27 - - JOHN BROWN, 32 - - THE PLOUGHBOY POET, 56 - - OLD HICKORY, 68 - - THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY, 76 - - THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS, 82 - - THE KIND WORD, 103 - - THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE, 106 - - TWO QUARRELSOME OLD MEN, 128 - - THE LITTLE PRINCES, 131 - - OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON, 146 - - THE LITTLE LORD, 157 - - THE POLICEMAN, 165 - - LITTLE ADRIAN, 173 - - THE PEDDLER’S SON, 186 - - JEMMY LAWTON, 193 - - HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON, 200 - - THE BOY WALTER SCOTT, 206 - - AUNT MAGGIE, 224 - - A FUNERAL I SAW, 231 - - WATCHES, 234 - - OLD ZACHARIAH, 239 - - LITTLE GERTRUDE, 244 - - THE FAITHFUL DOG, 249 - - A QUESTION ANSWERED, 258 - - THE NURSE’S DAY OUT, 262 - - SWEET SIXTEEN, 266 - - SITTING FOR MY PORTRAIT, 268 - - ABOUT A JOURNEY I TOOK, 270 - - WHEN I WAS YOUNG, 283 - - A NURSERY THOUGHT, 287 - - THE USE OF GRANDMOTHERS, 289 - - THE INVENTOR OF THE LOCOMOTIVE, 291 - - TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS, 303 - - BABY EFFIE, 305 - - - - - A STORY ABOUT MYSELF. - - -Nobody could be more astonished than I, to find myself famous. I never -dreamed of it, when I sat in a small room, at the top of the house where -I lodged, scribbling over a sheet of coarse foolscap with _noms de -plume_, out of which I was to choose one for my first article—which -article I never thought of preserving, any more than the succeeding -ones, supposing my meagre pecuniary remuneration the only reward I was -to hope for. I think the reason I selected the name “Fern,” was because, -when a child, and walking with my mother in the country, she always used -to pluck a leaf of it, to place in her bosom, for its sweet odor; and -that gloomy morning, when I almost despaired of earning bread for my -children, I had been thinking of her, and wishing she were living, that -I might lay my head upon her bosom and tell her all my sorrows; and then -memory carried me back, I scarce knew how, to those childish days, when -I ran before her in the woods, to pluck the sweet fern she loved; and -then I said to myself, my name shall be “Fanny Fern”—little dreaming -anybody would ever know or care anything about it. - -I loved my mother;—everybody did. She had the kindest heart and sweetest -voice in the world; and if there was any person in the circle of her -acquaintance who was particularly disagreeable to her, for that person -would she be sure to do a service, the first opportunity. - -In a spare room in our house was an old armchair, and in it lay a large -Bible. I often used to see my mother go into that room, sighing as she -closed the door; and, young as I was, I had learned to watch for her -coming out; for the sweet, calm, holy look her features wore, fascinated -me like a spell. _Now_ I know how it was! now, that the baptism of a -woman’s lot has been mine also; and often, when blinded by the waves of -trouble which have dashed over my head, have I thought of the open Bible -in the old armchair, its pages wet with tears, which no human eye saw -fall, wiped away by no human hand, but precious in _His_ eyes as the -seed of the husbandman, from which He garners the golden harvest -sheaves. - -Thus my mother was unselfish—ever with a gentle word for all; thus she -looked upon life’s trials, as does the long-absent traveler upon the -wayside discomforts of the journey, when the beacon light gleams from -the window of the dear old home in sight. Thank God! she has reached it; -and yet—and yet—the weary hours of desolation, my heart has ached for -her human voice; in which I have sat with folded hands, while memory -upbraided me with her patience, her fortitude, her Christ-like -forbearance, her sweet, unmurmuring acceptance of the thorns in her -life-path, for His sake, who wore the thorny crown. - -Weeping, I remembered her gentle touch upon my arm, as I gave way to -some impetuous burst of feeling, at the defection of some playmate, or -friend, on whose unswerving friendship my childish heart had rested as -on a rock. I saw her eyes, pitiful, imploring, sometimes tearful; for -well she saw, as a mother’s prophet-eyes alone may see, her child’s -future. She knew the passionate nature, that would be lacerated and -probed to the quick, ere the Healer came with His heavenly balm. She -knew that love’s silken cord could guide me, where the voice of severity -never could drive; and so she let my hot, angry tears fall, and when the -storm was spent, upon the dark cloud she painted the bow of promise, and -_to those only_ “_who overcome_,” she told me, was “given to eat of the -tree of life.” Alas! and alas! that her child should be a child still! - -If there is any poetry in my nature, from my mother I inherited it. She -had the most intense enjoyment of the beauty of nature. From the -lowliest field-blossom, to the most gorgeous sunset, nothing escaped her -observant eye. I well remember, before the dark days came upon me, a -visit I received from her in my lovely country home. It was one of those -beautiful mornings when the smile of God seems to irradiate every living -thing; to rest on the hilltops, to linger in the valleys, to sweeten the -herbage for the unconscious cattle, and exhilarate even the -bright-winged insects who flutter in the sunbeams; a morning in which -simply to live were a blessing, for which humanity could find no -adequate voice of thanks. - -From out the dusty, noisy city, my mother had come to enjoy it. I had -just placed my sleeping babe in its cradle, when I heard her footstep -upon the nursery stairs. Stooping to kiss its rosy cheek, she seated -herself at my window. The bright-winged orioles were darting through the -green foliage, the grass waved in the meadow, starting up the little -ground-bird to make its short, quick, circling flights; the contented -cattle were browsing in the fields, or bowing their meek heads to the -little brook, to drink; brown farmhouses nestled peacefully under the -overshadowing trees, and far off in the distance stretched the hills, -piled up against the clear blue sky, over which the fleecy clouds sailed -leisurely, as if they too enjoyed all this wealth of beauty. My mother -sat at the window, the soft summer wind gently lifting the brown curls -from her temples;—then slowly—musically, as she laid her hand upon mine, -while her whole face glowed, as did that of Moses when he came down from -the mount, she said, “O Lord! how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast -thou made them all; the earth is full of thy riches. Who coverest -thyself with light as with a garment: who stretchest out the heavens -like a curtain: who walkest upon the wings of the wind. Every beast of -the forest is thine; and the cattle upon a thousand hills. The world is -thine, and the fullness thereof. I will sing praise unto God while I -have my being.” When my mother ceased to speak, and relapsed again into -silence, seemingly unconscious of my presence, I did not disturb her; -for I knew that her soul was face to face with Him who hears the -voiceless prayer, and needs not the bended knee. - -My mother was eminently social, and particularly fond of the society of -young people; so much so, indeed, that my young companions were always -disappointed when she was absent from our little gatherings. Her -winning, motherly ways, her warm welcome, her appreciation and -toleration of exuberant young life, was as delightful as rare. I will -not speak of the broken-hearted whom she drew to her bosom, of the needy -to whom she ministered, of the thousand little rills of benevolence with -which she fertilized so many hearts and homes; they are written, not in -a perishable book of remembrance like mine, but in one which shall -endure when the earth shall be rolled up like a scroll. - -Had my mother’s time not been so constantly engrossed by a -fast-increasing family, had she found time for literary pursuits, I am -confident she would have distinguished herself. Her hurried letters, -written with one foot upon the cradle, give ample evidence of this. She -_talked poetry unconsciously_! The many gifted men to whom her -hospitality was extended, and who were her warm personal friends, know -this. - -A part of every year my mother spent in the country. One summer, while I -was yet a child, we were located in a very lovely spot near Boston. -Connected with the church where my mother worshiped, was a female prayer -meeting, held alternately at the houses of its different members. One -warm summer afternoon, my mother passed through the garden where I was -playing, and asked me if I would like to go too. I said yes, because I -liked to walk with my mother anywhere; so we sauntered along the grassy -path under the trees, till we came to a small, wooden house, half hidden -by a tall hedge of lilacs. Then my mother led me through the low -doorway, and up a pair of clean wooden stairs, into an old-fashioned -raftered chamber, through whose open window the bees were humming in and -out, and the scent of flowers, and song of birds, came pleasantly enough -to my childish senses. Taking off my sunbonnet, and brushing back my -curls, she seated me on a low stool at her feet, while one of the old -ladies commenced reading the Bible aloud. All this time I was looking -around curiously, as a child will, at the old-fashioned paper on the -walls, with its pink shepherdesses and green dogs; at the old-fashioned -fireplace, with its pitcher of asparagus branches, dotted with little -red berries; at the high-post bedstead, with its rainbow-colored -patchwork quilt, of all conceivable shapes and sizes; at its -high-backed, stiff-looking chairs, with straw seats; at its china parrot -on the mantel, and its framed sampler on the wall, with the inevitable -tombstone and weeping willow, and afflicted female, handkerchief in -hand. - -After the tremulous old lady had done reading, they asked my mother to -pray. I knelt with the rest; gradually my thoughts wandered from the -china parrot, and patchwork quilt and sampler, to the words my mother -was speaking. Her voice was low, and sweet, and pleading, as if God was -very near, instead of on the “great, white throne,” far away from human -reach, where so many good people are fond of placing Him. It seemed to -me as if her head were lying, like the beloved John’s, upon His bosom; -and He were not too great, or good, or wise, to listen well pleased to -her full heart’s outpourings. Of course, these thoughts did not then, -even to myself, find voice as now, but that was my vague, unexpressed -feeling. Every musical word fell distinctly on my ear; and I listened as -one listens to the sweet, soothing murmurs of a brook, in the fragrant -summer time. I had loved my mother before; now I _revered_ her; and it -was with a new, delicious feeling I slid my hand within hers, as we -passed through the low doorway, and back by the pleasant, grassy paths, -to our home. How little she knew what was passing under the little -sunbonnet at her side, or how near heaven she had brought me, in that -old, raftered chamber. - -I have spoken of my mother’s patience and forbearance. One scene I well -remember. It occurred in our little sitting room at home. My mother had -entered, with her usual soft step and pleasant tones, and addressed some -question to me concerning the lesson I was learning, when a person -entered, upon whom she had every claim for love, the deepest and -strongest. To some pleasant remark of hers, this individual returned an -answer so rude, so brutal, so stinging, that every drop of blood in my -body seemed to congeal as the murderous syllables fell. I looked at my -mother; the warm blood rushed to her temples, the smile faded from her -face; then her eyes filled with tears, and bowing her head low upon her -breast, with a meek, touching grace I shall never forget, she glided -voiceless from the room. I did not follow her, but I knew where she had -gone, as well as if I had done so. When I next saw her, save that her -voice had an added sweetness, no trace of the poisoned arrow, so -ruthlessly aimed at her peace, remained. - -I have said my mother was hospitable; but her hospitality was not -extended, like that of many, only to those who could give an equivalent -in their pleasant society. One guest, who was quite the reverse of this, -often received from her the kindest attention, not gratefully, not even -pleasantly, for he was churlish to a degree. Vexed that she should thus -waste her sweetness where it was so unappreciated, I one day expressed -as much to my mother, adding, “that nobody liked him.” “Hush!” said she; -“that is the very reason why I should be the more kind to him. He has a -large family, and trouble and care have made him reserved and silent; he -may thank me and yet not say so; besides, I do not do it for thanks,” -she continued, cramming his carpet bag with her usual Lady Bountiful -assiduity. The cup of cold water in the name of the Master, to the -lowliest disciple, she never forgot. - -To all these sweet womanly traits in my mother, was added a sound, -practical judgment. On one occasion, while visiting me, a law paper was -sent for my wifely signature. Without looking at it, for I hated, and to -this day hate, anything of a business nature, I dipped my pen in the -inkstand to append it. “Stay! child,” said my mother, arresting my hand, -“do you know what that paper is about?” “Not I!” was my laughing reply; -“but my husband sent it, and on his broad shoulders be the -responsibility!” “That is wrong,” said she, gravely; “you should never -sign any paper without a full understanding of its contents.” It seemed -to me then that she was over-scrupulous, particularly as I knew she had -the same implicit confidence in my husband that I had. I had reason -afterward to see the wisdom of her caution. - -My mother came to me one day, after rambling over my house with a -motherly eye to my housekeeping—she who was such a perfect -housekeeper—and held up to me a roll of bank bills, which she found -lying loose upon my toilet-table. “Oh, they were safe enough!” said I; -“my servants I know to be honest!” “That may be,” was her answer; “but -don’t you know that you should never place temptation in their way?” - -Foremost among my mother’s warm, personal friends, was Dr. Payson. For -many years before the removal of our family from Portland, he was her -pastor, and afterward, whenever he visited Boston, our house was -emphatically his _home_; my mother welcoming his coming, and sitting -spiritually at his feet, as did Mary of old her Christguest. Let me -explain how I first came to love him. When I was a little girl, I used -to be told by some who visited at our house, that if I was not a good -girl, and did not love God, I should go to hell. Now hell seemed, as far -as I could make it out from what they said, a place where people were -burned forever for their sins on earth—burned, without being consumed, -for millions and millions of years; and after that and so on, through a -long _eternity_—a word I did not then, and do not now, comprehend. Well, -I used to think about all this; sometimes as I went to school; sometimes -as I lay awake in my little bed at night, and sometimes when I woke -earlier than anybody else in the morning; and sometimes on Sunday, when -I, now and then, caught the word “hell” in the minister’s sermon. I -don’t know how it was, but it never frightened me. I think it was -because I could not then, any more than I can now, believe it. The idea -of loving anybody because I should be punished if I did not, seemed to -freeze up the very fountain of love which I felt bubbling up in my -heart, and I turned away from it with horror. I could not pray or read -my Bible from fear. I did not know what fear was. I did not feel afraid -of death, as my playmates did. When they told me to love God, I said -that I did love Him. They did not believe me, because I did not like to -talk about myself, or have others talk to me about myself; not that I -was ashamed, but that it seemed to me, if I did so, that I should cease -to feel. Sometimes, when they persisted in questioning and doubting me, -I would get troubled, and run away, or hide. I did not like to “say my -prayers,” as it is called; and at set times, morning and evening, and -get on my knees to do it. I liked to have my prayer rise up out of my -heart, and pass over my lips, without moving them to speech; and that -wherever I happened to be, in the street, or in company, or wherever and -whenever God’s goodness came into my mind, as it did often; for turn -which way I would, I could see that his careful footprints had been -before me, and his fingers busy, in making what I was sure then, and am -sure now, none but a _God_ could make. I did not understand a word of my -catechism, though I said it like a parrot, because our minister told me -to. “Election,” “Predestination,” and “Foreordaining,” seemed to me very -long words, that meant very little; and the more they were “explained” -to me, the more misty they grew, and have continued to do so ever since; -and I don’t like to hear them talked about. - -The God _my eyes_ see, is not a tyrant, driving his creatures to heaven -through fear of hell; he accepts no love that comes to him over that -compulsory road. He pities us with an infinite pity, even when we turn -away from Him; and the mistaken wretch who has done this through a long -life, and worn out the patience of every earthly friend, never wears His -out, is never forsaken by Him; his fellow men may hunt him to the -world’s end, and drive him to despair, and still the God _I_ see, holds -out his imploring hands, and says, “Come to me!” and even at the last -moment, when he has spent a long life in wasting and perverting every -faculty of his soul, the God I see does not pursue him vengefully, or -even frown upon him, but ever that small, soft whisper, “Come to me!” -floats by him on the sweet air, is written on the warm sunbeam, which -refreshes him all the same as if he had never forgotten to utter his -thanks for it. Now, if this man dies, and turns away at the last from -all this wonderful love, what more terrible “hell” can there be, than to -remember that he has done so? that he has never made the slightest -return for it, or ever recognized it? that no living creature was ever -made better, or purer, or wiser, or happier, that he lived in the world? -but that, on the contrary, he has helped them to destroy themselves as -he has done himself? What “flames” could scorch like these thoughts? And -that, in my opinion, _is_ hell, and all the hell there is. It is just -such a hell as wicked men have a foretaste of in this world, when they -stop long enough to listen to that heavenly monitor conscience, which -they try so hard to stifle. It is just such a hell as the wayward son -feels, who runs away from the love and kindness of home, and returns to -find only the graves of those who would have died for him. - -But I am wandering a long way from what I was to tell you about—Dr. -Payson. - -I was dressing my doll one day, when my mother called me to come to her. -I knew that some visitor had just come, for I heard the bell ring, and -then a trunk drop heavily in the entry. I thought very likely it was a -minister, for my mother always had a plate and a bed for them, and it -made no difference, as I have told you, in her kindness, whether the -minister was a big doctor of divinity, or a poor country clergyman, -unknown beyond the small village where he preached. Well, as I told you, -my mother called me; and it _was_ a minister who had come, and he had -gone up to his room with a bad nervous headache, brought on by traveling -in the heat and dust; and I was to go up, so my mother said, and bathe -his head with a preparation she gave me; very gently, and very quietly, -as he reclined in the big easy chair. I did not want to go; I did not -like ministers as well as my mother did; and I often used to run out one -door, as they came in at another; and I was often obliged to come back, -with a very red face, and shake hands with them. I did not like to hear -them say to me, that “my heart was as hard as a rock,” and that “if I -did not get it changed, I should go to hell.” My heart did not seem hard -to me; I loved everybody and everything _then_; and I loved God too, in -my own way, though not in the way they seemed to want me to, because I -should go to hell if I did not; this thought made my heart grow hard in -a minute—made me “feel ugly,” as children say; and that’s why I ran away -from the ministers who kept telling me what a “wicked” child I was. - -So you may be sure, when I heard what my mother said, I took the bottle -she put in my hand, which I was to use in bathing the minister’s -forehead, very unwillingly, and went very slowly up stairs to my task. -My mother had been there before me, and closed the blinds, and given him -a footstool for his weary feet; and there he sat, looking very pale, -with his eyes closed, and his head laid back in the easy chair. He did -not look at all like the other ministers I was so afraid of; and I -cannot tell you why, as I tip-toed up to his chair, and moistened my -fingers to bathe his heated forehead, and pushed back the dark locks -from it, that I thought of the pictures I had sometimes seen of our -Saviour, which looked to me so very sweet and lovely. He did not speak, -or open his eyes, as my fingers moved over his temples; but I knew that -it gave him relief, because he soon sank into a gentle slumber, and his -head drooped a little on one shoulder. - -I cannot tell why I did not then go out of the room—I, who disliked -ministers so much—when I might easily have done so; but instead, I sat -down on a low seat near him, and watched his face, as if there were some -spell in it, which forbade me to go; and I felt so quiet and happy while -I sat there, and dreaded lest some one should call me away. By and by he -stirred, and passing his hand slowly over his forehead, opened his eyes; -they were dark and soft as a woman’s. Holding out his hand to me, with a -smile which I have never forgotten to this day, he said, as he drew me -to his side, and laid his hand upon my head, “The Lord bless you! my -child;” then he seated me upon his knee; but he said not a word to me -about “hell,” or my being “wicked,” but closing his eyes again, he began -telling me the story of the Saviour’s crucifixion. Now, I had heard it -many times before, I had read it myself in the Bible, when I was told to -do so, and yet, that day, in that quiet, darkened room, with that gentle -hand upon my shoulder, I heard it for the first time. For the first time -my tears fell, and my heart went out to the pure, patient sufferer on -Calvary. When the story was finished, in those low, sweet tones, I did -not speak. Placing his hand upon my head, he said, again, “The Lord -bless you! my child;” and so I passed out with his loving benediction, -and closing the door, listened still on the other side, as though only -_there_ I could learn to be good. - - * * * * * - -Many, many long years after this, when I was a grown woman, I visited my -birthplace, Portland, from which my mother removed when I was six weeks -old. I wandered up and down the streets of that lovely, leafy city, and -tried to find the church where good Dr. Payson used to preach. Then, -too, I wanted to see the house where I was born—the house where he laid -hands of blessing on my baby forehead, when it was purple with what they -thought was “the death-agony.” But where it was that the little, -flickering life began, I could not find out; for my mother had then gone -to the “better land.” Ah! who but God can comfort like a mother? who but -God can so forgive? How many times I have shut my eyes, that I might -recall her face—her blue, loving eyes, her soft, brown, curling hair; -and how many times, when in great trouble, I have said, “Mother! -mother!” as if she _must_ hear and comfort her child. - -[Illustration: GRANDPA’S BALD HEAD—Page 27.] - - - - - GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD. - - -“Shall I have a bald head, grandfather, when I am eighty?” asked little -Kitty; “and will it shine, and be smooth, like yours?” “Your head don’t -look much like it now, little puss!” said the old man, lifting the -silky, yellow curls; “and that puts me in mind that I’ve a story to tell -you—a ‘real, true story;’ and all about grandpa, too. - -“When grandpa was little, like you, he didn’t live in a city like this, -where the houses all touch one another, and it is as much as ever one -can get a glimpse of the sky, because they are so tall. He lived in a -little log house, ’way off in the forest, and there was no other log -house in sight for a great many miles. There were no carriages to be -seen there, or fine ladies, or fine gentlemen; but there were plenty of -squirrels darting up and down the trees, and running off to their hiding -places; and there were more little birds than I could count hopping over -the ground, and singing in the branches overhead; and there were plenty -of pretty wild flowers, peeping out here and there, in quiet, -out-of-the-way little places, and little patches of bright green moss, -so soft and thick, that they looked just like velvet cushions, for -little fairies to sit on; and there was a red and white cow, who gave us -plenty of good milk for breakfast and supper; and some funny little -pigs, with black, twinkling bead eyes, and very short tails, who went -scampering about just where they liked, and munching acorns. - -“The log house was very rough outside, but my mother had planted blue -and white morning glories, and bright yellow nasturtiums, all around it, -and they climbed quite up to the little roof, and hung their blossoms -about it, so that, had it not been for the funny old chimney, peeping -out of the top, you might have thought it a little bower, like the one -down in your mother’s garden yonder. Sometimes my mother took me on her -knee at sunset, and sat in the doorway, to watch the little birds and -squirrels as they went to bed, and sometimes I sat by her side in the -grass, while she milked the old red and white cow. Sometimes I watched -my father as he chopped wood. I liked to see the great ax come down in -his strong hand, and I liked to see the splinters of wood fly about. -Often he would cry out, ‘Not so near, Dan! not so near, boy; or some -fine day I’ll be chopping your head off!’ At this, my mother would come -running out of the house, and catching me up under her arm, set me down -in the doorway, after she had placed a board across, to prevent my -clambering out again. But one day my mother had gone out, far into the -forest, to look for the old red and white cow, who had strayed away; so -I was left alone with my father. I was very glad of that; because he was -so busy chopping and piling up his wood, that he hadn’t much time to say -‘What are you at, Dan?’ as my mother did, who seemed to me to have eyes -in the back of her head, whenever I wanted to be mischievous. So, at -first I sat quite still on the doorstep, as my mother told me, watching -my father’s ax as it gleamed in the sun, and then came down with a crash -in the wood. By and by I got tired of this, and crept a little nearer; -and as my father did not notice it, I hitched on a little farther and -then a little farther, so that I could see better. Then I got quite -close up, and just as my father raised the ax to strike, I stooped my -head to pick up a splinter of wood from the log he was chopping. The -next moment I found myself fastened down tight to the log, and heard my -father groan out, as if he were dreadfully hurt. Then he caught me up in -his arms, kissed my face, and held it up to the light, while his own was -as white as if he were dead; for there, on the log, on the edge of the -ax, lay one of my long yellow curls, and I was not killed at all, nor -even scratched; and here,” said the old man, taking a paper from his -pocketbook, and drawing out a bright, golden curl, “here is the lock -that the ax cut off, instead of grandpa’s head; it don’t look as if it -ever grew on this bald, shiny pate, does it? See, it is just the color -of yours, Kitty; grandpa keeps it in his pocketbook, and whenever he -feels troubled and worried about anything, he looks at it, and says, -Well, God took care of me _then_, and I won’t believe that he will -forget me _now_.” Little Kitty took the curl in her hand, and looked at -it very steadily awhile. Presently she looked up at her grandpa and -said, “Did your mother whip you when she came back, for getting off the -doorstep?” “No,” said grandpa, laughing, “I think she forgot to do that. -I remember she gave me a great deal of milk that night for my supper, -and kissed me, and cried a great deal, when she tied on my nightgown and -put me into bed.” - - - - - JOHN BROWN. - - “John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave, - His soul is marching on!” - - -You have all heard that song, sung at the piano at home, whistled in the -street, and shouted by the soldiers as they went off to the war; well, -shouldn’t you like to have me tell you what sort of a _child_ John Brown -was? - -[Illustration: JOHN BROWN.—page 32.] - -Little boys who live in cities, and wear velvet coats, and hats with -plumes in them, and have long, silky curls, just like a little girl’s, -hanging over their shoulders to their belts, and drag along through the -streets holding on to a nurse’s hand, when they are seven or eight years -old, and are more afraid of a little mud on their boots or on their -velvet coats than anything else; who have more rocking horses, and -whips, and humming tops, and velocipedes, and guns, and swords, and -marbles, and Noah’s arks, and bat and balls, than they know what to do -with, can hardly imagine how a little boy in the country, with none of -these things, and with nobody to amuse him, or to tell him how to amuse -himself, could possibly be happy or contented. I am going to tell you -about John Brown, who was another kind of boy. He had never seen a city, -or wore a hat on his head. He jumped out of bed himself without any -nurse, and ran out of doors barefoot into the grass, eating a bit of -bread for breakfast, or anything that came handy. There were no houses -about, for he lived in a little hut, in the wilderness, with nothing but -trees, and wild beasts, and Indians. He was only five years old when his -father took him and his mother in an old ox cart, and went ’way off in -the forest to live. As I told you, he had no toys; and he used, though -such a little fellow, to help drive the cows home; and now and then he -would ride a horse, without any saddle, to water. Sometimes he would -watch his father kill rattlesnakes—great big fellows, too, such as you -have shuddered to look at, even through a glass case in the Museum; and -he learned not to be afraid of them, too. At first he trembled a little -at a live Indian, when he met him in the woods, and was more afraid -still of his rifle; but very soon he became used to them, and liked to -hang about and see what they did; and after a while he learned some of -their queer talk himself, so that they could understand each other very -well. I suppose he got along with the Indians much better than his -father, who stammered very badly, and is said never to have spoken plain -at all, except when he was praying. Wasn’t that very strange? Johnny’s -father used to dress deerskins; and Johnny learned it so well by -watching him, that he could at any time dress the skin of a squirrel, or -a raccoon, or a cat, or a dog. He learned, too, to make whiplashes of -leather, and sometimes he would manage to get pennies for them, which -made him feel very grand, just as if he kept shop. When he was about six -years old, a poor Indian boy gave him a marble—the first he had ever -seen. It was bright yellow, and Johnny thought it was splendid, and kept -it carefully a long while, turning it over, and holding it up to the -light, and rolling it on the floor of his father’s hut. One unlucky day, -Johnny lost the yellow marble. I dare say you will laugh when I tell you -that it took years to cure him of mourning for that marble; and that he -used to have long fits of crying about it. But you must remember that it -was the only toy he ever had, and that there were no shops about there -where he could get more. One day, after the loss of the marble, he -caught a little squirrel. It bit Johnny badly while he was catching it. -However, Johnny held on to him, for he was not a kind of boy to let a -thing go, after he had once made up his mind to have it; and so the -squirrel made the best of it, particularly when he found he had lost his -bushy tail in the fight, and he let Johnny tame him, and feed him, and -he would climb up on Johnny’s shoulder, and look at him with his little -bright eye, and then scamper down again over the grass, and then back -again, and perch on Johnny’s hand, so that he was just as dear to him as -your little brother is to you; or the good little boy next door, who -plays with you in your father’s yard, and never once vexes you. One day -Johnny and his squirrel went into the woods to play; and while Johnny -was busy picking up sticks, the squirrel wandered away and got lost; and -for a year or two after that, the poor boy mourned for his little pet, -looking at all the squirrels he could see, for his own little bob-tailed -squirrel, because no other squirrel would do but that one he had tamed -and loved. But he never found him; and, between you and me, perhaps it -was just as well for the squirrel. I dare say he is cracking nuts quite -happily in some snug tree, and scampering about with his little baby -squirrels, and has quite forgot Johnny and his lost tail. - -What Johnny liked above all things, was to be sent off by his father a -great way though the wilderness, with droves of cattle; and when he was -only twelve years old, he used to go with them more than a hundred -miles. What do you think of that? He was quite proud of it himself, and -nobody could have affronted him more than to offer to help him at such -times. He was more like a little Indian than anything else; he could -hear so quickly any sound a long way off; and he declared that he had -often smelled the frying of doughnuts at five miles’ distance. Pretty -good nose, hadn’t he? - -When Johnny was eight years old, his mother died. Ah! you may be sure -that the loss of the yellow marble, and the bob-tailed squirrel, was -nothing to this. He cried and mourned for her, as he wandered through -the woods, or drove cattle for his father, and I suppose sometimes, -though he loved his father, that when he came within sight of the little -hut, he would rather have lain on the ground all night, than to have -gone into it, and missed her pleasant “Well, Johnny, is that you, dear?” -Well, he got along as well as he could, and grew a hardy, tough lad in -the open-air work his father gave him to do. - -Some time after this, when away some hundred miles from home with a -drove of cattle, he stopped at an inn with a landlord who had a very -bright little slave boy, just Johnny’s age. This little slave boy’s -master made a great pet of Johnny, and brought him to the table with his -best company, and repeated all his smart sayings, and asked them if they -did not think it wonderful, that a boy of his age could drive so many -cattle safely one hundred miles from home? And, of course, they petted -Johnny too, and praised him, and thought he was quite a wonder. I -suppose Johnny would have felt very nice about it, had it not been that -the little slave boy, who was just his age, and as bright a little boy -as Johnny, was beaten before his very eyes by his master, with an iron -shovel, or anything that came handy; and while Johnny was fed with -everything good, this little fellow was half starved, and half frozen -with cold, on account of his thin clothing. Johnny could not forget -that; he had never seen anything like it before; when he went to his -comfortable bed, it troubled him; when he ate good food, it seemed to -choke him; when he put on warm clothes, he felt ashamed to be warm, -while the little slave boy was shivering; and Johnny felt worse, because -he was only about ten years old, and couldn’t do anything to help him; -but as he was going home through the woods, he said, aloud, as if he -were telling it to “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” “When I grow bigger, -I’ll fight for the slaves; and I’ll fight for the slaves wherever I see -them, so long as I live.” For all this, Johnny was such a bashful boy, -that about this time, when a lady to whom he was sent on an errand gave -him a piece of bread and butter, he did not dare to tell her he didn’t -eat butter, but as soon as he got out of the house he ran for a long -distance, till he was out of sight, and then threw it away. - -About this time a friend of Johnny’s, who owned some good books, offered -to lend him some to read, for he knew how to read, although he had been -to school but little. He liked history very much, and became so -interested in these books, that he wanted to know all the people who had -studied and read books too, and who could tell him about the world, and -things which had happened in it, and how everything came about; and this -desire for learning gave him a dislike to foolish talk and foolish -people; and whenever he heard any sensible talk go on, as he traveled -off with his cattle, he just pricked up his ears, and stored it away in -his little head, to think of when he got home. You have no idea how much -he picked up and how much he educated himself in that way. It would -shame many boys who go to good schools, only to turn out lazy, stupid -dunces. - -When Johnny was fifteen, his father put him at the head of his currier -and tanner establishment. Here Johnny had a large company of men and -boys to look after. Now, _men_ don’t like much to have a _boy_ order -them to do this or that, even though they are working for that boy’s -father; but Johnny was so bright and knowing, and pleasant, that you -will not be surprised to hear that they got along nicely together. -Instead of quarreling with him, the men used to praise him for being so -smart; so that, though he was very bashful when he began business, by -the time he was twenty, he began to think he really _was_ a smart -fellow, sure enough. But that was natural, you know; and I only think it -was a wonder he was not quite spoiled by so much praise, and so much -power, when he was so young. His young brother used to make fun of him -and call him “King Johnny,” because he spoke in such a decided way to -the workmen, when he wanted anything done; but Johnny went about his -business and let him talk. He had his hands full cooking his own -dinners, and learning arithmetic, and surveying, and I don’t know what -else besides; for he was not a fellow who could even be idle a minute, -you may be sure of that. The world was too full of things he wanted to -know, and he was in too great a hurry to get at them. - -All the time John was a young man, he never wanted, or wore, fine -clothes, although he was neat and tidy. He ate plain food, and never -touched tobacco, or spirits, or tea, or coffee. He drank milk, or only -water. So, you see, he had a clear head for study and business, and I -don’t think he ever knew the meaning of the word “dyspepsia.” When John -got a letter, he always wrote on the back of it the name of the person -who wrote it, and either “Not answered,” or “Not time to read,” or “No -answer needed.” I tell you this to show you how thoroughly he did -everything he undertook; and so honest was John, that he refused to sell -his customers any leather, until every drop of moisture had been dried -out of it, because the water would make it weigh more, you know, and, of -course, he would get money that did not _really_ belong to him. I think, -had John lived in New York, some of the business men here would have -thought him crazy, or he would have thought them crazy; but, you see, -John couldn’t cheat; not even though he should never be found out in it. -Most young men, when they are of John’s age, think more about their own -affairs than anything else—their own business, their own pleasures, -etc.; whether they will ever be rich men, _how_ rich they will be, and -all that. It was not so with John. He wanted money, ’tis true, but all -this time he had not forgotten the little slave boy, and others like -him, and it was for such as he that he wanted money, that he might help -them away from their masters, and help them to be free by and by. He -married, and had many children of his own, and when these children grew -up, they all felt just as their father did about the slaves. After a -time, John helped eleven slaves to get away to Canada, where they were -quite safe. How glad they must have been! and how they must have loved -John! Somebody asked John how he felt when he got them there? he said -that he was so happy about it, that he was quite ready to die then. But -there was other work for John and his boys to do. There was a place -called Kansas, where John’s boys went to live; but as soon as the people -there found out that John’s boys and himself loved the slaves, they -began to steal their cattle, and burn their fences, and try, in every -possible way, to trouble and bother them. So John’s boys wrote home to -the old man about it, and told him that he must send them some guns and -muskets, to defend their property and their lives with. Well, the old -man didn’t have to stop to think long about that. He told his other -boys, who were living at home with him, about it, and they agreed to -start right off for Kansas, with as many guns and muskets as they could -get. John had no idea of his boys out there being murdered and robbed, -without fighting for them, especially when they were treated so merely -for pitying the poor slaves. When they reached there, John and his four -boys, they each had a short, heavy broadsword strapped to their sides. -Each one had a quantity of firearms and revolvers, and there were poles -standing endwise round the wagon box, with fixed bayonets, pointing -upward. Oh! I can tell you, he was in real earnest about it! Well, they -suffered great hardships there, while fighting for their rights: one of -John’s boys was taken by the enemy, and driven with chains on him, so -far in a hot sun to prison, that he became a maniac; another of his sons -was so injured, that he became a cripple for life; another son was -murdered while quietly walking along the road, and as he lay a corpse on -the ground, one of his brutal enemies discharged a loaded pistol in his -mouth. All this John had to bear, but he only said, “It is very hard; -but my sons have died in a good cause—died for the poor slaves.” Most -people thought, “John has had enough of it now; he will fight no more -about slavery; he has taken the rest of his boys back to his old home in -the mountains, and he will not be in a hurry to have them killed.” - -They were mistaken. John was only waiting to whet his sword. He knew how -to wait. One day, the whole country about Harper’s Ferry was in a state -of distraction. The women and children were frightened to death, for -John Brown was down there; and it was said he was going to help all the -slaves he could to get away from their masters; and that his boys were -there to help him, and a great many other men; and that they had guns, -and swords, and pistols in plenty, and meant to fight fiercely, if -anybody tried to hinder them. John chose Harper’s Ferry, because there -were mountains all about it, and he had known every turn in them, and -all their valleys, too, for seventeen years, and in case they were -beaten, he thought it would be a good place for himself and the slaves -to hide in, as well as a good place to fight from. The first night of -John’s attack on the town, he and his men put out all the lights in the -street, and took possession of the armory, where the firearms, you know, -are kept. Then they took three watchmen, and locked them up in the -guardhouse. There must have been friendly black people in the town who -helped them do all this. Some of them cut down the telegraph wires, and -others tore up the railroad track after the train had passed. When it -came daylight, John and his men took prisoner every person who came out -into the streets, and when people said, “Why do you do this? What do you -mean?” John and his men said, “We mean to free the slaves!” One of the -workmen employed at the armory, when he came to work that morning, and -saw an armed guard at the gate, asked of John’s guard, “By what -authority have you taken possession of this building?” “By the authority -of God Almighty!” said he. - -Well, one after another, the workmen who came to their work in the -armory that day, were taken prisoners. There was a terrible panic, I can -tell you. John and his five sons were inside the armory grounds, while -others were stationed outside the walls, to hold the town—some at the -bridges, some at one place, some another. When the workmen whom John -took prisoners told him how troubled their wives and children would be -about them, John kindly allowed them to go home, under a guard of his -soldiers, to tell them not to be frightened. John wanted, in doing this, -to make the people understand that the prisoners in his hands should not -be hurt; a brave man, you know, is always a tender-hearted man. Poor -John! he lingered too long about these things. The people whom he -allowed to go in the cars, before he tore up the railroad track, wrote -on little slips of paper terrible accounts of him, and scattered them -through the country as the cars went flying through; so the first thing -he knew, one hundred soldiers came to Harper’s Ferry from Charlestown. -Now, indeed, they had bloody work. John’s men began to get killed, but -not one of them but sold his life as dearly as he could, fighting -fiercely till he could fight no longer. Some lay dying in the street, -some of the corpses floated down the river, some were taken, bleeding -and gasping, to prison. Even after John’s men were dead, his enemies -continued to kick and beat their insensible bodies, and many ran sticks -into their wounds. And now John knew that all that was left him, was to -sell his life as dearly as he could. With one son dead by his side, and -another shot through, he felt the pulse of his dying boy with one hand, -and held his rifle with the other, and told his few men about him to be -firm and calm. He said that his boys came with him to fight of their own -accord, and that they had died in a good cause. Well, the soldiers soon -battered down the building, and got in where John and his men were. An -officer, as soon as he saw John, although he and his men had then done -firing, struck him in the face, and knocked him down. The same officer -repeated the blow several times, and then, when John was lying on the -ground, helpless, another soldier ran his bayonet twice into the old -man’s body, whose face and hair were clotted with blood. Then they -searched his pockets, and took what they wanted, and then carried him, -bleeding, to the guard house, and laid him on the bare floor, without -anything under him. Then the governor hurried down to see him, with -several of his friends, and though the poor old man was writhing in -agony with his wounds, and the blood and the smoke were not yet washed -from his face, for thirty hours they let him lie upon the floor, with -his head propped up on a chair, while they questioned him, and while the -mob insulted him. After that, John was carried off to Charlestown jail, -under a guard of soldiers. The body of John’s son was carried off for -the doctors to cut up. Seven days after this John was dragged from his -bed, and being unable to stand, was supported on each side by an officer -into court, and there laid on a bed, to be tried by the laws of -Virginia, for what he had done. Well, John had a “_Virginia_ trial.” - -A trial, you know, is a fair hearing on both sides. John was faint and -bleeding, and unable to stand; they refused to let him have a lawyer to -speak for him, and declared him guilty without hearing at all his side; -although the law declares a man innocent till he is proved _by law_ to -be guilty. Then they told the jailer to shoot him if anybody tried to -help him escape; and this was John’s _trial_. Now, John did not wish to -die with the character of a robber or a murderer, and before they took -him out of court, he lifted his head up from his mattress and told them -that he had not had a fair trial; that he was too sick to talk; that his -money, fifty or sixty dollars in gold, had been taken from him, and that -he could not now pay anybody to do any errands for him; that they ought -to give him time to send for his friends. But it was of no use, because -they had determined _not_ to give him time; so he was brought into court -again on his bed soon after, and sentenced to be hung, _i. e._, if he -did not die first, on Friday, the second day of December; and when the -judge said that John would be hung where everybody would have a chance -to see it, one man jumped up before John and clapped his hands, because -he was so glad that he should see the brave old man die. - -Forty-two days in all, John lay in a Charlestown prison. All that time, -sick as he was, no clean clothes were given him, although sixty dollars -of his money were taken from his pocket when he was arrested. All those -forty-two days and nights, he had lain there in the stiff, dirty, -blood-stained garments in which he fell. - -Well, John had two Virginia militia companies come out of curiosity to -see him in prison. He treated them civilly, but told the jailer, after -they left, that he did not like being made a monkey show of. Everybody -who loved slavery, was allowed to gape and stare at John as much as they -pleased; but John’s friends, although they were ladies and gentlemen who -had traveled a long distance, found it hard work to get leave to take a -peep at him. - -John’s wife wanted to come and see him before he died, and bid him good -by. John told her she would be insulted and badly treated, and she had -better stay at home with the children; and besides, I suppose, John was -afraid it would make it harder for him to die, and leave her and the -girls all alone in the world. But the poor woman could not bear not to -look in the face of her children’s father once more, and at last John -told her she might come. When she got there, the jailer led her into the -cell, but she could not speak to John, nor John to her. She only laid -her head upon his breast, and clasped his neck with her arms. - -Then, seeing a heavy chain on John’s ankles, and fearing it might pain -him, she kneeled on the floor and pulled two pair of woolen socks on his -feet. Then John told her what to say to his children at home, and how he -wanted them to live, when he was dead; and that she must pay some money -to some persons for him, whom he named; and then he read her his “will,” -which he had made. And then John and his wife ate their “last supper” -together. Perhaps these words will remind you, as they did me, of -another “Last Supper.” And then the jailer, Captain Anis, told the poor -wife that she must go. And then John said to his wife, “God bless you! -Mary; good by;” and then she went out, and never saw John more, till she -looked upon his dead face. - -There were three ropes sent to hang John Brown with; South Carolina sent -one, Missouri one, and Kentucky one. They chose the Kentucky rope, -because it was the stronger, and then it was shown, in public, to the -people. Well, the second day of December, when the old man was to be -strangled, came at last. It was a lovely day, so mild and warm that the -windows of all the houses were open. The scaffold was to be in a field, -half a mile from the jail. At seven in the morning the carpenters came -to fix it. At eight o’clock the soldiers began to come; horsemen, -dressed in scarlet jackets, were placed about the field, and a double -line of sentries farther on; then the State of Virginia, fearing, after -all this, that it would not be safe enough from a feeble, sick old man, -brought a huge brass cannon, so placed and pointed, that if a rescue -were attempted, John might be blown into little atoms in a moment. There -were about five hundred soldiers in the field; and lines of them were -stretched over fifteen miles. There were not many people of the place -there to see John hung, for they dared not leave their slaves alone at -home, for fear of mischief in their absence; for all the poor slaves -knew very well that John was to be hung that day, because he was _their -friend_. - -At eleven o’clock, they brought John out of jail, and put him in the -wagon, to drive him to execution. - -As John stepped from out the door of his prison, a black woman, with a -little child in her arms, stood near. He stopped for a moment, stooped -over, and kissed the little black child. Soon after, as he passed along, -another black woman said, “God bless you! old man. I wish I could help -you, but I cannot.” This made the tears come in John’s eyes for the -first time. - -By John’s side was seated the undertaker, and on the wagon was a black -coffin, enclosed in a box, because his body was to go to his poor wife -after these Virginians had done with him. Then several companies of -soldiers, mounted on horseback, rode beside the wagon, which was drawn -by two white horses. As they went along, John looked at the lovely Blue -Mountains and the bright sky, and the warm sunshine spread over all, and -said, calmly, “This is a beautiful country; I have not seen it before.” -The jailer, who sat beside him, could hardly say “yes,” he was so -astonished to see John so quiet and smiling, as if he were only taking a -ride on that lovely day. Then the undertaker said to John, “You are more -cheerful than I am, Captain Brown.” - -“Yes,” said the old man, “_I ought to be_.” - -And now the wagon had come to the field, where stood the gallows, and -all those hundreds of soldiers, and the great brass cannon. The bright -sun shone on the bayonets and muskets of the soldiers and their gay -uniforms, and the lovely Blue Mountains looked very calm and peaceful; -and the soldiers kept very close to old John, for Virginia felt uneasy -till the breath was out of him. Then John got out of the wagon and stood -on the scaffold, and took his hat off for the last time, and laid it -down by his side. Then he thanked the jailer, who had been kind to him; -then they tied his elbows and ankles; then they drew a white cap over -his eyes, and then they put the Kentucky rope around his neck. Then the -sheriff told John to step forward; and John said, “I can’t see; you must -lead me.” Then the sheriff asked John to drop his handkerchief, for a -signal for him to hang him; and John said, “Now I am ready; only don’t -keep me long waiting.” - -When John asked his enemies for time for his trial, they wouldn’t let -him have any; now, when he did not want any more time, they kept him -waiting. So they made the old man stand there, blindfolded, full ten -minutes, while they marched the soldiers up and down, and in and out, -just as if they were drilling on parade. Some of the soldiers felt -ashamed of this cruelty to the old man, and muttered between their -teeth, for it was as much as their necks were worth to say it loud, -“Shame! shame!” Then, at last, after the military maneuvers were over, -the rope was cut, and John struggled and strangled and died. Then, you -know, after that, Virginia had to be _very_ sure the old man _was_ -really dead; so first the Charlestown doctors went up and poked him -over, and pulled him about; then the military doctors had their turn; -lifting up his arms, and putting their ears a great deal closer to his -breast than they would have cared to do once, to see if he breathed; -then they swung the body this way and that, in the air, for thirty-eight -minutes. Then they lifted the body upon the scaffold, and it fell into a -harmless heap. Then, although all the doctors who had pulled him around -declared that he was dead, still Virginia was so afraid of John, that -she insisted on cutting the dead body’s head off, or making it swallow -some poison, for fear, by some hocus pocus, it might wake up again. But -it didn’t wake—_at least, not in the way they expected_. But there is -fierce fighting down in Virginia to-day; for, though John Brown’s body -lies mouldering in the grave, - - _His soul is marching on!_ - - - - - THE PLOUGHBOY POET. - - -Mother Nature does not always, like other mothers, lay her pet children -on downy pillows, and under silken canopies. She seems to delight in -showing that money shall buy everything _but_ brains. At any rate, she -not only opened our poet’s big, lustrous eyes, in a clay cottage, put -roughly together by his father’s own hands, but, shortly after his -birth, she blew it down over his head, and the mother and child were -picked out from among the ruins, and carried to a neighbor’s for safe -keeping—rather a rough welcome to a world which, in its own slow -fashion, after the mold was on his breast, heaped over it honors, which -seemed then such a mockery. - -But the poor little baby and his mother, happy in their mutual love, -knew little enough of all this. A good, loving mother she was, Agnes by -name; keeping her house in order with a matron’s pride; chanting old -songs and ballads to her baby-boy, as she glided cheerfully about; not -discouraged when things went wrong on the farm, and the crops failed, -and the table was scantily supplied with food—singing, hoping, trusting, -loving still; a very woman, over whose head cottages _might_ tumble, so -that her _heart_ was but satisfied. - -Robert’s father was a good man, who performed each day’s duty as -carefully as though each day brought other reward than that of having -done his duty. It is a brave, strong heart, my dear children, which can -do this. All can labor when success follows; it is disaster, defeat, -difficulties, which prove what a man’s soul is made of. It is just here -that the ranks grow thin in life’s battle—just here that the -faint-hearted perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to the -enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his duty, plodding on, year after -year;—when one plan failed, trying another; never saying, when his day’s -work was done, “Ah! but this is too discouraging! I’ll to the alehouse, -to drown my griefs in strong drink!” Neither did he go home moody and -disconsolate, to drive his children into corners, and bring tears to the -eyes of his toiling wife. But morning and evening the prayer went up, -with unfailing trust in Heaven. Oh! but that was glorious! I love -William Burns! Did he say at night, when so weary, “_Now_, at least, -I’ll rest?” Not he: there were little bright eyes about him, out of -which the eager soul was looking. So he gathered them about his armchair -on those long winter evenings, and read to them, and taught them, and -answered their simple yet deep questions. One of Robert’s sweetest -poems, the Cotter’s Saturday Night, was written about this. Robert’s -father told his children, too, of the history of their country; of -skirmishes, sieges, and battles; old songs and ballads, too, he repeated -to them, charming their young ears. Was not this a lovely home picture? -Oh! how much were these peasant children to be envied above the children -of richer parents, kept in the nursery, in the long intervals when their -parents, forgetful of these sweet duties, were seeking their own -pleasure and amusement. More blessed, surely, is the humblest roof, -round whose evening hearth gather nightly, all its inmates, young and -old. - -Nor—poor as they were—did they lack books. Dainties they could forego, -but not books; confusedly thrown about—soiled and thumbed; but—unlike -our gilded, center-table ornaments—well selected, and well read. And so -the years passed on, as does the life of so many human beings, quiet, -but eventful. - -Who sneers at “old women”? I should like to trace, for a jeering world, -the influence of that important person in the Burns family. Old Jenny -Wilson! Little she herself knew her power, when, with Robert Burns upon -her knee, she poured into his listening ear her never-ending store of -tales about fairies, and “brownies,” and witches, and giants, and -dragons. So strong was the impression these supernatural stories made -upon the mind of the boy, that he declared that, in later life, he could -never go through a suspicious-looking place, without expecting to see -some unearthly shape appear. Who shall determine how much this withered -old woman had to do with making the boy a poet? And yet, poor humble -soul—that is an idea which seldom enters the mind of his admirers. The -bent figure, with wrinkle-seamed face, gliding noiselessly about your -house, doing odds and ends of household labor, now singing a child to -sleep, now cooking at the kitchen fire, now repairing a garment, or -watching by a sickbed—always on hand, yet never in anybody’s way; -silent, grateful, unobtrusive, yet beloved of Heaven—have you not known -them? - -Robert’s mother, the good Agnes, had a voice sweet as her name. The -ballads she sang him were all of a serious cast. She had learned them, -when a girl, from _her_ mother. Oh, these songs! Many a simple hymn, -thus listened to by childhood’s ear, has been that soul’s last utterance -this side the grave. All other childish impressions may have faded away, -but “mother’s hymn” is never forgotten. That strain, heard by none else, -will sometimes come, an unbidden, unwelcome guest; and neither in noise -nor wine can that bearded man drown it—this _mother’s hymn_! Sing on, -sing on, ye patient, toiling mothers! over the cradle—by the fireside. -Angels smile as they listen. The lark whom the cloud covers, is not -lost. - -The father of Robert Burns did not consider, because he was a poor man, -that it was an excuse for depriving his boys of any advantages of -education within his reach, as many a farmer, similarly situated, and -intent only on gain, has thought it right to do. His good sense, in this -respect, was well rewarded; for Robert’s first teacher said of him, that -“he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was -difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business.” It -is such scholars as these who brighten the otherwise _dreary_ lot of the -teacher. Pupils who study, not because they must, and as little as -possible at that, but because they have an appetite for it, and crave -knowledge. Of course, a good teacher endeavors to be equally faithful to -all the pupils who are intrusted to him—the stupid and wayward, as well -as the studious. But there must be to him a peculiar pleasure in -helping, guiding, and watching over a pupil so eager to acquire. The -mother bird, who coaxes her fledglings to the edge of the nest, and, by -circling flights overhead, invites them to follow, understands, of -course, how the little, cowering thing, who sits crouched on a -neighboring twig, may be too indolent, or too timid to go farther; but -she looks with proud delight upon the bold little soarer, who, observing -well her lesson, reaches the top of the tallest tree, and sits, swaying -and singing, upon its topmost branch. - -Robert, however, had not always the good luck to have, as in this case, -an intelligent, appreciative teacher. I suppose it is not treason to -admit, even in a child’s book, which, by some, is considered a place for -tremendous fibbing, that a teacher may occasionally err, as well as his -pupil. That teachers have been known to mistake their vocation, when -they have judged themselves qualified, after trying and failing in every -other employment, to fill such a difficult and honorable position. - -It seems there was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to whose school Robert was -sent. It was the very bad custom of those times, when pupils of his age -first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern, and treat him to -some liquor. This Robert did, in company with another boy, named Willie, -who entered at the same time. Do you suppose that schoolmaster ever -thought remorsefully about this in after years, when he heard what a -wreck strong drink had made of poor Robert? Well, the boy Willie and -Robert became great friends from that day; often staying at each other’s -houses, and always spending the intervals between morning and afternoon -school, in each other’s company. When the other boys were playing ball, -they would talk together on subjects to improve their minds. Now, as -they _walked_ while they talked, their omitting to play ball was not of -so much consequence as it would otherwise have been—at least, according -to my motto, which is, _chests first, brains afterward_. But to go on. -These disputatious youngsters sharpened their wits on all sorts of -knotty subjects, and also invited several of their companions to join -their debating society—whether to improve them, or to have an audience -to approve their skill, I can’t say; perhaps a little of both. - -By and by the master heard of it. He didn’t like it. He had an idea boys -should have no ideas that the master didn’t put into their heads for -them. So one day, when the school was all assembled, he walked up to the -desks of Robert and Willie, and began, very unwisely, to taunt them -about it before all the scholars—something in this style: “So, boys, I -understand that you consider yourselves qualified to decide upon matters -of importance, which wiser heads usually let alone. I trust, from -debating, you won’t come to blows, young gentlemen,” &c., &c. Now, the -boys who had not joined their debating society, set up a laugh, like -little rascals, at the rebuked Robert and Willie. This, of course, as -the teacher should have known, stung them to the quick; and Robert, with -a flushed face, resolved to “speak up” to the master. I find no fault -with his reply, which was this; that both he and Willie rather thought -that he (the master) would be pleased, instead of displeased, at this -effort to improve their minds. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed -contemptuously, and said he should be glad to know what these mighty -nonsensical discussions might be about. Willie replied that they had a -new subject every day; that he could not recollect all; but that the -question of that day had been, whether is a great general, or -respectable merchant, the more valuable member of society. At this, Hugh -Rodgers laughed more uproariously and provokingly than before, saying, -that it was a very silly question, since there could be no doubt for a -moment about it. “Very well,” said Robert Burns, now thoroughly roused, -“if you think so, I will take any side you please, if you will allow me -to discuss it with you.” - -The unfortunate schoolmaster consented. He commenced the argument with a -pompous flourish in favor of the general. Burns took the other side, and -soon had the upper hand of the schoolmaster, who made a very lame reply. -Soon the schoolmaster’s hand was observed to shake, his voice to -tremble, and, in a state of pitiable vexation, he dismissed the school. - -Poor man! he understood mathematics better than human nature; and -himself least of all. This was an unfortunate victory, for two reasons. -It was an unnecessary degradation of a man who had his estimable -qualities, and it increased the self-sufficiency of young Burns, who was -born with his arms sufficiently a-kimbo. Alexander-fashion, he soon -sighed for another conquest. His bedfellow, John Nevins, was a great -wrestler. Nothing would do, but he must floor John Nevins. Strutting up -to John, he challenged him to the combat. John soon took that nonsense -out of him, by laying him low. Vanquished, he sprang to his feet, and -challenged him to a discussion. _There he had him!_—John having more -muscle than brain. Burns’s pride was comforted, and he retreated, a -satisfied youth. This is all I know about Robert’s _childhood_. - -Silver hairs were now gathering thickly on his good father’s temples, as -he toiled on, to little use, while children grew up fast about his -knees, to be fed, schooled, and clothed by his labor. Robert and his -brother looked sadly on, as his health declined. Robert had little -inclination for his father’s work, and yet, somebody must take his -place; for consumption was even then making rapid and fearful havoc with -his constitution. The good old man ceased from his labors at last, and -went where the weary rest. For a while, Robert strove to fill his -place—strove well, strove earnestly. But the farmer who stops to write -poems over his plough, seldom reaps a harvest to satisfy hungry mouths. -And so, poverty came, instead of potatoes, and Robert Burns, although -the troubled eyes of his wife looked into his, and his little children -were growing up fast about him, and needed a good father, to teach them -how to live in this world, and to earn bread for them till they became -big enough to earn it for themselves, it came about that, instead of -doing this, he drank whisky to help him forget that he ought to keep on -ploughing, if poetry did not bring him bread, and so made poverty a -great deal worse. His wife was very, very sorrowful about it, and his -little children became tired of waiting for him to love them, and care -for them. Perhaps you say, Oh, how _could_ he do so? My dear children, -how can _anybody_ ever do wrong? How can _you_ ever vex your dear -mother, who is so good to you, and go pouting to bed, and never tell her -that you are “sorry”? and still, while you are sleeping, that dear, -good, forgiving mother stoops over your little bed, and kisses your -forehead, and looks to see if you are warm and comfortable, before she -can sleep, the same as if you had been a good child, instead of a bad -one. I hope you will think of this before that good mother dies, and -tell her that you are very sorry for grieving her; and I hope, too, that -Robert Burns, before it was too late, said that he was sorry for -grieving those who loved him, and for wasting his life; but I do not -know about that. - - - - - OLD HICKORY. - - -Many a time, I dare say, you have sat on your bench at school, with your -cotton handkerchief spread over your knee, looking at the stern face of -this famous man upon it; every bristling hair upon his head seeming to -say for itself, In the name of the commonwealth, stand and deliver! You -have thought, perhaps, that a man with such a sharp eye and granite face -as that, must be a very terrible person, whose heart was quite left out -when he was made, and whom little children had better run away from. It -is just because this was _not_ true, that I first believed in General -Jackson. A brave man is never a mean one; and it _is_ mean to despise or -bully children and women. I place _children_ first, because every woman -who has ever had one, does so. But to my story. We, who have lived so -peacefully and quietly in the land for which our brave ancestors fought, -do not think as often as we ought of the sufferings and trials through -which they purchased it for us. Until lately, our houses were not burned -down over our heads, or ransacked and robbed, nor our mothers and -sisters insulted before our eyes, nor our fathers and brothers dragged -off as prisoners of war, and kicked and cuffed for sport by the enemy. -All this, Andrew Jackson’s boyish eyes saw. Do you wonder at the fire in -them? One of his earliest recollections was of the meeting house in his -native place turned into a hospital for his wounded, maimed, dying, -brave countrymen; and his own widowed mother, leading him there by the -hand to nurse them, and dress their wounds, and comfort them, as only a -woman with a strong heart and angel touch can. Could the boy stand by -and see all this, and not long for the time when he should grow big, and -stout, and tall, and help fight for his country? Could he help being -impatient, he, the son of this unprotected mother, when one after -another of these poor fellows was brought in, with their fresh, ghastly -wounds, and laid down to die? And when, later, his cousin’s house was -taken by the British, and the furniture was broken in pieces, and his -cousin’s wife was insulted by the officers, and he and his brother were -taken prisoners, and ordered by the officer, with an oath, to clean his -muddy boots; and, because they both refused, were cut and slashed across -the face and head by this bullying, cowardly fellow, Andrew then being -only twelve years old; and then were marched miles and miles away down -South, and not allowed a morsel of food by the way, and forbidden even -to scoop up water from the streams they were fording, to quench their -feverish thirst? Ah! do you wonder now at that stern face? Suppose your -dear mother, whom your dear father, whom you can just remember, loved so -tenderly, was driven across the country with you and your little -brother, from place to place, for safety, in those troublous times, and -subjected to all kinds of hardships, bearing up under it bravely, as -good women will. Suppose that when you and your brother—still boys—were -dragged off as prisoners of war, this dear, brave mother traveled off -alone, and never rested till she managed, by an exchange of prisoners -with the British general, to get her dear boys back again; but wan and -wasted with small pox, and the wounds that they had received from that -big, cowardly British officer, all undressed and uncared for; these -boys, _her_ Andrew, her Robert? Well, as your mother would have nursed -you and your brother through her tears, so Andrew Jackson’s mother -nursed her fatherless boys. But was Andrew a boy to forget either his -mother’s love, or the British? No, indeed! And when, after he became -well, and the whole band went to live in the house of a friend, and -Andrew picked beans, and pulled fodder, and drove cattle, and went to -mill, do you wonder that when he was sent to the blacksmith’s, to get -the farm tools mended, he brought home spears of iron, and all sorts of -odd-looking, rough weapons, that, while waiting for the blacksmith, he -had himself manufactured “to kill the British with”? Do you wonder that -he fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and exclaimed, fiercely, as -he cut down the weeds with it, “Oh! if I were only a man, wouldn’t I -sweep off the British with my grass blade?” And he did it, too, -afterward. Let those who call him “fierce, savage, vindictive,” remember -how these sorrows of his childhood were burned in upon his soul; -remember what burning tears must have fallen upon the little bundle -containing all his dead mother’s clothes, she who had struggled and -suffered through the war of the Revolution, and left him an orphan at -fifteen years, with only the memory of her love and his country’s -wrongs. As he stood weeping over that little bundle, friendless, -homeless, and heart-broken, thinking of all she had been to him, and -looking wistfully forward into the dim unknown, he did not see the -future President of the United States, and hear his voice falter as he -said, “I learned that, years ago, from my dear, good mother!” Well might -he remember her then. You ask me if Andrew found no opportunity to get -an education in these troublous times? You may be sure his mother knew -the value of that! and sent her boys, when quite young, to the best -schools she could find in their native place. Schools, in those days, -were not the furnace-heated, mahogany-desked affairs we see now. Pupils -did not carry an extra pair of shoes to put on when they entered, for -fear of soiling the floor. Velvet jackets were not worn by the boys, nor -gold bracelets by the girls. Andrew Jackson’s schoolroom was an old log -house made of pines, the crevices being filled in with clay, which the -boys used to pick out when it came spring, to let in the fresh air. In -this school no French, nor drawing, nor “moral science,” was taught. -Reading, writing, and arithmetic was all. For a gymnasium, there were -the grand old trees, which the freckled, sunburnt, redheaded Andrew was -free to swing upon when school was done; and he went up and down them -like a squirrel. I think he was better at that than at his books, if the -truth must out; however, “learning” did not go before chests in those -days, luckily for us, who enjoy the blessings for which our fathers’ -strong arms fought. So Andrew studied some, and leaped, and wrestled, -and jumped more;—was kind to defenceless small boys, but had his fist in -the face of every fellow who made fun of him, or taunted him, or in any -way pushed him to the wall. - -Andrew had one very bad habit when a boy, which, I am sorry to say, -followed him all his life. He swore fearfully! An oath, from anybody’s -mouth, is hateful; but from a _child’s_ mouth! I know nothing more -saddening and pitiful. Often, I know, children will use such words, -quite unconscious of their meaning, as they pick them up from those who -have no such excuse for their utterance, till the habit becomes so -fixed, that only in later life, when they pain some person who is -“old-fashioned” enough to reverence the name they use so lightly, do -they become conscious of the extent of this disgusting habit. The idea -of its being “manly” to swear is ridiculous enough; since the lowest, -most brutal ruffian in creation, can, and does, outdo you in this -accomplishment. I think Andrew would have enjoyed his boyish sports -quite as well without these bad words; and he _was_ a splendid fellow -for all athletic exercises. Had he been alive when that game of cricket -was won by the English cricketers, I don’t know what would have -happened; well, it _wouldn’t_ have happened; or had it, the victors -would never have gone home alive to tell of it! - -Andrew was a good son to his mother; he was honest, and truthful, and -kind to her always. He never forgot her as long as he lived. He used -often, when President of the United States, to stop in the midst of his -conversation, and say, reverently and proudly, “_That_ I learned from my -good mother!” - -One cannot help feeling sad that she should have lived long enough only -to bear the burden and heat of the day, and not share with her boy its -calm repose and reward. And yet, who can believe that a mother and son -so loving are divided, though one crosses alone the dark river before -the other? We have seen, of a fine summer morning, after the sun shone -out, fine gossamer threads, before invisible, floating, yet fixed, in -the air above us. So, when the light of eternity shines on our -life-path, shall these chords of a mother’s love be seen to have -entwined themselves around and about us—leading us in a way we knew not. - -Jackson’s life was a strange one. It is for me only now to speak of his -childhood and youth. His relation to our country’s history will not -suffer you to rest satisfied with this. His after-life is better told -than I could tell it you, by a man who is now looking over my shoulder, -and who says, I have just told you a fib. If you read “Parton’s Life of -Andrew Jackson,” however, you will see that I have told the truth. - - - - - THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY. - - -I was sitting, this morning, at my window, looking at a fine sunrise, -when suddenly I thought, how terrible, were I to become blind! And then -I asked myself, were I to choose between blindness and deafness, how -should I decide? Never to see the dear faces, never to see the blue sky, -or green earth, or delicate flowers;—never to listen to the melody of -birds, or the sweet voices of the trees and streams, or hum of busy -insect-life; or, more dreadful still, never to hear the sweet voices of -those I love;—oh, how could I choose? When we murmur and complain, -surely we forget the blessings of hearing and sight; they are so common, -that we forget to be grateful; so common, that we need to have written -pitying words to the deaf of our own kin, or led the sightless, fully to -understand their sufferings. And yet all the world is not now dark to -the blind, or voiceless to the deaf, thanks to the good people who teach -both these unfortunates. How different was their position once, a long -while ago! Let me tell you about it. - -In France lived a little boy, born of parents who had six deaf and dumb -children, three boys and three girls. It must have been very dull to -them all; but one of them, little Pierre, seemed to feel it most. -Children of his own age would not play with him, they seemed to despise -him; so he trotted round like a little dog, trying to amuse himself with -sticks, and stones, and anything that came in his way; his body grew -tall, like other children’s, but his mind remained a little baby. He -didn’t know whether he had been made, or had made himself. His father -taught him to make prayers by signs, morning and evening. Poor little -fellow! he would get on his knees, and look upward, and make his lips -move, as if he had been speaking; but he did not know there was any God: -he was worshiping the beautiful sky. He took a great fancy to a -particular star, because it was so bright and beautiful; and at one -time, when his mother lay very sick, he used to go out every evening, -and kneeling down, make signs to it, to make her well; but finding that -she did not get any better, he grew very angry, and threw stones at the -star, supposing that it might, after all, be the cause of his deafness, -his mother’s sickness, and all their other troubles. Seeing others move -their lips when speaking, he moved his, hoping the talk would come out; -and sometimes he made noises like an animal. When people told him the -trouble was in his ears, then he took some brandy, poured it into his -ears, and then stopped them up with cotton, as he had seen people do who -had cold in their heads. Pierre desired much to learn to read and write. -He often saw young boys and girls who were going to school, and he -desired to follow them; not that he knew what reading and writing really -were, but from a feeling that there were some privileges and enjoyments -from which he ought not to be shut out. The poor child begged his -father, as well as he knew how, with tears in his eyes, to let him go to -school. His father refused, making signs to him that he was deaf and -dumb, and therefore could never learn anything. Then little Pierre cried -very loud, and taking some books, tried to read them; but he neither -knew the letters nor the words. Then he became angry, and putting his -fingers into his ears, demanded impatiently to have them cured. Then his -father told him again, that there was no help for it; and Pierre was -quite heart-broken. He left his father’s house, and without telling him, -started off alone to school, and going into the schoolhouse, asked the -master, by signs, to teach him to read and write. The schoolmaster (I -think he could not have had any little children of his own) refused him -roughly and drove him away from the school. Then Pierre cried very much; -but you will be glad when I tell you that, although only twelve years -old, he was such a little hero that he wouldn’t give up. He took a pen, -and tried, all alone, to form the writing signs; and that, indeed, was -the best and only thing he could do, and he stuck to it, though -everybody discouraged him. - -His father used sometimes to set him to watch the flocks; oftentimes -people, in passing, who found out his condition, gave the boy money. One -day—and it was a great day for poor Pierre—when he was thus watching the -flocks, a gentleman who was passing took a fancy to him, and inviting -him to his house, gave him something to eat and drink. Then the -gentleman went off to Bordeaux, where he lived. Not long after, Pierre’s -father, for some reason or other, moved to Bordeaux; and then this kind -gentleman spoke of Pierre to a learned man of his acquaintance, who was -interested in deaf and dumb persons, and he consented to take Pierre and -try to teach him. Are you not glad? and you will be gladder still, when -I tell you how fast he learned, and how, by his own strong will, -assisted by his kind tutor, he unriveted, one by one, the chains with -which his wits were bound, and casting them aside, stood forth under the -bright star, at which he used to throw stones, and understood now what -it was, and who made it. You may be sure that nobody had to tease little -Pierre to learn _his_ lessons, as some little children have to be teased -to study theirs. No indeed! he felt like jumping and leaping for joy -that he was able to learn; and it seemed to him that there was nothing -left in the world worth fretting about, now that he could learn, like -other children. - -That is all I know about little Pierre, but I hope he grew up a _good_ -as well as a smart man; don’t you? - - - - - THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS. - - “Like as a father pitieth his children.” - - -According to this text, Charlotte Brontë, though no orphan, had no -father. She was born in the little village of Haworth, England. Her -father was a clergyman, and a very curious man, if the stories told of -him are true. I dare say he may have been a good man in his way, but I -don’t fancy his way. I don’t like his burning up some pretty little red -shoes, belonging to his little children, because he did not like the -color. I don’t like his firing off pistols, when he got angry, and -terrifying his little meek wife. I shouldn’t want to hear such a -terrible minister preach, had I gone to his church. Well, never mind -that. His feeble little wife was taken very sick, and the doctor said -she must die; die, and leave those little children to the care of this -father I have spoken of, who seemed to be about as fit for the charge, -as an elephant would be to take care of little humming birds. One touch -of his great paw would crush the life out of them. - -[Illustration: LITTLE CHARLOTTE.—Page 82.] - -You may be sure the poor dying mother felt badly enough about all this, -as she lay in her bed, growing thinner, and paler, and weaker each day. -She could see the churchyard where she was to be buried from her chamber -window; in fact, one had to pass through it, with its moss-grown -tombstones, to get to the house, which was a very gloomy one at best, as -parsonage houses are too apt to be. I suppose she tried very hard to -feel willing to leave them; but she found she could not do it, if she -saw their dear little faces every day. So they did not go to her -sick-room any more; she could hear the pattering of their tiny feet in -the entry, and their hushed whispers as they passed her door, and so, -pressing her hands tightly over her mother heart, to still its pain, and -leaning on the Crucified, she passed away. - -It is very dreadful for a child to lose its mother—much worse, I think, -than to lose a father; because a father, be he ever so good and kind, -_must_ be away from his little ones, and cannot, by any possibility, -understand their little wants and ways as a mother can; and a child’s -heart is such a tender thing to touch; one may mean well, and give it -such exquisite pain, and the poor thing cringes, and shrinks, and has no -words by which it can tell its distress. But suppose the father -understands nothing about a child’s heart. Suppose he thinks to treat it -like a grown person’s, who has been knocked about the world till he -don’t care for anything, who never cries, never laughs, never is glad, -never is sorry, never wants to lay his head on a dear, kind shoulder, -and cry—what then? Suppose that father, instead of taking breakfast, -dinner, and supper with his lonely little children, takes his meals up -in his own room, and leaves them sobbing over theirs, while they try to -swallow the food that tasted so sweet when their dear mother sat at the -head of the table—what then? Suppose it was a bleak, dreary country -where they lived, where no flowers grew, where were no gardens; and -that, when these little children became tired of huddling together, like -a frightened flock of lambs, in their gloomy nursery, where never a -cheerful fire was lighted, or cheerful lamps twinkled when night came -on—suppose they tied on their little bonnets, and, led by the eldest, -who was only seven, went through the damp churchyard, past their -mother’s grave, and out on the bleak, cold hills to walk, without their -father to lead them by the hand, or take them up in his arms when tired, -or speak a kind word, or warm their little chilled hearts or hands in -any way? Suppose day after day went by in this fashion, what sort of -children do you suppose they would become? Healthy, hearty, rosy, -jumping little things, such as God and man love to see, loving play and -frolic, with broad chests and shoulders, and bright eyes and hearts? Not -at all. They never once thought of playing; they hadn’t a toy in the -house; their heads grew big, and their bodies grew little; and they were -as wide awake at night, as if somebody had hired them not to go to -sleep. But their father slept soundly, all the same as if their little -hearts were not like an empty cage, out of which music and beauty has -taken wing forever. Well, _God loved them; that’s a comfort_, and that -thought kept little Charlotte’s heart from sinking, when she tried to be -mother to her younger brothers and sisters; all the while she needed a -mother herself, more than any dictionary could ever tell. - -After a while, an aunt came to their house, to take charge of them. I -was glad of that. I hoped she would make them play dolls, and run, and -jump about; I hoped she would make the fires and lamps burn cheerily, -and go round the house shedding brightness from her finger tips, as only -a woman knows how. I hoped she would go out to walk with the little -orphans, and when they came home to supper, sit down with them at the -table, and say funny things to make them laugh; and good things to make -them happy and glad. I hoped she would tie on their little night dresses -with her own hands, and kiss them down on their pillows, and say, God -bless you, my little darlings! It was _such_ a pity she didn’t. I am -sure a _woman_ ought to understand little children better than she -seemed to. But she just shut herself up in her room, the same way their -father did, and took all _her_ meals alone. I have no patience with her. -I wish I had lived near them; they should have eaten and drank with me, -poor little souls! Well, they had a kitchen, and a good old servant, -named Tabby, in it, and, from what I can find out, she was more of a -mother to them, in her rough fashion, than anybody else. I told you -these children had no toys; and, what was worse, they did not want any; -they used to read newspapers and talk politics, just as your father and -his gentleman friends might, in your parlor. As to “Mother Goose,” I am -sure they never heard of her, though they read many books that are -considered much wiser, and which were just as much out of place in a -nursery, as a joint of roast beef would be to set before your little -month-old baby, for its dinner. But how should they know that? Nobody -about them seemed to think that childhood comes but once; or, in fact, -was intended to come at all for them. “Milk for babes” was not the -fashion at Haworth parsonage. Well, time passed on, till their father -concluded to send Charlotte away to school, with her sisters. So they -were put into a little covered cart with their things, and jolted along. -I hope their father kissed them when they went away, but I am not at all -sure of it. I am afraid he was too dignified. It is hard enough for a -child to go away to school with a warm kiss on the lips, and a trunk -full of comfortable clothes, in every stitch of which is woven a -mother’s blessing. It is hard enough for a healthy, romping child, who -is able to ask for what it wants everywhere, and on all occasions, to -leave home, and go a long distance to a strange school, even though it -may have letters often, and plum cakes often, and all sorts of little -love-tokens, which home delights to send to the absent one. But to these -little timid ones, who had never played with children, and were as much -afraid of them as of strange, grown people; who had come up, shy and -awkward and old-fashioned, and were painfully conscious of it, as soon -as it was brought to their notice by contrast with those children, who -had come from their warm firesides like some graceful house-plants, full -of blossoms and verdure—ah! it was very sad for the poor little Brontë -girls. What could they do when they got there, but stand at the window, -and cry, as they looked out upon the snowy landscape? And when the girls -urged them to play ball, and other such healthful games, they had no -heart for it—no physical strength for it, either; they would have been -tumbled over forty times in a minute, by their playmates, like so many -ninepins, with a great, thumping ball. Well, they had a bad time of it, -any way, at this school—bad food, bad air, and exposure. I suppose, too, -their clothes were not warm enough, for the hand was cold that would -have made the warm garment for those bloodless, shrunken limbs. It is -“mother’s” fingers that fit the cloak close to the little neck, so that -through no treacherous crevice the cruel “croup” may creep; it is -“mother’s” fingers that quilt the little winter skirt with the soft, -warm wool, and furnish the thick stocking, and comfortable hood. It is -“mother’s” eye which sees just the thing that is needed to meet all -weathers. We can imagine how they went shivering along, half clad, to -the church on Sunday, where never a fire was lighted; how blue were -their fingers; how cold their little feet! No wonder they grew sick. -Little Maria Brontë, who was delicate under the remains of the whooping -cough, suffered most severely from cold, and want of nourishing food. A -blister was applied to her side for her relief, and the poor, weak -child, happening to linger in bed one morning later than the usual hour -for rising, was harshly dragged in this state into the middle of the -room, and then punished, because she had not strength enough to dress -herself in time to appear with the other scholars. This must have been -very hard to bear. Perhaps you ask, Why didn’t Charlotte Brontë write -home about it? She had two reasons: one was, that both she and her -sisters were most anxious to learn everything that they could learn at -this school; and in the next place, they had been so accustomed to keep -all their childish troubles to themselves, although their hearts were -nearly breaking, that I don’t suppose they once imagined, if they -thought of it, that it would do any good to complain. So they shivered -in the cold, and tried to swallow the bad food that was given them, when -they grew so hungry they could not do without it, until poor little -Maria grew so very bad, that her father had to be sent for. God pitied -the poor child, and took her to heaven, to be with her mother. She died -a few days after reaching home. Charlotte and Emily, the two remaining -sisters, did not long stay in the school after their sister’s death. I -think their father at last woke up to the thought, that _they_ might die -too, and nobody might be left at the old, gloomy parsonage, to send up -his meals, or wait upon him, or read to him, or mend his clothes. So he -brought them home too. I believe all children are fond of being in the -kitchen. They are active, and like to see what is going on; they like to -watch the cooking, and ask questions about it—often, much better than -the cook likes to answer. The little Brontë girls’ cook was named Tabby, -and a funny old woman she was. She was very kind to them, but she would -have her own way, and made them do as she said; still, I have no doubt, -from what I know of her, that she put by many a nice little bit for -their hungry mouths, and told them a great many fairy stories, as they -cuddled round the old kitchen fire, when her work was done; but I think -they had to be very careful not to meddle with anything without leave, -or get in her way, when she was hurried or busy; and that was all right -enough, for the poor old thing must have elbow-room, you know; besides, -it is a good thing for a child to be taught that it may not order about -a good, faithful servant, old enough to be its mother, merely because -she is a servant. - -About this time the little girls began to amuse themselves writing -little plays, poetry, and “compositions” for their own amusement. They -had a little “make believe” newspaper, too, for which they and their -brother Patrick used to write, and old Tabby had to speak pretty sharp, -sometimes, to make them go to bed, when they were busy with these -things. I suppose they did not care to go to bed early, for they did not -sleep as healthy, happy children do, the moment their heads touch the -pillow, until a mother’s soft kiss wakes them to a new day of joy; but -no doubt they turned and tossed, and wished it were daylight, and all -their sorrows grew larger and more intolerable to bear in the silent, -dreary night. They who have been in great trouble know this; when the -faintest leaf-whisper, from one tree to another, seems like spirit -voices, torturing one with a language which you try, but _cannot_ -understand; when the dear ones who are dead seem so very near, and yet -so very far away; when their faces seem to look out from the darkness, -like a star suddenly appearing from a black cloud, and then again -wrapped in its dusky folds. No wonder the nervous, lonely little Brontës -begged Tabby not to send them to bed. - -Charlotte did not stay long at home; her father resolved to send her -away to school again, and her little sister and brother were forced to -do without her. - -When persons interest us very much, it is natural to wish to know how -they look. - -Well, then, Charlotte Brontë, at the time she went to this school, was a -very homely little girl. One of her schoolmates draws for us this -picture of her, at that time: “I first saw her coming out of a covered -cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, looking very cold, and very -miserable. When she afterward appeared in the schoolroom, her dress was -changed, but just as old-fashioned. She looked like a little old woman, -so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking something, and -moving her head from side to side to catch sight of it. She was very shy -and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was given -her, she dropped her head over it, till her nose nearly touched it, and -when she was told to hold her head up, up went the book after it, so -that it was not possible to help laughing.” Another schoolmate says, -that the first time she saw Charlotte, she was standing by the -schoolroom window, looking out on the snowy landscape and crying, while -all the rest of the girls were at play. Poor child! no doubt she felt -desolate enough. Fortunately for Charlotte, her teacher, Miss Woolen, -was a lady of intelligent mind and kind heart. She understood the -odd-looking, timid, wise little being before her. She knew that there -was a gem, all but the setting. So she did not overlook the knowledge -stowed away in that little busy brain, because grammar and geography had -found no place there. Then came the question, how to manage this little -sensitive pupil, without keeping back the other girls in the class, who -already understood these branches, though, perhaps, they were far behind -her in others. At first she thought she _must_ put her in the second -class, till, as school girls say, she had “caught up” with the other -girls. But the moment she mentioned it, Charlotte’s mortification and -distress were such, that, like a wise teacher, she saw that if she only -saved her this pain, by allowing her to go into the _first_ class, she -immediately would make up by private study wherein she was deficient; -and so it proved. - -One feels as glad at this kindness, as though she were one’s own little -sister. We find her, at this time, not playing with the other romping -girls, but standing in the playground with a book, or looking dreamily -at the scenery. When urged to join them in their sports, she said -No—always pleasantly. Playing ball, and such healthful games, she -probably disliked, as much, perhaps, for lack of bodily strength, as -from any other cause; though that would have come by degrees, had she -only allowed herself to try; it was a great pity she did not. However, -she was always so good-natured and amiable, that she was a favorite with -the girls, although she wouldn’t play with them. Sometimes, with the -natural freedom of their age, they would tell her that she was -“awkward,” or ugly; but this never displeased her, though, I have no -doubt, she felt sorry that they thought so. In the portraits of that -fine face of hers, which I have seen, the term “ugly” seems to be sadly -misapplied. Those might think so, who fancy a pink and white doll-face; -but neither could such see the _moral_ beauty of her daily life, over -that thorny road, every meek, patient step of which was as the Saviour’s -at Gethsemane. - -Charlotte remained a year at this school, studying very hard. This was -well, had she also remembered that her fragile body needed equal care -with her mind; for of what use is knowledge if there is no bodily -strength by which we can make it useful to those about us? Charlotte had -no watchful mother, to impress this upon her as a religious duty; to -remind her that she was as responsible for the care of her body, as for -the improvement of her mind. And so her mind kept on expanding, and -threatening to shatter its feeble prison house in pieces. It was a great -pity; but it seems even in England, where so much more attention is paid -than here to “raising” perfect, robust specimens of men and women, such -things do happen. At Miss Woolen’s school, Charlotte formed an agreeable -intimacy with two schoolmates—young ladies of her own age. This was a -great benefit to her, because she had been made so prematurely old in -her feelings, by loneliness and sorrow. One cannot help catching -animation and hope from a bright, joyous, fresh-hearted, breezy -companion, though one is ever so apt to look on the gloomy side of -things. And so it is quite cheering to know that, upon leaving Miss -Woolen’s school, and going back to her father’s dull house, these young -girls exchanged letters and visits with one another. And now, perhaps, -you suppose, that when Charlotte reached home, she sat down and folded -her hands in utter hopelessness, saying, “How awful dull it is here! -there is no use in trying to live in such a desolate old cage of a -place; it is really too bad for a young creature like me to be shut up -here. It is too bad for any girl so fond of reading, writing, and -drawing, to be a mere drudge in this lonesome place!” Perhaps you think -that, as she was a “genius,” she said or thought all this. Not at all; -and I’ll tell you why; because her genius was _genuine_, not sham. It is -only make believe geniuses who think the every-day duties of life -beneath their intellects. I want you to remember that Charlotte Brontë -did not shrink from one of them. She swept, and she dusted, and she made -beds, and she made bread (good, light, wholesome bread, too), and pared -potatoes, and watched the pot boil, and kept everything in as nice order -as if she had no taste for anything but housekeeping. Perhaps you think -then that she folded her hands, and said, “I should think I had done -enough now!” There you are wrong again. She looked from her window into -the little churchyard, where her mother was lying, and said, “Now I must -be a mother to my brothers and sisters!” and she repaired their clothes, -and she taught them; for she had _thoroughly_ learned her own lessons -and all those things she had studied at school. There’s a girl for you! -and all this, when she was so very fond of reading and writing, which -stood to her lonely heart in place of loving friends, for whom she -longed. - -At length, on account of want of money, it became necessary for some one -of the family to go out into the world to earn it. Who should it be? One -would have naturally supposed the brother, as being a sturdy, healthy -fellow, better able to fight his way than his delicate sisters, who -shrank timidly from the sight of strange faces and strange voices. It -seemed not the thing for _them_ to go out into the wilderness, to make -the path easy for _his_ feet? If so, _which_ of the sisters should do -this? Emily? Anne? or Charlotte? Emily grew homesick to that degree when -away, that her life was in danger, and was obliged to be recalled for -that reason. So, whoever was sent, _she_ must not go; for were there not -two sisters already in the churchyard? Anne was too young. _Charlotte_, -then, was, as usual, to buckle on the armor of duty over her brave -heart, and stagger forth with what strength she might, to face the -world. She was to be a _governess_! Imagine, if you can, the most -torturing situation in which to place such a nature as hers; and the -daily trial of it, could not come up to that included to her in the -little word “governess.” Fortunately, her _first_ experiment was with -Miss Woolen, her old teacher—her scholars being younger sisters of her -own playmates. Whatever she did, she did with her might; therefore, so -zealous was she to make herself useful in her new situation, and so -conscientious in the discharge of duties which a less noble girl would -have dodged, or evaded sufficiently, at least, to make the position -bearable, that we soon hear of the breaking down of her feeble body, so -that she almost became crazy. - -She had frightful thoughts and gloomy ideas about religious things; -anxiety about her sister Emily, who, resolving not to burden her father -with her support, had concluded to go forth likewise. Then she was -troubled, too, about the home affairs, which, as the elder sister, she -could not, even at a distance, shake off; and thus, leaving childhood, -which had been but childhood in name to her, we find Charlotte a woman, -brave yet fearful; timid but courageous; the lion’s heart in the humming -bird’s body. I meant only to have told you about her childhood; and yet -you may ask me, was Charlotte never again comfortable, light-hearted, -and happy? Did nobody but her sisters ever love her very dearly? Did -nobody else find out what a good, intelligent, gifted girl she was? Oh -yes, at last! At last came fame and honor to the little, quiet -Charlotte. Great men and great women wanted to know her, because she -wrote so beautifully, or, as they said, was “a genius;” and she had -plenty of complimentary letters and invitations to visit, and all the -publishers wanted to publish her books; and she earned money enough to -put a great many pretty things in the little dull parlor at home, so -that she hardly knew it to be the same room; but, dear me! by that time -all her sisters lay in the little churchyard with her mother; and poor -Charlotte looked about at all these pretty things, and great tears came -into her eyes, as she thought, Oh, _why_ didn’t all my money and my -friends come while _they_ were alive, and could have been made -comfortable and happy by them, so that we could all have lived at home -together, and not been separated, to go away and teach school? _Why?_ -Poor Charlotte could not find out that _why_, as she sat in that little -parlor, looking, with tearful eyes, at all the pretty things her money -had bought. Perhaps you ask what her father said now to his good, gifted -daughter. Oh, he sat up alone in his room, and was very proud of her; -but that didn’t warm _her_ heart any, you know. By and by a gentleman -came along and asked her to be his wife. And after a while she said, -Yes, I will. I suppose she thought, I want to be loved, more than -anything in this world. It is very well, perhaps, to be “a genius,” and -to be admired; but my heart aches all the same. Yes, I will be loved; -and then I shall be happy; for, after all, the brightest world is cold -and chilly, without love to warm it. I am glad she was married; because -her husband was good and kind to her, and she began to smile, and look -so bright you would not have known her. She was happier than she had -ever been in all her life. But one day, not long after she was married, -she caught a very bad cold, and everybody saw that she was going to die; -she had suffered very much in her life, and she was not strong enough to -struggle any more. Now, don’t say, “What a pity!” when I tell you that -she really died. It is never a pity, when the loving and the -tender-hearted go where there is no more grieving. - - - - - THE KIND WORD. - - -Not many years since, a poor blind man was feeling his way through some -of the public roads to a small town in England, in search of employment, -having only about him a small sum of money, contributed by some friends -of the same trade as himself. Though he could see nothing, he yet felt -the blessed, warm sunshine, and the soft southwest breeze that lifted -his locks so gently, and bore to him the perfume of the early flowers. -This was a joy. On his way a young woman, a foot traveler like himself, -inquired of him if he could tell her whether she was on the right way to -a certain town she wished to reach. Her voice was tremulous. The -kind-hearted blind man said at once to himself, the poor young thing is -desolate and troubled. I will help her. His kindness gave her -confidence, and she told him, as well as she could for her tears, that -she was turned out of her own father’s house by the unkindness of a -mother-in-law, and was then looking out for a situation as house maid in -some respectable family. The blind man was older than she; he knew well -the danger to which her youth exposed her. He immediately found the -young girl a safe place to lodge, and the next day gave himself no rest, -till he had groped his way through the streets of the town, and found a -kind family, who agreed to take her under the shelter of their roof. -Afterward he learned from her, that this act of kindness had saved her -from throwing herself into the river, when the poor creature was nearly -crazy with misery. I tell you this little bit of a story, to show you -that there is nobody in this world so poor or so miserable, that he -cannot help somebody else. Because _kind words_, you know, cost nothing; -and one can certainly always give _them_ to the unfortunate. _Of what -use is a kind word?_ Oh, surely you never were in trouble, or you could -not ask _that_! I believe heaven is full of those whom a kind word has -helped there; and our jails and prison houses here are full of poor -creatures who have gone there for _want_ of a kind word when they were -tempted to do wrong—for want of somebody to say, _Don’t_ do it! for if -nobody else cares for you, God cares for you; and you must care for -yourself, because you are to live forever. - - - - - THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE. - - -In the lovely island of Martinique, a little girl was born. With her -soft, dark eyes, lithe form, and fairy step, she was beautiful enough to -have been its fairy queen. The livelong day she sang and danced among -the flowers, the soft breeze lifting her locks, and tinting her cheeks -with rose. The servants who had charge of her, as she floated past them -in her light tissue robes, exclaimed, How beautiful she is! She was good -as well as beautiful; she did not abuse her power over them; therefore -they loved as well as admired her. Pity she ever left that pretty island -home, with its birds and flowers! Pity that diamonds should lie heavily -on the brow that looked so fair from under its wild-rose wreath. But in -another island—rugged, rocky, with bandit-infested mountains—a little -boy was born. - -His majestic, strong-hearted mother stepped like a Roman matron. One day -this Corsican mother was bending over the little Napoleon as he lay upon -her lap, when an old man came in. Looking at the child’s uncovered back, -he called Madame Letitia’s attention to a mark upon it, which he said -was that of a tree, feeble in its roots, but whose branches should reach -to the heavens. “This child,” said the gray-haired old prophet, “will -one day rule the world.” The beautiful young mother smiled -incredulously, as she looked around their simple room, where little -Napoleon’s brothers and sisters played and studied from day to day, -under her own eye, their hours for refreshment, sleep, and lessons -marked out by her, and never departed from, any more than if it were a -convent, and she its stately but loving lady abbess. “_Rule the world!_” -She looked into the baby’s calm blue eyes, and thought no more of it. -Were they not happy enough? It was a loving mother’s thought, but none -the less heaven-born for that. Rule the world! She took the white, -dimpled baby hand in hers, but never dreamed of “Marengo” or Austerlitz, -and alas!—least of all—St. Helena! - -By and by this little boy grew out of his mother’s lap, and began to cry -for a little cannon. When he got it, he collected around him a company -of little Corsican boys, himself the commander—even his baby head never -dreamed of taking any place but the highest—and began to drill them to -fight a battle with another boy company in the town. You may be sure -they all had to step to _his_ tune, even his elder brothers; and as time -went on, it was very soon understood in the family, that what Master -Napoleon said, was pretty likely to be done. His father looked on and -thought very deeply, and, like a wise man, carried his son to a military -school, where his wishes could be gratified, under proper -restraints—where he learned that he who wishes to command must first -learn how to submit. Here, being in his element, he was happy, quiet, -and diligent. Only once his fiery spirit broke out. His quartermaster, -one day, for some fault, condemned him to eat his dinner on his knees, -in the woolen dress of disgrace, at the door of the refectory. -Napoleon’s “sense of honor” was so deeply wounded by this, that he fell -upon the floor in a fit. When the headmaster heard of it, he became very -angry, and said, “What! _punish so severely my best mathematician_!” It -was a good, wholesome lesson for him, though, for all that. He didn’t -die of it! On the contrary, when he went home to Ajaccio, his native -place, to pay a visit in vacation, he gave his orders about the -education of his brothers and sisters as if he were the father of the -family, instead of the second son. We must do him the justice to say, -however, that his advice on these subjects was sensible, and well timed. -Perhaps his mother began to think there was something in the prophecy of -the old man about her son, more than she had dreamed of. We can imagine -her watching the young soldier, as he sat, for hours, under an old oak -tree near the house, dreaming about a future with which he had already -begun to grapple, although about it he could know so little. But -dreaming did not content him. He formed clubs among the young men, -delivered speeches, and, all unconsciously to himself, was working out -the destiny, step by step, foretold on his baby back by the old Corsican -herdsman. His eye had a strange fire in it, his voice a trumpet tone; -and they who listened, bowed to its strange, wild music, they could -scarce tell why. Even then he was no mere ranter; he had studied hard, -studied ceaselessly; the more difficulties he encountered in any branch -of knowledge, the more eager he grew to master them. It is said that at -school he never spent an idle moment; and when he came among his young -companions, they felt this. They knew, when Napoleon opened his mouth, -that he had something to say. It is all very fine for boys to dodge -school duties, and school tasks. Ah! how many of them, in after life, -would give worlds to recall those wasted hours in some great crisis, -when strong, powerful, well-chosen words, from him who knows how to use -them, would place in their hands so mighty a sceptre for the defense of -human rights! Not that this power is never perverted; but we are not to -speak of this now. The habits of intense study, industry, and close -application of the young Napoleon were the solid foundation upon which -the superstructure of his future greatness rested. This concentration of -mind it was that enabled him, in after years, with the rapidity of -lightning, to despatch business over which other military men would have -droned till the precious moment in which action would have been -available, had flown past. Remember this of Napoleon: he was a hard -student in his youth. Whatever he undertook he did _thoroughly_. _He -knew what he knew._ - -Meantime the lovely young girl of whom we have spoken, all unknown to -the young soldier, was dancing and singing the hours away. One day her -young friends said to her, “Josephine, come with us to Euphemia, the old -mulatto woman, and have your fortune told.” Josephine was not -superstitious, but still she held out her pretty hand to the old witch, -who examined it with great care, and, it is said, told her exactly what -really happened to her in after life. The gay Josephine only laughed and -tossed her bright head, saying, “Who promises so much, only creates -distrust,” and went back to her cottage home, quite unmoved at the -prospect of “becoming the wife of a man who would one day rule the -world.” If you ask me how the old Corsican herdsman, or how the old -mulatto woman in Martinique, knew what should befall Josephine and -Napoleon, I answer, “More than likely, the prophecies, like all rumors, -grew by repetition, and were mainly filled out after these things had -actually happened; because no sensible person ever believes that a human -hand is allowed to draw aside the curtain behind which God has wisely -hidden mysteries so great.” Josephine was young and happy; why should -she wish to be “great”? The old mulatto woman might chatter all day; she -did not chirp one sweet note the less. Unlike Napoleon, she disliked -study. Her mother, Madame Tascher, used to threaten her with a convent -if she did not skip less and study more. “My good and pretty child,” she -would say to her, “your _heart_ is excellent, but your _head_—ah, what a -head! I must send you away from home to France, among companions who, -knowing more than yourself, will show you how ignorant you are.” All -this, Madame said very seriously and coldly, for she saw that it was -high time something was done. Then she left her daughter to think it -over. - -To be found fault with, and threatened! That, indeed, was something new -to the petted child. She began crying in good earnest, so that her -servant women came running, to see what was the matter. Not being able, -as usual, to comfort her, they cried too, till the noise reached the -ears of her father, who was very fond of her. Now I am about to tell you -a secret. The truth was, it was not the idea of hard study which -frightened this pretty young lady, when her mother spoke of sending her -to France; but the idea of separation from a little boy-lover about -_ten_ years old, named William K. I don’t wonder you laugh; the idea -_is_ funny; but you must remember that a little Creole girl and boy, are -as old at ten, as a boy and girl of sixteen in our cold climate. Well, -this is all about it. Listen: William’s parents had come to Martinique -to live, in consequence of the misfortunes of the unhappy Prince Edward, -whose banner they followed. Arriving at Martinique, a friendship had -sprung up between the two families, and there Josephine and William had -been promised by their parents to each other, when they should be old -enough. _Now_ you know why the little girl-wife that was to be, cried so -hard at the idea of being sent away from Martinique. Well, the very -first chance my little lady had, she told her dear William what her -mother had threatened to do. Then William ran, crying, to _his_ mother, -about Josephine’s being sent away to France, and teased her to go to -Josephine’s mother, and beg her not to afflict her dear boy William so -cruelly; and that the child had actually fallen sick of a fever in -consequence, raving continually for “Josephine,” and begging his mother -to hide her from every eye, lest he should “lose his little promised -wife.” After a while, what with his mother’s comforting words, he grew -better, and William’s teacher being chosen for Josephine’s teacher, that -young lady suddenly took to study with a vigor which astonished -everybody, except William himself, who had his own reasons for not being -surprised. Suffice it to say, she drew well, learned to play both the -harp and piano, and was making great progress in the English language. -For a time all went on happily and well. But one evil day for Josephine, -William’s father found it necessary to leave Martinique for England, -with his family, to claim some property which had been left him. Now, it -was true that he had to leave on business; but it was also true, that -both the parents of the children had changed their minds about the -marriage of the little lovers. Now, I agree with you that this was very -cruel, after promising them to each other; but the fact was, in plain -black and white, that each loved money and position, better than the -happiness of these young people; however, they did not want a fuss, so -they kept quiet, and said nothing to the children about all that; they -merely separated them; and each was to suppose, after many anxious days -and months, spent in waiting for letters, that the other was forgotten. -It was too bad—I am quite angry about it myself; a promise is a promise, -and just as binding when made to a child, as to a grown person; and -more, too, because children are so trusting, that it is a greater shame -to deceive them. So William went to England with his father, and -Josephine wandered round the beautiful island, carving his name on the -trees, and saying to herself each day, _now_, to-day, I shall -_certainly_ hear from him! Surely, to-morrow, I _shall_ have a letter! -Meantime the beautiful Maria Tascher, Josephine’s elder sister, was -taken very sick. All that love and skill could do for her, was of no -avail. She died. After this, poor Josephine grew more sad than ever. She -never smiled now, or put roses in her hair, or danced with her young -companions; but sighed—oh, such _deep_ sighs for such a young thing—and -grew almost as pale as the dead Maria. - -It is very strange, but Josephine could talk much more freely with her -father than she could with her mother. So, when he questioned her one -day as to her unhappiness, she told him all. Now, Monsieur Tascher loved -his daughter after a fashion, but, as I told you, he loved money better; -and what do you think was his answer to the poor girl, who was so -broken-hearted about her lover, and so sad without the company of her -dear, dead sister? Why, he told her, that now that her sister was dead, -she (Josephine) must marry the gentleman whom her sister was engaged to -marry, had she lived. Monsieur Beauharnais was his name. Then the little -Creole cried till her eyes were half blind. In vain she told him that -she had promised William to marry none but him. Her father replied, that -in marrying M. Beauharnais, she would make the best match in Martinique, -but, as to William, he would never be a rich man. Josephine still kept -on crying. At last he told her a wicked fib: that since William had gone -to England, he had quite forgotten her. He did _not_ tell her, though, -that Josephine’s mother had in her possession twenty letters, which he -had written to his dear little wife, and which they had purposely kept -from her. Well, Josephine was spirited as well as loving, and when her -father told her that William had forgotten her, she said to herself, It -is very true; he has never written me one line. Then she shook the tears -from her beautiful eyes, as the rough wind shakes the dew-drops from the -rose, and holding up her flushed face to the bright sunlight, said, -proudly, “Marry me to whom you like; I will obey.” For all that, she -walked more than ever under the trees where they used to sit, and never -once did she carve the name of M. Beauharnais on her favorite trees. - -Now, Josephine had an aunt in Paris named Madame Renardin, who was -constantly writing to Madame Tascher to come to Paris with Josephine, -that the marriage might more easily be brought about. But Madame Tascher -was very fond of her own beautiful island, and replied to Madame -Renardin, Ah, it is very easy to make Paris look fine, when I am two -thousand leagues away from it; no, no! I will not come to Paris; but -Monsieur Tascher and I will send Josephine there to be married. This -they did not tell Josephine, however. There was no need. She knew what -was going on. She was too keen-sighted not to understand what all the -long talks meant, between her father and mother. In an agony of grief at -the idea of leaving the place where she and William had been so happy, -to go among strangers and marry a man whom she had never even seen, she -threw herself at her mother’s feet, and using the only argument which -she thought would avail her, cried, “Oh, mamma, save me! save _Maria’s -sister_!” At the mention of her lost and _favorite_ daughter, -Josephine’s mother fainted. Josephine’s father turned upon his daughter, -and frowning as he pointed to her insensible mother, said, “Has, then, -_her_ precious life ceased to be dear to you?” Poor Josephine said no -more. From that moment she resigned herself to her fate. - -Short work was made of the preparations for the voyage to France; -Josephine, meantime, walking for the last time under the trees, each one -of which had some happy story to tell—each one of which seemed to her -like a dear friend, from whom it were almost impossible to part. Now, -the day came when the ship was to set sail. A large number of islanders -had gathered upon the beach to wave hands and see her off. She had taken -leave of her father and mother, and stepped on board the ship. Suddenly, -a luminous meteor appeared in the heavens overhead, and by the aid of a -telescope which the captain handed her, Josephine examined it. Then the -captain told her, in great triumph, that “_she_ was the cause of it! -she—the future empress of France!” Then Josephine, for the first time, -remembered the prophecy of the old mulatto woman, who had told the -captain of it, and this was why the old sea-dog was in such glee at his -good fortune in having the illustrious little empress that was to be, on -board _his_ ship. This phosphoric flame, called “St. Elmo’s fire,” was -considered a good omen, and, at the time of their leaving, seemed to -form a sort of wreath around the ship. But everybody seemed more -interested in it than the poor, homesick Josephine, who could think only -of the home she was leaving, and the unknown home to which she was -going. The voyage proved very rough, and once they were in great danger; -but the mulatto woman had promised them a “through ticket,” and, of -course, they _went_ through, right side up! A young Creole named Lucy -accompanied Josephine, who was at this time only fifteen years old. You -will laugh when I tell you that the future empress carried her doll with -her, and that both she and Lucy used to play with them on the voyage. -But you will stop laughing when I tell you that when Lucy turned her -back, poor little Josephine used to talk to her doll about “William.” -Poor child! When her foot touched the coast of France, her woman’s life -began. The web was woven round her, and struggling was of no avail. - -Madame Renardin bore away her beautiful niece in triumph to her own -house, to show her to the rich husband they had selected for her. No -more doll-playing for her; no more rose wreaths; but, instead, diamonds, -and fashion, and frivolity, and an aching heart. Did “William” never -come? Ah, yes; he came to Paris, spite of them all, to see his -Josephine. He called at her Aunt Renardin’s, but of this they never told -her. He continued, however, to write her a letter, in which he begged -her to tell him why she had neglected him, which was conveyed to her by -a servant, who was immediately dismissed for giving it to her. Then, for -the first time, Josephine knew that William had been true to her, that -he loved her still! But she had given her promise to her parents, and -resolutely refused to see him. Poor Josephine! In her sixteenth year, -she married, to please her friends, her dead sister’s lover, Monsieur -Beauharnais. The marriage proved an unhappy one, through no fault of -little Josephine’s, who most carefully endeavored to please the husband -thus forced upon her. - -Meanwhile the young Bonaparte was making rapid strides toward the -fulfillment of the old Corsican herdsman’s prediction. On the death of -Josephine’s husband, she really became, as you all know, the wife of the -future emperor of France. How devotedly she performed her wifely duties -to the great conqueror, you all know, and how cruelly the ambitious -emperor set this noble woman aside, for the insipid little German -princess who was the mother of his much-coveted child, the Duc de -Reichstadt. In St. Helena, Bonaparte had plenty of time to think of his -injustice toward the good, brave Josephine, who, forgetting all the -misery he had caused her, would even then have lightened, by her -presence, the dreary exile from which his baby-faced German wife had -fled affrighted, back to the luxury of her father’s court. But death -stepped in, and snatched from the selfish Bonaparte this great -consolation of his last dreary hours. With _his_ name on her lips, and -her eyes fixed on his picture, which hung opposite her couch, she left -all France weeping over her grave. You ask, what of the child—the little -duke, whose birth this noble woman unselfishly rejoiced over, because -_it made Napoleon so happy_? Ah! it is of him I would now tell you. This -little duke, the child of so many hopes, did he, after all, sit upon the -throne of France? God is just. We shall see. - -The Emperor of Austria was the little duke’s maternal grandfather. It -was to his palace the little, pale child was taken. It was the wish of -this grandfather, who, notwithstanding all the stories told to the -contrary, dearly loved the boy, to make a German prince of him. If it -should prove that, as he grew up, he had a fondness for military life, -he should follow it; still, he was to be kept away from agitating -Frenchmen as much as possible, for reasons you will very well -understand. The child was delicate, as I told you, and his grandfather -petted him, and had the doctor to him, and, between you and me, I dare -say that last might have been the reason he did not grow stronger. But, -notwithstanding the pink spot on his pale cheek, he had the fiery spirit -of his father, the great Napoleon. Oh! how he hated to be physicked, and -how he pined to grow strong, that he might dash over the ground on a -fiery horse, with staring eyes, big nostrils, and pawing hoofs, who -would go straight through a cannon if he bade him, and come out at the -other end, without losing a hair of his tail. But the more the poor -fellow wanted to make a soldier of himself, the feebler he seemed to -grow, till he could hardly sit upright on the horse, at the side of -which might always be found his kind old grandfather, when not called -away by his duties, saying kind things to his grandson, and trying to -keep up his spirits. You ask, Where was his mother, Maria Louisa? Ah! -you may well ask _that_. She was anywhere but where she ought to be; she -could not be a good woman, even for the sake of her sick boy, in whose -face she might have seen death written, had she stopped flirting long -enough to take one good look at him. She was a miserable, bad woman, and -if the little duke had any good qualities, she took no pains to -encourage them. It was well he had a good, kind grandfather to love him, -poor, fatherless child! The French people did not relish having -Napoleon’s son at an Austrian court. Not they. They disliked Maria -Louisa, the young duke’s mother, who never said such gracious, graceful -things, as did the kind, whole-souled Josephine, who brought them all at -her feet with one of her beautiful, sunny smiles. Maria Louisa was quite -another thing, with her skim-milk face, as rigid when they saluted her, -as if they hadn’t a drop of generous blood in their bodies. They needn’t -have fretted lest the little duke should grow up like his mother, if he -grew up at all; for I can tell you that all Austria could not get the -Napoleonic fire out of his veins, nor, alas! poor fellow! disease -either. All his thoughts were about his father. He knew not only every -detail of his battles and campaigns, but all the peculiarities of his -marshals and generals. “Oh!” said he, speaking of Waterloo, “I have -often wondered my father did not follow my uncle, and perish at the head -of his guards; what a magnificent close would that have been to his -brilliant life. Ah! those perfidious English! why could they not have -treated him as I know he would have treated their great Wellington, had -the fortune of war thrown him into my father’s hands.” He was -passionately fond of reading everything he could lay his hands on, -pertaining to his father. He had, somehow or other, accumulated a -perfect library of biographies concerning him. To Prince Metternich he -once said, “The object of my life should be, to make myself worthy of my -distinguished father; I hope to reach this point, and appropriate to -myself his high qualities; taking care, however,” added he, with great -good sense, “_to avoid the rocks upon which he split_.” Afterward he -said, “How I hate this miserable, sickly body, which thus sinks under my -will!” As he said this, there was a gleam of the eye, and compression of -the lip, truly Napoleonic. - -On the eighteenth of June, 1831, he was appointed lieutenant-colonel, -and took command of the Hungarian regiment when in garrison at Vienna. -An immense crowd gathered to witness the spectacle; but alas! every eye -saw with what difficulty the poor young duke—fighting disease—sat upon -his horse. So evident was his great weakness, spite of his unquenchable -determination, that Dr. Margate, his physician, said to him, after he -had gone through his drill with the soldiers, “Monseigneur, I desire you -to remember that you have a will of iron in a body of glass; if you -persist in this exercise, it will kill you.” The next day, the doctor -considered it his duty to tell his grandfather the same thing. The -frightened old emperor, turning to his beloved grandson, said, “You have -heard what the doctor says; you must do this no more, but go directly to -my summer palace at Schönbrunn, and take care of your health.” The -disappointed duke bowed respectfully to his grandfather; but as he -raised his head, he glanced angrily at the doctor, saying, “It is _you_, -then, sir, who have put me under arrest!” A few weeks after this he was -attacked with quick consumption. He grew weaker and weaker, as he was -wheeled about the beautiful gardens of Schönbrunn, and he knew himself -that he must soon die; his chief anxiety seemed now to be, _whether he -should be able to know his father in the other world_. Poor Napoleon! -how he had coveted the love of this son! How eagerly that unhappy exile -at St. Helena had looked forward to it, and yet he was never to enjoy -it; was not the unhappy Josephine avenged? And not only in that! _Her_ -grandson now sits upon the throne, to obtain an heir to which, the -unhappy woman was thrust aside, for the foolish, weak daughter of the -house of Hapsburg; while _her_ child, of whom I have been telling you, -has long since lain in his bronze coffin, under the church of the -Capuchins, among the buried majesties of Austria. - - - - - TWO QUARRELSOME OLD MEN. - - -I saw such an unpleasing sight to-day! Two old, gray-headed men, their -lips white with passion, clenching their fists in each other’s faces, -and calling each other all the disagreeable names they could think of; -while the bystanders looked on, laughed, took sides, and encouraged them -to fight, for their own amusement. I could not laugh. I felt more like -crying. These old men, with one foot in the grave, who seemed to have -outlived everything but their own bad passions—it was a pitiable -spectacle! Ah! said I, to myself, as I walked away, I am afraid there -are two mothers somewhere (may be they are not alive now), who have been -sadly to blame; or those respectable-looking old men would not be here, -degrading themselves by a brawling street fight. I think, when they were -little boys, that “I will!” and “I won’t!” must have been intimate -friends of theirs (and very bad company they are, too). I think these -fighting old gentlemen were allowed, when they were boys, to come and go -when and where they liked, and to lie abed till ten o’clock in the -morning, till breakfast was all cold, and then stamp and kick till they -got a hot one. I think, when they neglected to get their lessons, and -were, very properly, reproved for it, at school, that their mamma -thought it was dreadful bad treatment, and took them away; and I think -that, when she sent them to another school, they often played truant; -and then told the teacher that they had been sick. I think they were -stuffed with pies, and cake, and candy, and I think they called upon -poor, tired servant girls to brush and black their shoes, when they -should have learned to do it themselves. I think, when their sisters -asked them to go of any little errand, they roughly replied, “Do it -yourself!” I think, when their mothers said, “John (or Thomas) go to the -grocer’s for me, that’s a good boy!” that they replied, “How much’ll you -give me if I go?” and then, I think, when their mother gave them a -three-cent piece, that they pouted, and said that they wouldn’t go, -without they could have sixpence. That is the way such gray-haired old -men as I saw fighting in the street to-day, are made. - - - - - THE LITTLE PRINCES. - - -“As happy as a king—as happy as a queen!” Ah! what thoughtless words are -these! The tall pine rocks to and fro, and struggles with the fierce -winds and storms; one by one, its beautiful green branches are torn off, -and in an unexpected moment comes the terrible lightning flash, -scorching its very heart, and leaving it but a blackened cinder. All the -time the little flower at its feet sleeps, secure in its sweetness, its -very lowliness its surest safeguard and protection. Do you never think -of this when you envy the rich and the great? Perhaps you are poor, and -meanly clad, and poorly fed; and it seems to you that God is not good -and just, to make such a difference between you and another child of -your own age, who seems to be born only to have everything it wants, and -to rule over others? Have you never, when walking in the field, spied -upon some rocky height, a gaudy flower, which you imagined to be -sweet-scented and beautiful? Have you never torn your clothes, and -sprained your limbs, and nearly put your eyes out with briers, to get -it, only to find it, when obtained, nauseous, and full of thorns? Have -you never chased the brilliant butterfly over the meadows, till your -breath gave out, only to hold in your rash hand, after the eager, weary -chase, but a handful of glittering dust? - -Well, just like this is human greatness, seen at a distance—just so -unsatisfactory its possession. Now, I suppose, you sometimes sit down -and dream with your eyes open, what you would like to be when you grow -up. I know I did, when I was a child. I don’t remember that I ever -wished to be great or celebrated; I never cared for that, and I care for -it now less than ever; but I wanted to be loved, oh! so much—so much! I -forgot that they whom I loved might die, or change, and so, you see, my -house, built upon the sand, was as likely to tumble over as they who -desire greatness. But I used to hear my little companions say, Oh, if I -were a prince or a princess! and I suppose children now-a-days wish the -same wishes as then; for childhood is childhood, while it lasts, all the -world over, with its blue skies, and rosy clouds, and angel dreams—never -seeing the dark cloud in the distance; never hearing the low, muttered -thunder, or seeing the brief lightning flash. And oh! it is well that it -is so, else the little bud would not dare to unfold its bright leaves; -but would close them tightly round its little, fragrant heart, and -shrivel up in its green inclosure, and drop from the stem, before the -world had praised God for the gift of its sweetness. - -Perhaps you think princes and princesses are happy? Let me tell you the -story of two little princes. - -They had lived in a great deal of splendor in a beautiful palace—had -plenty of rich clothes, plenty of toys, plenty of little ponies in the -stable to ride, plenty of servants to wait on them, and to do whatever -they wished; and I suppose the poor little things thought it would -always be so. But kings have enemies as well as friends, and so had -their father; and these enemies grew more numerous, and wished that the -father of these little princes were dead; and after a while they -succeeded in having things their own way, and the king was sentenced to -have his head cut off. Ah! it was not well to be a little prince then! -for little princes, if they live long enough, will one day be kings, you -know, unless they are put out of the way; and so these bad men thought. -Therefore, when their father was led out to be beheaded, these cruel -wretches forced the little princes to see it done, and then took their -father’s blood, and sprinkled it upon their bright, fair locks, and upon -their little garments. And then they took them, although they had -committed no crime, unless it was a crime to be the children of this -king whom they hated, and put them in prison. This was bad enough; but -they did worse than that. They shut them each up in a separate cage, -made very broad at the top, but narrowed down to a point at the bottom, -so that the little prisoners could neither stand straight, nor sit, nor -lie down; and then they fastened them in. The elder of these little boys -was but eight years old, and the other only six. Just fancy it! The only -comfort they had, was to put their arms through the bars of their cages, -and hold each other by the hand. - -“We cannot live this way long,” said little Frank, the younger, as the -tears rolled down his cheeks. - -“Would papa like to see you cry?” asked Henri. “Do you not see,” said -the courageous child, “that they treat us like men of whom they are -afraid; let us not, then, act like babies.” - -So little Frank dried his tears, as his brother bade him; and they -talked about the beautiful palace they used to live in, and the -fountains, and the groves, and the gardens; and tried to imagine -themselves back there, and so to forget their troubles; but, after all, -it was dreary work. - -One day, a little mouse peeped out of its hole in the lonely dungeon. I -dare say you have often run away from a mouse, or else wanted to have it -killed, or taken away; but then you were never shut up in a dungeon, -with nobody to care for you, else you would feel as these little -prisoners did, and have been glad to see even a friendly mouse. At first -the mouse was afraid, and ran back to its hole at sight of the little -princes. They called and called, and coaxed it to come back, for they -were very weary of their cages, and of having nothing to do, day after -day. Besides, their cramped limbs ached badly, and it was hard work to -bear pain of body as well as pain of mind, and have no one to say, I am -sorry for you, dear child. At last the little children thought of -throwing out a few crumbs of their prison bread. The little hungry mouse -understood that, and ventured out, and by and by, after a few days, he -would climb up into their cages, and eat from their hands. - -When the wicked wretches who put them there heard of this, and found out -how patiently and sweetly these dear children bore their trials, and -that their little innocent heads drooped every night in peaceful -slumber, they were very angry; so they resolved to try other means of -tormenting them. So they called the executioner, and ordered him to go -to their dungeon once a week, and draw out one tooth from each of them. -Just think of that! You have had a tooth taken out, I dare say, but your -mother, or father, or sister was by your side, and holding your hand, -and pitying you with all their might, and wishing they could bear the -pain for you, and that gave you courage. And then it was soon over, and -only for once; and the bad toothache from which it delivered you was, -after all, worse to bear. But the little princes had no toothache; they -had a bad heartache, but trusting in God, they were trying to be -patient, and love even a little mouse, since they were denied everything -else. Oh! how mean and cowardly that great, big, strong man—that -executioner—must have felt, when he went in to torment two such little -angels! - -When he told them what he had come for, the youngest boy commenced -crying, and the elder brother said to the executioner, “I beg you not to -draw out a tooth from Frank; you see how weak he is, and how ill!” - -Then the executioner, hard as he was, shed tears; still he knew that he -must carry back two teeth, or have his own head cut off; and so told the -boys. - -“Well, then,” said the elder brother, the brave Henri, “take out two -from my mouth, instead of one from my brother’s; I am strong, but the -slightest pain will kill him.” For a long time the two boys struggled -which should suffer for the other, until a messenger was sent, to know -why the executioner did not return—why he delayed. Then he advanced to -the cage, and drew a tooth from Henri, and was going toward Francis, -when Henri cried out, “No, no; take the other from my mouth; don’t touch -Francis!” and the executioner carried back two teeth; but they were both -from the mouth of the brave Henri. Every week he went back to the -dungeon, and every week did this heroic boy lose two teeth, one for -himself one for his brother; but alas! his bodily strength began to -fail, though his little lion heart was strong as ever. His limbs no -longer sustained him; he doubled up in the bottom of the cage, and tried -to put out his hand to his little brother. - -“Frank,” said he, “I am dying; but perhaps, some time, you may get out; -if you should, and you should find our mother, oh, tell her how I love -her, just as I am about to die. Good by, Frank! give some crumbs every -day to our little mouse for me, won’t you, Frank?” and the next moment, -before Frank could answer him—so stupefied was the child with grief—the -brave Henri was dead, and nobody was in the dungeon but Frank and the -little mouse. - -Nobody, did I say? Ah! God was there. Why he permitted all this -suffering, neither you nor I know; but I hope we shall know one of these -days. The angels are always learning such things in heaven. It puzzles -me often now, when I think about them, and sometimes I get impatient, -and wish God would tell me right off why he permits this, when he could -so easily prevent it; and then I think of the many, many times, in which -I have shed impatient tears at my own troubles, and then time has passed -on, and I have seen, even in this world, with my dim, earthly eyes, how -much better it was that those very things should have happened which -grieved me so. But with our bright, heavenly eyes, in the broad, clear -light of eternity, how easily, dear children, shall we untwist these -tangled threads of life, which seem to mock our efforts here. We can -wait, for, just as sure as that God reigns, it is all right. - -Dear me! I suppose you are very impatient to know what became of poor -Frank, when he was left alone? Well, soon after Henri died, the wretches -who imprisoned the two innocent children died also; and then Frank was -taken from his dungeon, and set at liberty. Oh! how glad he must have -been to see the blue sky, and the green fields, and the sweet flowers, -and, better than all, to find his dear mother. - -What a sorrowful story he had to tell her! and how many times they wept, -to think of poor Henri, and how the mother wept at night, over little -Frank, while he was sleeping, whose dungeon tortures had made him a -cripple for life. Ah! it is not well to be a little prince. - -Let me tell you another story, of a child who was born of a noble family -in France. His father and grandfather were both great generals; they had -been in many battles, and were considered very brave men; but war is -such a terrible, terrible thing, is it not? husbands, fathers, and -brothers falling to the ground, like grass before the mower’s scythe; -but in those days war was not spoken of in this way. Dead men were -thought no more of than dead sheep; unless, indeed, it might be some -great commander or general. As if a soul wasn’t a soul, no matter -whether it lodged in the body of a common soldier or his officer. As if -a common soldier’s relatives would not grieve at his loss as much as the -relatives of his commanding officer for him. As if sorrow did not sit -down in the hovel, as well as in the hall. As if an orphan were not an -orphan, and a widow a widow, in every rank of life. But, as I tell you, -people did not think this way when this lad lived, of whom I am about to -tell you. It was all glory and epaulettes. Little Paul had guns and -swords, and flags and drums, put into his hands almost as soon as he was -born, by his father and grandfather, who wished to train him up for a -great hero. When he was a _very_ good boy, his reward was to play battle -with his grandfather, with a set of pasteboard soldiers, to teach him -how to manage the enemy in difficult positions; and all this boy’s -dreams, by day and night, were of such things. When he was only ten -years old, his father was commanded to join the army, for there was to -be a great battle, a _real_ battle. So he told his wife, who cried very -much, that he was going to leave her, perhaps for ever; and then he took -his little boy in his arms, to bid him good by. Paul did not cry, but he -looked his father in the face very steadily, and said, “Papa, I must go -too. I must fight by your side in that battle!” This pleased his father -and grandfather very much; and his mother began to be frightened, for -fear that they would really consent to the child’s going; and sure -enough they did, and little Paul was half beside himself with joy, that -he was to take part, with real swords and real men, in a real battle. -Perhaps you say, Oh, of course, his father took care that he should not -be in any danger, and made everything easy for him. Not at all, as you -shall hear; for little Paul insisted, as soon as he joined the army, -that no favor should be shown him because he was so young, and because -he had been born of a noble family, and brought up tenderly; he insisted -upon sharing all the fatigue and danger, and felt quite insulted, if any -of the old men in the army seemed to fear for him, or not think him -capable of his duty. He wanted to do just as the common soldiers did; -sleep on the bare ground, and eat of their common food. A week after he -had joined the army, he had proved himself so brave, that they made him -ensign, and gave him the colors to carry. Perhaps you say, Of course, -his father did that! No; the whole regiment were quite proud of him, and -said that the little fellow deserved it. You must not think that he -forgot his mother, who was so anxious about her boy. He wrote her a -little letter, which was a funny mixture of childishness and manliness, -telling her that he had a wound in his right arm from the enemy, who -wished to seize his pretty flag. “That would have been fine, indeed!” -wrote little Paul, “when I had just had it given me to defend!” Then he -tells her, that his new hat was spoilt, but that he can get another, and -that once he fell off his horse, when the enemy rushed at them, but soon -was up again, firing his pistols after them. Three months the child was -there, in the army, and often suffered much from cold and other causes; -but he never complained; and when not engaged in fighting, used to laugh -as merrily as any other child of ten years old, and at as trifling -things. - -But at last came a day, which was to decide the battle, one way or -another. On the morning of that day, Paul’s father took him in his arms, -and said, “Give me a kiss, Paul; for we may never meet again.” Paul gave -him two—one for his mother—and then they separated. Little Paul was -stationed away from his father, at a post which he was not to leave -without permission from a superior officer. - -The battle went on; the dead and dying strewed the ground. Little Paul -saw his brave companions falling all around him. Still the child stood -at his post, until a ball fractured his leg; then, in his agony, he -said, what all children say in their pain, “Mother!” fainting as he said -it. Some time after, a soldier flying from the field, saw a child lying -beneath his horse. All the army knew Paul, and loved him; so the soldier -forgot all about his own danger, and stopped to pick up poor little Paul -from the dead soldiers around him, and put him on his shoulders, to -carry him to the camp. Several times the enemy stopped him; but he had -only to point to the wounded child—for everybody had heard of “Little -Paul,”—and they let him pass. - -When he got to the camp, little Paul came to his senses; and then they -told him that it would be necessary to cut off his leg. - -“Better that, than my head!” said Paul; “but stop!” said he, as a -thought struck him; “it may kill me, may it not?” The doctor bowed his -head; he could not say yes, he felt so sorry for him. - -“Give me, then, half an hour first, and let me write to my mother!” said -Paul; and with great agony he wrote tremblingly a few lines to her whose -thoughts were always of her boy. - -After this he said, “Now I am ready!” His father stood by, holding his -little hand, and whispering, “Courage, my child! courage!” - -Little Paul smiled and answered, “Oh, I have plenty—more than any of -you!” but as he said it, the smile faded, and a deadly pallor overspread -his face. - -“Oh, papa, I am dying!” said Paul. - -You have seen a cloud-shadow flit over a sunny meadow. - -“Oh, papa, I am dying!” - -Little Paul never spoke again, and the smile faded from his face, and -the small hand grew cold in the father’s grasp. Ah! poor little brave -Paul! He did not think of this when he and his grandfather played -battle, with wooden soldiers, evening after evening, on the study table, -in their pleasant chateau in France. I think it was a great shame ever -to take little Paul from there; don’t you? - - - - - OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON, - - -The man who wrote the big dictionary. It makes my head ache to think of -it; but Dr. Johnson’s head and mine are about as much alike as a pea and -a pumpkin, so there’s no use in talking about that. He lived through it, -and made himself famous by it, as well as by many other things he said -and did. It always comforts me to think that these literary giants, -after all, had to begin life as we all did—in a cradle; the doctor was a -baby once, like the rest of us; ate candy, I suppose, and cried for his -mammy, although he grew up into such a shaggy lion, that his roar -frightened timid folks half out of their wits. But, like other big -animals, who sniff gently when little bits of creatures run past, as -much as to say, I _could_ munch you up, were you worth the trouble, so -the doctor, in his solemn grandeur, let ladies frisk round him unharmed; -and liked it, too! But I am outrunning my story; let us go back to his -cradle. - -The first thing we hear of him is, his being perched on his father’s -shoulder, at church, when he was only three years old, _looking_ -earnestly—for he couldn’t have understood what was said—at a famous -minister who preached in those days. Somebody asked his father, why he -brought such a little baby into such a crowd? His answer was, that he -could not keep him at home, and that he would have stayed forever in -church, contentedly, looking at the minister. He was not the first -little Samuel who went early to the temple, as you know, if you have -read your Bible. It would be worth something to know what kept him so -bewitched there, on his father’s shoulder, and what the little creature -was really thinking about. Perhaps the clergyman had a very loving look -in his face; and a baby’s eyes are quick to see that. Or, perhaps he had -a sweet, lullaby voice, which charmed that little ear, like sweet music. -Or, perhaps, being tired of seeing the same things over and over again -at home, that sea of faces, in the crowded church, had a strange -fascination for him; but we might go on perhaps-ing forever, since -nobody can tell us the truth about it. - -By and by, getting down from his father’s shoulder, he went to school. -One day, the servant sent to bring him home, not arriving in time, he -started to return by himself, although he was so very near-sighted that -he was obliged to get down on his hands and knees, and take a view of -the crossing, before venturing over. His good, careful schoolmistress, -fearing that he might miss his way, or fall, or be run over, followed -him at a distance, to see that no harm came to him. Master Samuel, -happening to turn round, saw this, to his great displeasure. Immediately -he commenced beating her, in a furious rage, as fast as his little hands -could fly, for what he considered an insult to his future beard. Imagine -the little, insane, red-faced pigmy, and the placid schoolma’am! I -wonder, did he ever think of it, when he grew up; when he made war with -that sharp tongue of his, instead of his fists. I do not consider this -an improvement on his juvenile style of warfare; inasmuch as bruised -flesh heals quicker than a bruised spirit, and there are words that hurt -worse than the most stunning blow. However, there was this excuse for -his life-long irritability, in the fact that, from childhood, he was a -victim to that dreadful disease, the scrofula, which disfigured his -face, and nearly destroyed the sight of one eye. His _heart_ was good -and kind, as you will see. - -Samuel was quite remarkable for his wonderful memory. When he was a -little fellow in petticoats, and had learned to read, his mother, one -morning, placed the prayer book in his hands, and pointing to the -“collect” for the day, said, “Sam, you must get this by heart!” Leaving -him to study it, she shut the door, and went up stairs. By the time she -had reached the second floor, she heard him following her. “What’s the -matter?” asked she. “I can say it,” Sam replied. His mother did not -believe him; still, she took the book, and bade him begin; and, sure -enough, he said it off like a minister, although he could not possibly -have had time to read it over more than twice. They tell another story -of him: that when three years old, he happened to tread on a little -duckling, the eleventh of a brood, and killed it, whereupon he wrote the -following epitaph: - - “Here lies good Master Duck, - Whom Samuel Johnson trod on; - If it had lived, it had been good luck, - For then we’d had an odd one.” - -Pretty well, for three years old. Sam, however, declared, when he grew -older, that his _father_ wrote it, and tried to pass it off for his. -That amiable fib, if it _was_ such, was hardly worth while, as there -needed no proof of the child’s cleverness. - -I told you how much he was troubled with scrofula. There was a -superstition in those days, that if any one afflicted by this disease -could be touched by the royal hand of a king, a cure would speedily -follow. Many persons, who had a great reputation for wisdom, were -foolish enough to believe this. Sam’s mother, therefore, may be excused, -for what, in other circumstances, would have been called “a woman’s -whim.” At any rate, up to London she went with little Sam. Queen Anne -was king then, if you’ll pardon an Irish-ism; and Sam’s childish -recollection of her was a solemn lady in diamonds, with a long, black -hood. Did she cure him? Of course not; though his kind mother, I’ve no -doubt, always felt better satisfied with herself for having tried it. -Sam still continued to go to school, however, and one old lady to whom -he went, had such an affection for him, that, years after, when he was a -young man, just about to enter college, she came to bid him good by, -bringing with her a big, motherly piece of gingerbread, as a token of -her affection, adding that “he was the best scholar she ever had.” Sam -didn’t make fun of it behind her back, as would many young men; he had -sense enough to understand the great compliment conveyed in that piece -of cake. - -The Latin and other masters who succeeded the old lady, did not admire -young Sam as much as she did; instead of “gingerbread,” he got -tremendous whippings, one of the masters saying, benevolently, while he -“laid it on,” “And this I do, to save you from the gallows.” I myself -have more faith in the gingerbread than in the whipping system, which, I -believe, has as often driven boys _to_ the gallows, as “from” it. But it -seems Samuel owed them no grudge; for being asked, later in life, how he -came to have such an accurate knowledge of Latin, replied, “My master -whipt me very well;” and all his life long, he _in_sisted and -_per_sisted, that _only by the rod_ was learning ever introduced into a -boy’s head. Still, to my eye, “birches” look best in the woods. I can’t -help thinking that the gentle sway of the old lady would have carried -him safe through his Latin too, had she but known enough to teach it. - -In all schools, the boy who knows the most, rules the rest. So it was -with Sam; who, if he helped them into difficulty with his roguish -pranks, helped them also with their lessons, when they came to a -standstill for want of his quick comprehension. They all looked up to -him with great deference, and so far did this carry them, that they -carried him! actually and really. Three boys used to call at his -lodgings every morning, as humble attendants, to bear him to school. -One, in the middle, stooped, while he sat on his back; while one on each -side supported him; and thus the great, lazy Sam was borne along in -triumph! - -There is one thing which I believe to be true of the childhood and youth -of all persons distinguished for true knowledge. It is this: they never -rest satisfied with ignorance on any point, which, by any possibility, -can be explained or made clear. It was so with Samuel; also, he never -forgot what he thus heard, or had read. I know well that a young person -who is “inquisitive” is much more troublesome than one who never thinks, -and only rests satisfied with just what is put into the ear, and desires -no more; and parents and teachers, too, are too apt to silence the -inquisitive mind with “don’t ask questions!” or “don’t be so -troublesome!” or, if they answer, do it in a careless, lazy way, that -only surrounds the questioner with new difficulty, instead of helping -him out of it; never reflecting that it is by this _self-educating -process_ that the child arrives at the _best half_ of what he will ever -know. Don’t misunderstand me; don’t think I mean that a child, or a -young person, is impertinently to interrupt the conversation of his -elders, and clamor for an immediate answer. I don’t mean so, any more -than I think it right to snub him back into ignorance with that -harrowing “little pitcher” proverb, which used to make me tear my hair -out, at being forced to “be seen,” while I was not allowed “to be -heard.” - -It is my private belief, spite of my admiration of the great Sam, that -he was physically—lazy. Riding boy-back to school gave me the first -glimmering of it. Afterward, the fact that his favorite, indeed, only -diversion in winter was, being drawn on the ice by a barefooted boy, who -pulled him along by a garter fixed around him—no easy job for the -shivering barefooter, as Sam was not only “great” intellectually, but -physically. His defective sight prevented him from enjoying the common -sports of boys, if this is any excuse for what would seem to be a piece -of selfishness on his part. Perhaps to his inability for active sports, -we may ascribe his appetite for romances in his leisure hours—a practice -which he afterward deeply regretted, because, as he declared, it -unsettled his mind, and stood very much in the way of his decision upon -any profession in life. - -At the age of twenty, Samuel’s disease took the form of an overpowering -melancholy, which, I am sorry to say, never wholly left him during his -life. In every possible way the poor fellow struggled against it, by -study, by reading, by going into company, by sitting up late at night, -till he was sure of losing himself in sleep. This melancholy took the -form of great fear of death. He could not bear to hear the word “death” -mentioned in his presence. I think, however, it was “_dying_” he feared, -_not_ “_death_.” I think he feared physical pain and suffering, not -another state of existence; for all his ideas of _that_ were pleasant -and happy, like those of a child going home to its parent, whom, though -he may have sinned against, he tenderly loves, and constantly implores -forgiveness from. A more kind-hearted man than Samuel Johnson never -lived, with all his bluntness, which, after all, is much preferable to -the smooth tongue which rolls deceit, like a sweet morsel, in honeyed -words. He had also this noble trait: he was quick to ask forgiveness -where his blunt words had wounded. He did not think either his dignity -or his manliness compromised by confessing himself in the wrong. I want -you to notice this particularly; because small, narrow minds think it -“mean and poor-spirited” to do this, even when convinced that they are -wrong. This blunt, rough, ordinary-looking, ill-dressed old man (for he -lived, after all, to be an old man), had a kingly heart. I could tell -you many instances of his kindness to the poor and unfortunate; of his -devoted love for his wife, who died many years before him, and whose -memory he sacredly and lovingly cherished. He numbered among his friends -many great and talented people, who were attracted to him by the good -qualities I have named, as, also, by his brilliant and intellectual -conversation. Royalty, too, paid him special honor; and in his latter -days, when money was not so plenty as it should have been in the pocket -of a man to whom the world owes so much, the highest people in the land -most assiduously endeavored to make his descent to the grave easy, by -travel, change of scene, and more comfortable accommodations than he -could otherwise have had. Rough as Dr. Johnson was reputed to be, he was -a great favorite with ladies. No dandy could outdo him in a neat, -graceful compliment to them, and no insect could sting sharper than he -either, if they disgusted him with their nonsense and folly. Nice, -honest, sham-hating old man! I am glad that the Saviour he loved, smiled -so lovingly on him at the last, that he fearlessly crossed the dark -waves he had dreaded, to lay that weary head upon His bosom. - - - - - THE LITTLE LORD. - - -Everybody has heard of Lord Byron. The world says, he had a very bad -temper; and the world says his mother had a very bad temper, too. For -once the world was right; but when I tell you that Byron’s mother, when -a pretty, warm-hearted girl, married a man she dearly loved, and found -out, after marriage, that it was her money, not herself, that he loved, -and that, while spending this extravagantly, he was at the same time -mean enough to ill-treat and abuse her, I think we should inquire how -sweet-tempered we could have been under such circumstances, before we -call _her_ hard names. I believe this is the way God judges us, and that -he always takes into account, as man does not, the circumstances by -which we have been surrounded for good or evil. It is easy for anybody -to be amiable, when there is nothing to thwart or annoy. - -Well, as I have said, poor Mrs. Byron had a weary life of it; and little -George, hearing his mother say violent words, when her misery pressed -hard upon her, learned to say them, too; and set his handsome lips -together, till he looked like a little fiend; and tore his frocks to -tatters when things did not suit him; and later, when he was too old for -this, he used to turn so deadly pale with speechless rage, that one -would almost rather have encountered the violent words of his childhood. - -A mother who cannot, or does not, control herself, cannot, of course, -control her child; so that there was presented at their home that most -pitiable of all sights, mother and child always contending for the -mastery. - -I should tell you that this handsome boy was born with a deformed foot, -which prevented him from exercising, like other children; and that he -suffered not only from this restraint, but from the painful, and, as it -proved, useless remedies, that were resorted to for his cure. An active, -restless, lame boy! Cannot you see that this must have been hard to -bear? But when I add that his own mother, in her angry fits, used to -taunt him with his lameness, till the mere mention of his twisted foot, -or even a glance at it, nearly drove him crazy, I am sure you cannot but -pity him. And so this personal defect, which she might have soothed and -loved him into feeling it a happiness to bear, because it should -naturally have called out the fullness of a mother’s pitying heart, -became to him, through her mismanagement, like a nest of scorpions, to -lash into fury his worst passions. This was very dreadful. _I_ try to -remember it, and _you_ must, when you read the bitter, bad words of his -manhood, which stand over against his name, and, alas! will always -stand; for the hand is cold and powerless now, which should have dashed -them out; the eyes are closed now, from which the tear of repentance -should fall to wash them away; the voice is forever hushed, which should -say, beware! to the young feet, which he would lure with flowers, only -to be bitten by serpents. - -And yet, it is beautiful to know, that his unhappy childhood, which, -like a blighting mildew, overspread all his future life, had not power -_quite_ to extinguish the angel in him. Thus we hear that, when sent -away to an English school, he interfered, notwithstanding his lameness, -between a big boy and a little one, whom the former was severely -punishing. Unable to fight in defence of the poor little fellow, upon -whom the torturing blows were descending, Byron stood boldly up before -his persecutor, and begged, with crimson cheeks and tearful eyes, that -he might, at least, “take half the blows that were intended for the -little boy.” I think you will agree with me that this was very brave and -magnanimous. I have another little anecdote of the same kind to tell -you. Not long after this, a little boy came to the school, who had just -recovered from a severe illness, which had left him very lame. Byron, -seeing a bigger boy threatening him, took him one side, and said, “Don’t -be troubled; if he abuses you, tell me, and I’ll thrash him if I can,” -and he afterward did it. - -Unfortunately for Byron, he became a lord, while he was yet a schoolboy. -I say unfortunately, because, had he been a poor boy, I think it might -have made a man of him. His mother, delighted at his being a lord, took -every opportunity to make him as proud as a little peacock, by telling -him of how much consequence it would make him in the eyes of the world; -as if being a lord was of any account if he did nothing but strut about -to parade his title, and enjoy the mean pleasure of forcing those who -were “beneath him” (by so much as that they lacked a coat of arms) to -make gracious way for him. Imagine this little schoolboy, so puffed up -with that idea of his mother, that the first time he was called by his -title in school, he actually burst into tears—from sheer delight! One -can’t smile at it, for it was the sowing of a poisonous seed, which -should spring up into a “tree,” under whose shadows should die the sweet -flowers of kindness and generosity which, I have already told you, were -springing up in the child’s heart. Such grand airs did “my lord” put on, -that the boys used to nickname him “_the baron_.” You will not be -surprised to hear, that this foolish pride of rank grew with his youth, -and strengthened with his strength, so that, when he became a man (could -he be said to be one, when under the dominion of such a childish -feeling?) he would have his coat of arms put on his bed-curtains, and -everywhere else where it could possibly be placed; and upon one -occasion, when his title was omitted, he flew into the most absurd -paroxysm of rage. Petty and pitiful, was it not? - -It is a dreadful thing when a child is unable to respect and reverence a -parent. There are such cases; this was one. Byron’s mother sometimes -came to school to see him. On one occasion, being displeased with -something she met there, she burst into a furious passion with the -teacher. When one of Byron’s schoolmates, with more simplicity than -politeness, said to him, “George, your mother is a fool,” “I know it!” -was the boy’s gloomy reply. This seems to me the saddest thing that ever -fell from a child’s lip. Still, it is due to him to say, that with this -knowledge bitterly burned in upon his soul, he never failed in _outward_ -attention to her wishes, or in letters during his absence, informing her -carefully of all that most nearly concerned him; although for the sweet, -holy name of “mother,” he substituted “Madam,” or “Dear Madam.” Unhappy -mother! unhappy son! So much that was naturally kind in both, each -loving the other, and yet, in each, the active elements of perpetual -discord. Each yearning for affection with the intensity of strong -natures, and yet perpetually a great gulf between them, over which their -outstretched hands might never meet! - -I wish I could tell you that this unhappy child grew up a happy, and, -what is better, a good man. But neither was true. His fine poetical -talent was not used to bless, or soothe, or instruct his fellow beings. -His powers of pleasing were exerted for unworthy purposes, and wasted -upon unworthy objects—and the miseries which his unbridled temper and -extravagance brought upon him in after years, he neither accepted as his -just punishment, nor strove, in a manly way, to atone for, and retrieve. -Lord Byron has been called “a great man.” I do not think him such. The -“greatness” which lacks moral courage to meet the ills of life, which -only makes them an excuse for wallowing in wickedness, must of necessity -be a spurious greatness. It is put to shame by the quiet heroism of -thousands of women, many of whom can neither read, write, nor spell, who -toil on by thousands all over our land, facing misery, poverty, -wretchedness in every form, with trust in God unwavering to the last -moment of life. That’s what I call “greatness.” One would think, that -the more a man knew, the better should he be able to hold the fiery -horses of his passions with a master hand—to keep them subservient by a -strong bit and bridle. Else, of what use is his intellect? He might as -well be a mere animal; better, too, by far, because for the animal there -is no remorseful future. He is but a pitiable specimen of manhood, who -has resolution enough in a land of plenty to endure the keen pangs of -hunger day by day, lest eating should spoil the outline of his handsome -face and form, and yet is powerless to control passions which, -scorpion-like, will sting him, long after his perishable body has -crumbled into dust. - -[Illustration: THE POLICEMAN.—Page 165.] - - - - - THE POLICEMAN. - - -I heard a little boy say, the other day, “When I grow up, I mean to be a -policeman!” He liked the bright star on the policeman’s breast, and the -big club in his hand. He thought it would be “fun” to sound his whistle, -when he spied a fellow getting a ride for nothing on the steps of an -omnibus, and to see him running off as fast as he could, for fear of a -crack from the driver’s long whip. He thought it would be nice to walk -up and down, and scare the little beggar girls, who were teasing for -“one penny, please,” from the ladies on the sunshiny side of the street, -as they came out of the shops. But he _didn’t_ think, how many policemen -have kissed their little boys and girls, when they left at night, and -been killed before these little ones woke in the morning, by some -robber, or murderer, whom they had to catch in the night. He didn’t -think how many wretched, drunken men and women they have to drag through -the streets, to the station houses, every day, and how many shocking -fights they have to see and take part in. He didn’t think how forlorn it -must be to pace up and down of a cold, dismal night, that other people -might lie snug and safe in their warm beds, till morning. He didn’t -think how sick a policeman might get of misery, and poverty, and -wretchedness, and how glad he was sometimes to walk into a nice, clean -neighborhood, where people had enough to eat, and drink, and wear, and -live clean and comfortable. You see, Johnny was only nine years old, and -didn’t know about all these things. It was his birthday, that very day -that he said, “I want to be a policeman,” and he had beautiful presents, -and a little sugared plumcake, made on purpose for him by his -grandmother; and he was to have a little party in the evening, and ice -cream and cake to eat; and they were to play blind man’s buff, and all -go to the circus in the evening, to see the horses, who flew round so -fast that you could hardly tell what color they were. Well, that very -day the policeman he was looking at, and envying, had seen a dreadful -sight. As he was going round on his “beat,” through one of the narrow -streets in New York, he heard a little girl, who was just nine years old -that very day like Johnny, crying piteously. He went into the room where -the noise came from, and saw, not a birthday party, of warmly-dressed -little children, and a bright fire, and pretty pictures on the walls, -and such beautiful roses on the pretty carpet, that one almost hated to -step on them. No, indeed! The floor was bare, and so were the walls; -there was no bed in the room, no chairs, no tables; but on the floor lay -a dead woman, and over her stood her own little girl, named Katy, only -nine years old that very day, crying, as I told you, as if her little -heart would break. In her hand was a basket of cold victuals, that her -mother had sent her out alone to beg; and there lay her mother, _dead!_ -and now little Katy was all alone in the great city, with no friend to -whom she could tell her troubles, and no money even to buy a coffin for -her dead mother. No wonder she cried. The policeman asked the little -girl how long her mother had been dead; and when she could stop sobbing, -she told him, that her mother told Katy, in the morning, to go beg some -food, and that she had to be gone a long while, before she could get -any; and when she came back, she found her mother lying so still on the -floor; and that she called “Mother!” and she didn’t speak; and that, -when she touched her, she was so cold, she knew she must be dead; and -then poor little Katy trembled, because she didn’t know what was to -become of her, or whether the policeman would take her away from her -mother; for, while her body lay there on the floor with her, the poor -little girl felt as though her mother was still with her. But the -policeman didn’t speak, for he was looking round the room, and presently -he found a bottle; there was nothing in it _now_, but there _had_ been -some rum in it; and now you know why it was the room had no fire and no -furniture, and how a mother could stay at home, and send her poor little -girl out alone in a great city to beg. Katy didn’t say a word. I suppose -she, too, knew that her mother used to get drunk; but she didn’t want to -talk about it. She only knew that her mother was all the friend she had, -bad or good, and that she lay there _dead_, and would never say “Katy” -any more; and so she began to cry again, as if her heart would break. -Well, the policeman had a little girl of his own, and he felt very sorry -for her; so he didn’t take her to the “station house,” where all sorts -of drunken people are carried, but he took her to his own home, and -asked his kind-hearted wife, to whom he told Katy’s story, to give her -some warm breakfast, and keep her till he came back again. At first Katy -didn’t want to stay there, warm and pleasant as it was. She would rather -have sat on the bare floor, beside her dead mother; but the sorrows of -most little children are soon forgotten by them; and when little Katy -looked round again at the clean, bright, warm room, and had eaten a nice -little bit of beefsteak, and some bread, and drank a cup of warm milk, -she began to feel a great deal better. Nanny, the policeman’s little -girl, had a beautiful doll, which she let Katy hold in her own hands. -This pleased Katy very much; she had often seen dolls in the shop -windows, but she never thought to have one in her own hand all her life. -Well, little Nanny gave her leave to take off the dolly’s dress, and put -it to bed; and Katy was so bright and happy, when the policeman came -back, that he hardly knew she was the same little Katy; but at the sight -of him, tears came into her eyes, she gave the dolly back to Nanny, and -sobbed out, “I want to see my mother.” - -Then the policeman’s wife wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, -and turned away to the window; for she thought, Oh, how dreadful it -would be, if _my_ little, curly-headed Nanny were as friendless as this -poor little girl. And then she and the policeman whispered together at -the window a long while, and Katy heard the policeman say, “But it will -be so much trouble for you, Mary, and, you know, I can hardly earn -enough now to eat and to wear for you and me and Nanny!” but his wife -only cried the more, and said, “Poor little thing! suppose it were our -own little Nanny, John!” and then they whispered together again; and -then the policeman patted his wife on the shoulder, and took up his hat -and his big club, and went out; and then his wife got some warm water, -and some soap, and washed Katy’s face, and hands, and neck, and combed -her bright, brown hair smooth and nice, and put on one of Nanny’s little -dresses, and told her, while she was doing it, that she was going to be -Nanny’s little sister now, and always live there with them, and have -plenty to eat, and never go shivering out in the streets, to beg cold -victuals any more; but still little Katy sobbed out, every now and then, -“I want to see my mother.” Poor little girl! she forgot that her mother -was very unkind to her sometimes; that she used to drink rum, and beat -her when she came home, if she did not beg cold victuals enough, or -bring some pennies; she forgot all this; and every time she thought of -her, it was only as lying on the floor, cold and _dead_; and the great -big lump came up again in her throat, and she wanted to go back to the -old, dreadful room, and look at her dear, dead mother once more. But -Katy’s mother was not there, though she did not know it; they had -carried her away and buried her out of sight; but they didn’t tell Katy -that, till she became used to living with them, for fear it would make -her little heart ache so bad; but by and by, when her little thin cheeks -had grown round and rosy, like Nanny’s, and when she began to run about -the house and play “Puss in the Corner” with Nanny, then they told her. -And, do you know, after a while, it seemed to little Katy that she had -_always_ lived with the good policeman and his wife, and that the -dreadful, desolate room, and the cold victuals, and the ragged clothes, -were only a bad dream, and not real at all. It just seemed to her as -though Nanny were _really_ her little _own_ sister, when they slept in -the same bed at night, and laid their rosy cheeks on the same pillow. By -and by the policeman’s wife was taken very sick, and then she found out -what a good heart the little beggar girl had; for Katy ran up stairs and -down for her, and gave her the doctor’s medicine; and sat by her bed, -and bathed her hot forehead, and repaid her for all her care; and, after -many years, when the policeman’s wife died, and Katy was married, and -had a home of her own, she took poor, motherless Nanny there, and gave -her a nice little room all by herself, and a table to put her dear -mother’s workbox on, and very pretty pictures on the wall; and when -Nanny said, with wet eyes, “How good you are to me, Katy!” she said, -“Ah! I haven’t forgotten who took me in when _I_ had no mother, and fed -and clothed me!” - - - - - LITTLE ADRIAN. - - -I wonder if you like pictures as well as I do? I dare say your father -may have hung some on his parlor, or study, or chamber walls, and -perhaps you have often sat alone in those rooms, looking at them and -thinking. They were pleasant company for you—you liked the shapely trees -and contented cattle, the beautiful clouds, and the grass that you could -almost see waving, as the fragrant breeze swept by. You thought, -perhaps, how well the artist must have studied nature, and with what a -loving eye, thus successfully to create it; and you imagined, perhaps, -that his heart was as tranquil and unruffled, while at his work, as the -clear lake you saw in his picture. I remember thinking so, when I was a -child, and wishing I, too, were an artist, that, when the storm raged -without, and the chill rain came slanting down, I could still create -sunny skies, and blooming, fadeless flowers. I did not know then, what I -know now, how painfully many artists struggle up to notice from poverty -and obscurity; what a sad history those pictures, could they only speak, -might tell of sleepless nights and hungry days, and fireless hearths -(for it is adversity that brings out the strength of our natures). I did -not think of the wealth and fame which come so often only to the filming -eye and palsied hand of age, and then to be left at the grave’s brink. I -did not know, what I know now, that they who have genius in any -department of art, stand upon a dizzy pinnacle, what with those who, -unable to reach the same elevation themselves, and who would fain throw -or pull them down, and what with the danger that they themselves should -lose sight of the thorny path by which they reached it, and, satisfied -with human applause, never think that upon every gift, every talent, -should be written “Holiness to the Lord.” I did not reflect that by so -much as talent increases influence, by so much it places in the hands of -its possessor the means of improving and benefiting, as well as amusing -and delighting, those for whom this short life is but the porch to the -temple whose splendors they whose garments are washed white, alone shall -surely see. And how beautiful, how fitting it is, that at His feet who -bestowed the gift of genius, its fruit should be laid. - -No; these thoughts came with after years, when I went out into the -world; but now, I never look at a beautiful picture or statue, or read -an interesting book, that I do not think of these things; and when I -read of an artist who, with great powers, paints pictures which harm the -looker on, and influence him to evil—for pictures, though tongueless, -have eloquent voices; when I read of a great artist, who can command any -price, how large soever, for anything he may choose to paint, yet often -wanting a meal of victuals, not because he gave it to the poor, but -because he swallowed it all in the wine cup, and only rouses himself to -work when he wants more, oh! then I feel sorrier than I can tell you; -for genius is not an every-day gift, and life is short enough to learn -our lessons for eternity, without pulling the minute hands of time -forward. - -It is pleasant to see artists and men of talent honored by kings and -princes. I once heard a story of the Emperor Maximilian and the painter -Albert Durer, which pleased me very much. Durer was painting on a wall -of the palace one day, in presence of the emperor and his courtiers. He -was a small man, and being unable to reach sufficiently high to complete -the upper part of one of the figures he was painting, he looked around -for something to raise him higher. The emperor, noticing this, ordered -one of the gentlemen present to hand him a stool. The courtier was very -angry at this; he considered the artist beneath him, and so he handed it -to him in a very ungracious manner, muttering as he did so. - -The emperor heard him, and turning sharply round, made him this proper -and noble answer: “Sir, I can make a noble out of a peasant any day, but -I cannot form an ignoramus into a man of genius like Durer.” I think the -pompous courtier must have blushed a little at this, or, if he did not, -so much the worse for him. - -There was once a little boy, named Adrian. His mother was a poor -peasant, and little Adrian used to sit on the floor with a pencil and -paper in his hand, to keep him out of mischief. By and by his mother, -seeing him very busy with his drawing, peeped over his shoulder, and lo! -there, upon the paper, were beautiful birds and flowers, and all sorts -of pretty things, which the little rogue had drawn; for he did not know, -any more than his mother, that he was an artist. Still, his mother -thought them very pretty—what mother wouldn’t, had they been ever so -ugly?—and it occurred to her that she could copy in needlework those -pretty pictures, on the caps and neckerchiefs she was in the habit of -embroidering, to sell to the peasant women who came to market. One day, -while little Adrian sat in the shop where his mother sold her -needlework, an artist happened to pass, and, stopping at the window, -watched through the glass the little Adrian as he drew the patterns. -After a while he went in, and asked the boy if he would not like to -become an artist. “Oh, yes!” he almost screamed out; “better than -anything in this world, if my mother is only willing!” The poor woman -was glad enough of the offer, and little Adrian went home with his -master as happy—not “as a king,” for that’s a lying phrase—but as happy -as a little robin of a bright spring morning. - -Oh, how diligently he worked, and how fast he learned what was taught -him! His master had no need to rap him over the knuckles with “Come, -come, what are you thinking about?” not at all; he scarcely lifted his -eyes from his work, so eager was he. His master had other pupils, but he -took Adrian away from them, and shut him up in a little attic in the top -of the house, to draw. The other scholars didn’t like this, for Adrian -was very good company, and they all liked him; besides, they did not see -the reason why he should be shut up there, and they felt curious to find -it out. So one day, when the master was out, they stole softly up to the -attic, and peeping through a window, saw the poor little prisoner -painting very beautiful pictures for his jailer, who used to sell them, -and pocket the money for himself. - -It was very lucky that they found him, for he had become very thin and -emaciated, what with hard work and poor food. The boys told Adrian that -he was a great artist, though he did not know it, and that he might earn -a great deal of money; and they offered, if he could draw some pictures -slily, to sell them for him when his master did not know it, and get him -some pocket money, for his own use. The hungry little boy artist was -delighted at this, and soon found means to do it; but his cruel master -and his wife soon found it out, and put a stop to it, by watching him so -closely that it was quite impossible. Then the poor child grew thinner -and thinner, until one of the boys contrived a plan for him to escape; -in the daytime he wandered in the back streets, and at night he curled -himself up in the organ loft of one of the churches, and all the time he -was turning over plans in his bewildered head for the future. One day, -while he was thus situated, he met a person who had once seen him at his -master’s house. “Why,” said he to Adrian, looking pityingly at his thin -figure, “have you left your master’s roof?” The child began to cry, for -he was quite worn out, and besides, was overcome by the kind manner of -his questioner, so different from that of his old master. So he very -honestly told him the truth, and why he had run away. His pale face, his -sobs, and his wretched clothes were so many proofs of the truth of his -story, and the gentleman said, “If you will agree to return to your -master, I will talk to him, and see that he treats you better in -future.” While all this was going on, his old master Hals had hunted -everywhere for him, for he could ill afford to part with so valuable a -pupil. One would suppose that this thought, if no better one, would have -made Hals treat him better; but, after all, avarice is very -short-sighted, though it is said to be so keen. - -Well, of course, he was overjoyed to get Adrian back, caressed him, and -gave him a new suit of clothes, and all that, so that the innocent, -trusting child really believed all that he said was gospel truth, and -commenced painting again, with so much industry and so well, that his -master got larger prices than ever for his little drawings. Still, the -miserly Hals never gave Adrian any of it, and so Adrian made up his mind -that, as fair promises would neither feed nor clothe him, he would run -away again. This time he planned better, for he ran so far his master -couldn’t find him—way off into another city, and took refuge with an -innkeeper, who liked artists, because his own son was one, though, like -many other children, nobody thought him famous but his own father. He -soon grew cheerful, and fat, and merry, under kind treatment; it is a -blessed thing, is it not? that youth is so elastic—that it is always -ready, after a disappointment, to begin again with fresh courage. For a -while, Adrian kept steadily at his work, and to his delight and -astonishment, they brought him higher prices than ever, though no one -knew who the artist was. One day he came panting home to his friend the -innkeeper in a great state of excitement. His pockets were full of -gold—he could scarcely believe it was not all a dream. He emptied it all -out on the bed, and then jumped into the middle of it, that he might, as -he said, know how it felt for once “to roll in wealth.” Well, we can -pardon him that. None but they who have been kicked and cuffed round the -world, and had a crust of bread thrown grudgingly at them, can -understand the full deliciousness of independence, especially when that -independence is the result of their own honest labor. Adrian had a right -to wave his hat in the air; and, had I been there, I would have helped -him hurra! and when we had finished, I would have said, “Now you have -felt how uncomfortable a thing poverty is—don’t squander that money -foolishly, because it was quickly earned; put it away safely, where it -may do you and others good, and keep on working.” But, I am sorry to -tell you that Adrian did neither. He gathered up all his money, left the -house, and did not return for more than a week. On his return, his -friend the innkeeper asked him what he had done with his money. “All -gone!” said the foolish fellow; “I’ve not a bit left.” And that is the -way he went on—first a fit of work, then a fit of wasteful dissipation. -He earned a great deal, and spent more than he earned; so that he who -might have been so free and independent, was constantly obliged to be -running away from those to whom he owed money. Was it not a pity? On one -of these occasions, he forgot to provide himself with what is called a -passport, _i. e._, permission from the government to pass from one city -to another; and because he had not this permission, they supposed him to -be a spy, and threw him into prison. Confined in the same prison was a -certain duke, to whom he told his pitiful story, assuring him that he -was no spy, but only an artist who had come to that city to follow his -profession. Of course, the duke did not know whether he was fibbing or -not; he had only the artist’s own word for it. Adrian saw this, so he -said, “Bring me painting materials, and I’ll soon prove to you that what -I say is true.” The duke, having a friend in the city who was a great -artist, had a mind to try him. So he got his friend to procure Adrian, -the suspected spy, the materials he desired. Just below the windows of -his cell, a group of soldiers were assembled, playing cards. This scene -Adrian painted, and so well, that every man’s figure was a complete -portrait in itself. The duke was delighted, and sent for his friend the -artist, to see what his opinion might be. The moment he saw it, he -exclaimed, “It must be Adrian Brauwer’s; no other artist could paint -with such force and beauty!” and immediately offered a high price for -it. But the duke would not part with it. It was painted under singular -circumstances, and was, besides, a very beautiful picture. He -immediately interested himself with the governor to get Adrian out of -prison, which he succeeded in doing, and then, being liberated himself, -he took Adrian home to his own house, gave him new suits of clothes, and -tried to keep him from wasting his talents and time, and throwing -himself away on bad companions. You will be sorry to know that it was -quite useless; sorry to know that his bad passions had become, from -indulgence, his tyrants, so that he was no longer his own master, but -theirs; sorry to know that he ran away from the house of his benefactor, -sold the very clothes he gave him, mixed with all sorts of bad people in -loathsome places, till finally, destitute and diseased, he was carried -to one of the public hospitals, where, unknown by any who had admired -his talents, and pitied his follies, he died miserably, at the early age -of thirty-two, and was buried in a cemetery among the paupers. When the -duke, his benefactor, heard of this, he shed tears at the melancholy end -of a life which might have been so useful, so honored, and so honorable. -He ordered the corpse to be taken up from its pauper grave, gave it a -funeral in a church, and designed a monument for the erring man, which -last, however, was never accomplished, as he died himself soon after. - -It is pleasant to turn from so sad a story to that of other artists, who -labored on, though steeped to the very lips in poverty, for loving wives -and children, who, in turn, did all in their power to lighten the -artists’ toil. Living lives full of love, and without reproach, creating -beauty when everything around them was miserably shabby and -forlorn—everything but the love and patient endurance which can make out -of the dreariest earthly home a heaven. - - - - - THE PEDDLER’S SON. - - -I am only a poor boy, what can I do? what can I ever be, but just what I -am? ignorant, uneducated, insignificant? Stop, no creature of God is -insignificant; that is impossible, because you are to live forever. -Fettered and cramped in this life you may be; but this life is not all, -nor is it impossible even here for you to take your place with the wise -and the honorable of this world. You look about you, and shake your head -doubtfully. Your father and mother are good and kind to you, as far as -they can be. But they never read; they know nothing, care for nothing, -save that they are to work day by day till they die, merely to get bread -enough to keep them alive. But your _mind_ is hungry; you want something -for _that_. Bread and meat for your body don’t suffice you; you know -there is something better. How shall you find it? who will help you to -it? And you look about and around you, and reach out your arms, as if to -implore some invisible power to come to your aid. Do you know how many -whose names are loved, honored, and cherished by thousands, began life -just so? Do you know what might there is in the little words “I will”? - -Let me tell you a story. - -In a poor hut in Germany lived a lad. This hut had only one room, with a -fireplace in it, and no stairs. Instead, a ladder in it went up to the -roof. Besides the lad of whom I have spoken, there was the usual supply -of a poor man’s children. - -The principal support of the family was a cow, and the principal -employment of Komer, the name of my hero, was to collect, in the spring, -the sedges which had been thrown up by the waters, to make litter for -the cow. After the meadows had become green, he passed the long summer -days in watching her, sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with -other boys. He also brought dry wood to burn, and helped glean in -harvest time; and when the autumn winds shook the trees roughly, he -gathered acorns, and sold them to those who kept geese. When he grew -larger, he helped his father, who was a peddler, to carry his bundles -from hut to hut. There was a small school, too, where Komer learned to -read and write, but that was all he learned there. - -One evening (Komer never forgot that evening) he was sitting at a table -with his parents. A small lamp was burning upon it, and his father, who -had just come home with his peddler’s pack, was talking to his mother -about his business. The old peddler loved smoking, and had brought home -with him a packet of tobacco, the wrapper of which lay upon the table. -On it was the picture of a horse. - -Little Komer idly took up the picture. This is very good, thought he; I -wonder if I could draw one like it, if I should try? Who knows but I -might? Little Komer looked at his father; he was very busy talking; so -he took pen, ink, and a piece of paper, and shyly began. When he had -finished, he looked at it; it seemed to him very perfect, and his little -heart swelled with a new, strange delight. Then Komer showed it to his -parents—one can’t be happy alone—and they praised and admired it, more -because Komer did it, than anything else. By and by Komer went to bed; -it was dark, but still he saw his horse—he couldn’t sleep for thinking -of it; he tossed and turned, and longed for daylight, that he might -_really_ see it with his bodily eyes again; for he was not quite sure, -after all, but that he was dreaming. Morning came; it was no dream—there -was the horse; but Komer was never again the same Komer. All that day he -was excited, restless, and the next, and the next; how was he to become -a _real_ painter? Near his father’s hut lived a potter, who had some -outlines, as models for painting his plates and dishes. Little Komer -went to him, and begged the loan of these outlines for a little while. -Then he made a blank book, and very carefully copied them into it with -pen and ink. The people in the huts round thought it quite wonderful, -and they were handed about, till, at last, they came to a man who was a -sort of “mayor” of the place where Komer lived. He was so pleased and -astonished, that he sent for the boy, made him presents, praised his -drawings, and asked him if he would like to be a painter. - -Like it? of course, Komer nearly jumped out of his skin for joy. Like to -go to a great city to a master painter, and learn how to be one himself? -Of course, he could not find his tongue to tell all the joy that filled -his heart. There was no need—his glowing face was enough. The gentleman -said he would talk of it to his parents. Now, his parents never heard of -any kind of painting, save doors and houses; therefore, when the -gentleman asked them, they answered that it was a very dangerous trade; -for houses in cities were sometimes seven stories high, and Komer might -break his legs or neck. And so Komer did not go to the city, but kept on -watching the old cow. - -But for all that, this gentleman, and others to whom he showed Komer’s -drawing, did not forget him or them, but kept on talking about the -wonderful child; and, what was more to their credit, tried to help him. -They sent for him to take lessons with _their_ children in French, -Latin, and music. That he need not be ashamed to come among them, they -gave him better clothing, and the gentleman who first saw him brought -him to eat with his family, at his own table. - -Little Komer did not think—as you do—that it was a hardship to study; -not he. He flew at his books with a will; and till he was sixteen, never -spent an idle moment in lesson hours. After this, he did some copying -for a gentleman, besides other writing, in order to earn money. Then, -for the first time, he went to a great city, and gazed on splendid -paintings, till he was nearly beside himself with rapture. Now, indeed, -nothing could stop him. He made the acquaintance of a young artist, and -commenced immediately; weeping, that he was not permitted to do so, when -he first had the offer; so hard did he work—so absorbed was he with this -one idea—that he grew sick; his hands began to tremble, like those of a -palsied old man, and he could no longer hold a pencil. Now, indeed, he -must rest, if he would not die; but he was too active to lie upon the -shelf and be quite idle; if he could not draw, he would read. He took up -a volume of poems. Why could not _he_ write? He, _Komer_? Why not? He -seized his pen; he wrote poem after poem; they were copied, praised, and -set to music! - -Now Komer turned his attention to writing books. Gifted men were proud -of his friendship; he could talk with them on any subject. His four and -twentieth year found him famous. The old cow, were she living, which was -doubtful, must take care of herself; he had “browsing” of his own to do. -I hope he kept that horse he copied from the tobacco paper. I hope he -made a drawing of the old hut where he was born; and the peddler, with -his pipe, and his pack, and the green meadows where he used to dream -away the lonely summer days, while old Brindle switched the flies, and -winked lazily at the patches of blue sky, as she lay under the broad -tree shadows. I hope he did not forget his old mother, if she was -ignorant; because she knew enough to love him, and perhaps, had she not -praised that horse, because her little Komer drew it, he might have -tended cows all his life; who knows? - - - - - JEMMY LAWTON. - - -School was out! “Hurra!” screamed all the boys, and up went their caps -in the air, as they all commenced trying the strength of their limbs and -trowsers, some by climbing up trees, some over fences, some by -leap-frog, some by bat and ball; and thus they all separated, and went -their different ways home, and Jemmy Lawton went his, too. It was not -with so light a step as his schoolfellows; and when the last boy was out -of sight, he drew a deep sigh, and crowding his cap down over his eyes, -and looking carefully about him in every direction, as if to reassure -himself that not one boy lingered to keep him company, moved on. He was -an honest boy; he had no thought of stealing anything on the way—it was -not that; he was not afraid of “the master,” for he was always at the -head of his class, and seemed more anxious to understand his lessons -than any boy in school. He was not afraid any big boy would thrash him, -nor was he lying in wait for any smaller boy to thrash. No, Jemmy was no -such coward. On he moved, with leaden feet, past the old, familiar -spots; past the grocer’s, with his peanuts, and oranges, and cocoanuts, -and nicely potted flowers, that he hoped would attract the housewives -who came to buy his sugar and tea; past the baker’s, with his tempting -pies and tarts, and piles of sugared cakes, and heaps of candy; past the -toy shop, and the tinman’s, and the shoe store: he had read all their -signs till they were as familiar to him as his own name, and now he had -turned the last corner of the street in which was his own house. _Now_ -it was that the child turned pale, and set his white teeth together, and -drew his breath hard. His house was a very pretty one, with a nice -little garden spot in front, in which were fragrant flowers, for his -mother was very fond of them—almost as fond as she was of Jemmy. - -He had a kind mother, then? Yes; but do you see that crowd of boys, like -a little black swarm, round the pretty white gate before his house? You -cannot see what they are looking at so earnestly inside the fence, but -you can hear their shouts and laughter, and so, alas! does Jemmy. His -face is not white now—it is as red as the daisies in his mother’s -garden, and his eyes flash like the raindrops on the daisies’ bosoms, -that the bright sun is now shining upon. Alas! when will there be -sunshine in Jemmy’s house? - -“Ah, there’s Jim now,” said a rude boy, loud enough for Jemmy to hear. -“Here’s your drunken father, Jim.” - -“Stand away! go home! off with you all!” shouted Jemmy, in a harsh, -fierce voice, that contrasted strangely with his slight figure, and -sweet, infantile face; “off with you!” and he walked into the centre of -the group, where, crouched upon the ground, was a man, vainly trying, on -his hands and knees—for he could not stand—to reach the door to get in; -his nice broadcloth coat was covered with dirt; his hat was crushed in; -bits of straw and grass were sticking in his thick, black hair; his eyes -were red, and he did not even see his own little boy, who was crimson -with shame as he stood over him, and vainly tried to help him to his -feet. “Off with you!” shouted Jemmy again to the boys, who laughed as -his father fell against him, almost knocking him over; “off with you, I -say!” bringing his little foot to the ground with a stamp that made them -all start; then, rushing up to the door, he rang the bell violently, and -turned his head away, to conceal the tears that would no longer be kept -back. A woman came to the door—it was Jemmy’s mother, and together they -helped in the drunken husband and father. - -No wonder Jemmy dreaded going home from school! It was not the first -time, nor the second, nor the third, that he had helped his father in at -the area door when he was too drunk to find his way up the front steps -to his own house; and sometimes Jemmy, only that he thought of his -mother, would have wished himself dead. It was so terrible—the brutal -laugh and jests of those cruel boys. Oh! I hope you never do such mean -things. I have known children who taunted their playmates and -schoolfellows with such troubles when they were angry with them, or -sometimes, as in this case, for mere sport. It is a sign of a base, -mean, cruel nature, and the boy or girl who would remind any child of -their acquaintance of a disagreeable thing of this kind, which is hard -enough to hear at best, and twit and taunt them with it, or pain them by -noticing it in any way, is a boy or a girl to be shunned and avoided. -Nero, the tyrant, who roasted people for his amusement, must have been -such a boy. I am sorry to say I have known little girls equally -malicious and wicked—bad women they will surely grow up, if not broken -of such mean cruelty before they are women. - -A drunkard is a drunkard all the same, whether he gets drunk on bad rum -or champagne; whether he takes his senses away at the club house, or -low, corner grocery: he comes to the gutter just as surely in the end. -It made no difference to little Jemmy that his father got drunk on rich -old wine, and sipped it from cut glasses in a handsome apartment; his -mother was just as heart-broken, and her children just as miserable as -they could be. Dollar after dollar the man was swallowing; and Jemmy -might well study hard, and be at the head of his class, for he would -need all he could earn to coin into bread and butter, by the time he got -old enough to keep his mother and little brothers and sisters. And -Jemmy’s father _used_ to be so kind—that memory came often to the child, -to make him patient under his trouble, to help him to excuse him for the -wrong he was doing both himself and them. “He was so kind _once_!” Jemmy -would sob out in his little bed at night. “I remember——,” and then he -would beguile himself by remembering the walks and rides he used to take -with him—the Christmas presents—how pleased father was to hear his -lessons well recited—and now! Oh, nobody who has not dropped from such a -height of happiness down to that dreadful “now” can tell how bruised the -poor heart may be by the fall! God help little Jemmy and all like him, -who have sorrows all the greater that they must bear the burden alone; -that they are _unspeakable_ sorrows, save to Him who will never taunt us -with their heavy burden, or turn to us a careless ear. - -You may be sure that when Jemmy grew up he never drank. Long before the -beard grew on his soft, white chin, his father’s bloated face was hidden -under a tombstone; and when, in after years, young men of his own age -locked arms, or clapping each other on the shoulder, as they passed some -gilded saloon, said to one another and to him, “Come in and take a -drink,” you may be sure that the smile died away on Jemmy’s face, and he -saw—not the bright lights in the saloon window, nor the gay, laughing -throng inside—but instead, a form crouching like a beast at his feet, -dirt-besmeared, with bloodshot eyes—creeping, crawling, like a loathsome -reptile, who has no soul to save—for whom there is no Heaven, no -glorious future after death—nothing but annihilation. Ah, no; Jemmy -could not “take a drink”—his very soul sickened when they asked him. - - - - - HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON. - - A CHAPTER FOR BOYS. - - -Did you ever hear of Lord Chesterfield? I dare say you have; if not, you -very likely will, before you are much older. He wrote some letters to a -son of his, which have become famous, telling how to eat, and drink, and -walk, and talk politely; how to dress, how to carve, how to dance, how -to write letters; how to enter a room, how to go out of it; how to smile -at people whom he disliked; what books to read, what sort of people to -visit, and to choose for his friends. Every now and then I used to hear -of this book, and hear some person say, in speaking of another person, -“He has very fine manners—he is quite Chesterfieldian;” which seemed to -mean very great praise. Now, I have no boys—more’s the pity; but still, -I thought, I will read this Lord Chesterfield’s book, and see how _he_ -thinks a boy should be brought up, because I have my own notions on that -subject, as well as his lordship, although I have had no occasion to -practice them; and I think good manners are by no means to be despised, -though they are not at all the most important part of a boy’s education. - -Well, there was just the mistake _I_ think this gentleman made about his -son, whom he drilled in these things like a little soldier; it was the -outside only that he was most careful about polishing and adorning. It -was to get a high place in this short-lived world that he was to make -his best bow, wear his hat and coat gracefully, and study Latin, and -talk French and Italian. It was to secure the notice of great, and -powerful, and fashionable people, that he was to cultivate his taste and -talents, and improve his person; not to do good, not to benefit in any -way his fellow creatures by the great influence all this would give him -to do good, but _solely to benefit himself_, and to hear it said that he -was a perfect gentleman, which, by the way, would have been untrue, had -he done all this and done no more, because no man acting from such -selfish motives _can_ be a perfect gentleman, though, to careless eyes, -he may appear so. Then this Lord Chesterfield told his son never to get -angry with anybody, not because anger was wrong, and debased the soul of -him who indulged it, but because it was not good policy to make an enemy -even of the meanest person, who might some day be able either to help or -to injure one. Then he advised him to speak very respectfully of God and -religious things, because it was considered “decorous” to do so, and -because it gave a man influence, not because it is base and ungrateful -to receive all the good things God showers down upon us at every moment, -while we little Lilliputians are, practically, at least, denying His -very existence, and doing all we can to blot and deface and mar His -image in our souls, and helping others to do the same; not because He -who loves and pities us so tenderly waits month after month, year after -year, with patience unspeakable, to see us turn to Him with a loving, -penitent “Our Father;” not for this, but because it was “respectable” to -be religious. It is quite pitiful to read this gentleman’s letters to -his son, and see, while he appeared to love him so fondly, how entirely -he was educating him for this world, with not a thought beyond, for -those ages upon ages which that immortal spirit must travel through in -joy or pain, just as he prepared for it here. It is pitiful that he -never said one word to the boy about using his talents and influence for -lightening the burdens which were so heavily weighing down his less -favored fellow mortals, but everything was to begin and end in himself; -that _he_ was to shine in public and private; that _he_ was to be -admired, not for his goodness of heart, but, like the peacock, for his -fine plumage—like the bird, for his sweet voice. - -Well, the boy was to travel and see the world, and everything in it -worth seeing, but by no means to associate with any but “fashionable -people;” as if he _could_ see all that was “worth seeing,” in such an -artificial atmosphere; as if fashionable people were “the world;” as if -God’s purest, and brightest, and best, did not shine out like diamonds -from dirt-heaps; as if _that_ was the way to read human nature, which -the boy was told to study so perfectly that he could play upon the -chords of human feeling and human passion, as does a skillful musician -upon his favorite instrument. No; as well might he judge of a book by -looking at its gilt binding. He was to talk to women, who, his father -told him, “were only grown up children.” I wonder had he a mother? I -wonder had she whispered a prayer over his cradle? I wonder had she -never gone without sleep and rest, that his little head might be -pillowed softly? I always ask these questions when men speak -disrespectfully of women; well, he was to talk to women, and be good -friends with, and flatter them, because, foolish and silly as they were, -they had, after all, influence in the world, and might “make or mar his -fortune;” there you see it is again _the everlasting I_, at the top and -bottom of everything. - -Now, you will naturally inquire how this paragon turned out, when he -became a man; whether this boy, educated with so much care, and at so -much expense, repaid it all;—you will naturally suppose, that with such -advantages of education and society, he overtopped all his fellows. His -father’s ambition was to see him in Parliament, which answers in -England, you know, to our American Congress—except that there is no -head-breaking allowed in that honorable body. Our hero had now grown to -man’s stature; he wore a coat any tailor might be proud of; made a bow -equal to a dancing master; and could tell fibs so politely that even his -father was delighted. So far, so good. Now he was to put the crown on it -all, by making his first speech in Parliament; he who had the dictionary -at his tongue’s end, and the rules of etiquette at his finger ends; who -had been drilled in rhetoric, and oratory, and diplomacy, and in all the -steps considered necessary by his father to make a great public man. -Well—he got up—and stuttered—and stammered—and hemmed—and ha-ha-d—and -made a most disgraceful failure. Do you suppose he would have done it, -had his whole soul been on fire with some grand, God-like project for -helping his fellow creatures? _Never!_ But his whole thoughts were -centered in himself; what sort of figure he cut—what impression he -should make; what this—that—and the other great person was thinking of -him. Of course he came down like a collapsed balloon, as all men do who -have no higher standard than the approbation of human beings. - -Oh, I tell you what it is; you may cram a man’s _head_ as full as you -please, if you neglect his _heart_, he will be, after all, like a Dead -Sea apple—and yield you only—_ashes_. - -[Illustration: THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.—Page 206] - - - - - THE BOY WALTER SCOTT. - - -A weakly child sent to his grandfather’s, for change of air! Nothing -extraordinary in that. It has happened to many children, of whom the -world never even heard that they were born. Grandfather’s house! It is -the child’s paradise. He has only to cry for what he wants, to obtain -it. Grandpa quite forgets the wholesome authority he exercised with the -_parents_ of his little grandchild, and how well they were made “to -mind;” and he will always find some excuse, when they say to him while -he is spoiling their boy, “Grandpa, you never allowed _us_ to do thus, -and so.” He only shakes his silver head, and kisses the noisy rogue. He -is old, and it may seem to him the least troublesome way to manage; or, -being so near the grave, _love_ may seem to the poor old man the most -precious thing while he stays here; and he will long have slept his last -sleep, before that pretty but willful boy will know enough to love him -better for restraining him. And so old grandpa, wanting all the love he -can get, from everybody, before his heart grows cold forever, _won’t -see_ the child’s little tricks, or, if he does, but says, “Ah, well, -he’s only a child!” or, “He don’t feel well to-day!” or, “We must not be -too hard upon him, till he gets older and wiser.” Then it is really very -difficult for grandpa, or anybody else, to manage a _sick_ child. One -cannot tell what is obstinacy and what disease. One fears to be harsh -and cruel to a little crippled thing; the pale face appeals so -irresistibly to a kind heart; and “What if he should die?” is apt to -decide all doubts in the child’s favor. And then, a child almost -unbearably irritable, the first years of its life, grows sweet-tempered, -docile, and affectionate, with returning health. But I have rambled a -long way from my story—of lame little Walter Scott, who was sent to his -grandfather, to “Sandy Knowe,” for change of air, in charge of his -nurse. Now, this nursemaid had a lover, whom she had been obliged to -leave behind when she went with the sick child. This made her cross; -from that she began to hate the poor sick boy; and from that, to -entertain thoughts of killing him with a pair of scissors, that she -might get back again to her lover. Luckily, this was discovered, and she -was sent off; Grandpa Scott, of course, pitying the boy all the more on -account of the danger he had been in. Of course, he asked everybody what -was good for his grandson’s complaint. One person recommended that a -sheep should be killed, and the child immediately wrapped in its warm -skin. This was done; and behold little Walter lying on the floor, in his -woolly covering, and Grandpa Scott sitting there coaxing him to crawl -round, and exercise his little lame leg. There was his Grandma Scott, -too, in her elbow chair, looking on. Now and then a visitor would drop -in—some old military man, to see grandpa; and the two would sit and talk -about “the American Revolution,” then going on. These stories made -little Walter’s eyes shine, for under the lamb’s woolly skin there beat -a little lion heart; and then this little three-year-old boy crawled -nearer and nearer the chairs where the old men were sitting, and -devoured every word they said. All children like stories that are -wonderful and marvelous, but perhaps little Walter would never have been -such a beautiful story writer when he grew up, had he not lain there in -his lamb skin, in the little parlor at Sandy Knowe, listening to those -old men’s stories. People don’t think of these things when they talk -before children, who look so unconscious of what is going on. - -Besides his good grandparents, Walter had a very kind aunt, by the name -of Janet, who liked children, and was fond of telling Walter stories, -and teaching him to repeat little ballads. Of one of these in -particular, he was very fond; and when he lay sprawling on the floor, he -used to say it over to himself. It seems that among his grandpa’s -friends was one of those persons who have no love for, and, of course, -no patience with, children. This person had a very long face, very thin -legs, and a very narrow chest; so I suppose we must forgive him. Did you -ever know a fat, broad-chested man or woman to hate children? I never -did. Well, when little Walter lay there under foot, amusing himself with -his favorite ballad, this long-legged man would frown, and turning to -his grandpa, say, “One may as well speak in the mouth of a cannon as -where that child is!” It is so unnatural a thing to dislike children, -that I prefer to believe, when persons do so, that it is because they -are sick and nervous. However, little Walter did not bear this gentleman -any ill-will for it; because, long afterward, when he heard that he was -sick and dying, he went to see him, and they took a kind farewell of -each other. - -It seems that Walter’s sickness did not sour his disposition; an old -woman by the name of Tibby, at Sandy Knowe, says that “he was a -sweet-tempered little bairn, and a darling with all the house.” The -shepherds delighted to carry him on their backs among the crags, and he -soon learned to know every sheep and lamb in the flock, by the mark put -on their heads. Best of all, he liked an old man, who had the -superintendence of all the flocks, who was called “the cow-bailie;” when -Walter saw him in the morning, he never would be satisfied until he had -been put astride his shoulder and carried to the crags, to keep him -company while he watched his flocks. After a while, he became weary of -this, as children will; then the nice old man blew a particular note on -his whistle, to let the maid servant know that she was to come up and -carry him down the crags to his grandpa, in the little cozy parlor. -Many—many—many years after this, when Walter was an old man, he went -back to see those crags, and this is what he said: “Oh, how I used to -love the sheep and lambs when I rolled round here upon the grass; I have -never forgotten the feeling—no, not till this day!” - -Once, when little Walter was up on the crags, the people in the house -where he lived forgot him. A thunder storm came up. Suddenly his Aunt -Janet remembered that he was there, and ran up, much frightened, to -bring him home. There she found him, lying comfortably on his back, the -sharp, forked lightning playing overhead, and little Walter clapping his -hands and crying, “Bonny! bonny!” at every flash. Walter’s grandpa, -finding that he was fond of riding on the old cow-bailie’s shoulder, -bought him a cunning little Shetland pony, hardly as large as a -Newfoundland dog; in fact, he was so small that he used to walk into the -parlor like a dog, and feed from the child’s hand. He did not think then -that one day he should have a little grandchild lame like himself, and -that he should buy _him_ just such a little pony, and name it like -that—“Marion;”—but so it was. - -Walter was a great reader. He read to his aunt, read to himself, and -read to his mother. One day he was reading to his mother an account of a -shipwreck, and became very much excited; lifting his hands and eyes, and -saying, “There’s the mast gone! crash! now they’ll all perish!” While he -was reading, a lady had come in to see his mother. After he had -recovered a little from his agitation, he turned to the lady-visitor -with a politeness quite remarkable in a child of only six years, and -said, “This is too melancholy! had I not better read you something more -amusing?” The lady thought, as well she might, that if she wanted to be -“amused” she had better make him talk; so she said, knowing he had been -reading Milton, “How did you like Milton, Walter?” “I think,” said he, -“that it is very strange that Adam, who had just come newly into the -world, should know everything. I suppose, though, it must be only the -poet’s fancy.” “You forget,” said the lady, “that God created Adam quite -perfect.” Walter reflected a moment, seemed satisfied, and yielded the -point. When his Aunt Janet took him up to bed that night, he said, -“Auntie, I like that lady; I think she is a virtuoso like myself.” “Dear -Walter!” exclaimed Aunt Jenny, opening wide her eyes, “what _is_ a -virtuoso?” “Why, aunt, it is one who wishes, and _will_ know, -everything.” Of course, you may believe that his Aunt Jenny tucked him -up that night in the full belief that he would never live to grow up. -Luckily for us all, she was mistaken. - -Are you tired hearing stories about him? Because I have another one I -want to tell you, though I dare say, if you are reading this book of -mine aloud to your mother, she has said to herself fifty times (and I -like her fifty times better for saying it), “Pooh! our Ben, or our Sam, -or our Harry, said a great many wonderful things, quite as wonderful as -these, as I could show, if ‘a mother’ ever had a minute’s time to write -and tell the world of it.” I’ve no doubt of it, my dear madam; I shall -certainly die in the belief that children say about all there is worth -listening to in this world; but to proceed with my story. One day, when -Walter was sitting at the gate with an attendant, a woe-begone old -beggar came up, and asked for charity. After he had received it, the -attendant said, “Walter, how thankful should you be, that you are not -obliged to beg your bread in that way.” Walter looked up wistfully, as -if he did not comprehend; then replied, “Homer was a beggar.” “How do -you know?” asked the attendant. “Why, don’t you remember? - - “‘Seven Roman cities strove for Homer dead, - Through which the living Homer begged his bread.’” - -How lucky that Walter was not kept in the city! I think nothing could -have made him well but taking him just where he was taken; out on the -crags, where the fresh wind blew, and the grass was so sweet, and -everything about him tempted him to crawl on a _little_ farther, and -then a _little_ farther; a tuft of moss, or a curious stone, or some -little thing which he wished to take in his own hand, and examine more -closely. Oh, I am quite sure he must have died in the city; his poor -lame leg would have shrunk more and more, for want of exercise; for a -carpet ever so soft, can never be like that which God has spread for the -bare feet of the poorest country child. But you must not suppose, all -this while, that he learned nothing save that which the sky, and the -crags, and the sheep taught him. Aunt Janet used to give him lessons -when he was well enough, and as he could bear them. Ah! it is well that -there are some good women who never marry. Else, what would so many sick -children do, for patient, careful, good, loving nurses? How many of them -have been coaxed by such round the most dangerous point of childhood, -where medicine was nothing, and good nursing _everything_, to the -astonishment of all who prophesied an early death. Such women have their -reward, for these little ones become almost as dear to them as if in -name—as well as in self-forgetting love—they were mothers. God bless -them all! as the silver threads gleam amid their tresses. They will not -be lonely in Heaven. - -Children are full of funny whims; though I think, if we follow them but -carefully, we shall, oftener than not, find good reason for them. Walter -had a dislike almost amounting to terror of a _statue_. Very likely, he -might first have seen one by a dim light, which, to his startled vision, -gave it a ghostly look. It might have been so, though I don’t know that -it was. When his Uncle Robert, who was very fond of him, found this out, -he did not laugh at him, or scold him, but he took him, whenever it was -possible, to see fine statues; and he soon learned, not only to conquer -his dislike, but to admire their beauty exceedingly. - -By and by his friends thought it was time he went to school, he was -growing so much stronger, though not well of his lameness; in fact, I -believe that all his after life he walked with a stick. So to school he -went, I dare say, with many misgivings; I dare say he wondered whether -the boys would make fun of his lameness. I dare say he wondered what he -should do with himself while they were running, and leaping, and playing -all sorts of rough-and-tumble plays out of doors, and out of school -hours. I dare say he dreaded, as do all children, the first day at a new -school. I dare say he wondered whether the education he had picked up by -bits, as his lame leg would let him, would pass muster at a big boys’ -school; or whether he would be called “a dunce,” as well as “lame.” I -don’t know that he thought any of these thoughts, but I shouldn’t wonder -if he had. I suppose his grandpa, and his Uncle Robert, and his Aunt -Janet all felt anxious, too; but, as it turned out, there was no great -occasion for it, for he seemed quite well able, after he got there, to -manage his own little affairs. In the first place, knowing that he -couldn’t “rough it” much in the playground, and not liking, of course, -to be left in a corner alone, he commenced telling such wonderful tales -and stories, that the boys were glad to crowd round him and listen; and -they were worth listening to; else the boys wouldn’t have staid, I can -tell you. How they _would_ have stared, had they then been told that -this lame fellow was destined to set the whole world by the ears by the -stories he should write. Ah! you don’t know, you boys, what famous men -you may be sharing your apples and cake with in the playground. You -don’t know what a big man you may become _yourself_, only by being _his_ -boyhood’s friend. How his future biographer will hunt you out, and -catechise you about the color of his eyes, and hair, and the shape of -his finger nails, and what he said, and did, and ate, and drank, and -what he did like, and what he didn’t like; and it is very well you don’t -know all this, because it would spoil your present fun and freedom; and -it is very well “the master” don’t know “a genius” when he is boxing his -ears, because they might _grow very long_ for the need of such -discipline! - -Well, like other boys, Master Walter was sometimes at the top, and -sometimes at the bottom of his class. On one occasion he made a sudden -leap to the top. The master asked the boys “Is _with_ ever a -substantive?” All were silent, until the question reached Walter, nearly -at the bottom of the class, who instantly replied by quoting from the -book of Judges, “And Sampson said unto Delilah, ‘If they bind me with -seven green _withs_ that were never dried, then shall I be weak, and as -another man.’” Pretty keen! wasn’t it? The other boys twiddled their -thumbs, and looked foolish, and he went to the top. I don’t believe his -mother thought, when she read him the Bible, of his laying that text on -the shelf of his memory, to be brought forth in that queer way. But a -smart answer does not stand a boy in the place of hard study, as you may -have found out if you ever tried it; so Master Walter found himself at -the bottom of the class again one fine day. This didn’t suit the young -man, and what suited him less was the fact that the boy who was at the -head seemed to mean to stay there, too. Day after day passed, and nobody -could get his place. Walter pondered deeply how he should manage. He -looked sharply at him, to see if he could not accomplish by stratagem -what he could not gain fairly. At length he observed that when a -question was asked this—_at-the-top boy_—he always fumbled with his -fingers at a particular button on the lower part of his waistcoat. _If -Walter could only succeed in cutting off that button!_ He watched his -chance—knife in hand. When that top boy was again questioned, he felt, -as usual, for the friendly button. It was gone! He looked down for it; -it was no more to be seen than to be felt. He stuttered—he stammered—he -missed his lesson; and that wretched, roguish Walter took his place. But -I can tell you he didn’t feel happy about it; for he says he never -passed him but his heart smote him for it, though the top boy never knew -who stole his _lesson button_. Scott says he often promised himself to -make some amends for the boyish injury he did him; but he never did. -Scott also says that when this boy grew a young man, he became a -drunkard, and died early. That was a pity, though I don’t think it was -on account of that button; do you? Still, Scott always wished all the -more that he had not been unkind to the poor, unfortunate fellow. - -You will be glad to know that Walter continued to grow stronger and -stronger, so that his limb, though it disfigured, did not disable him. -He had not been taunted with it in his childhood, like poor Byron, till -he imagined everybody who looked at him thought of nothing else. He had -been very, very kindly cared for, and tenderly nursed. Pity Byron was -not, though I think he _never_ would have been half the man Scott was; -but then, I’m “_only a woman_,” and you needn’t mind what _I_ say. Well, -when Walter grew to be a fine young man, he was very fond of strolling -off to see beautiful scenery, and when he once began these journeys, he -never knew how fast time was passing, how far he had gone, and when and -where to stop. Not knowing how to draw pictures of the places he visited -with his pencil (he did not know then how beautifully his pen would do -it some day), he resolved to cut a branch of a tree from every place -which particularly pleased him, and label it with the name of the spot -where it grew, and afterward have a set of chess men made out of the -wood, as he was then very fond of this game, which, by the way, with a -courtesy to Paul Morphy, I think a very stupid game; though perhaps this -is because I never could sit still long enough to learn how to play it. -This idea of Walter’s was a very pretty one, though he never carried it -into execution. He never played chess after boyhood—saying that it was a -sad “waste of brains;” and he might have added, a sad waste of backbone; -at least for “Young America,” who has few enough outdoor sports now, to -keep his breastbone and his backbone from clinging together. - -Walter’s mother was very anxious he should learn music; but he declares -he had neither voice nor ear for it. He says that, when the attempt was -made to instruct him, and the music teacher came to give him lessons, a -lady who lived in their neighborhood sent in “to beg that the children -in that house might not all be flogged at the same hour, because, -though, doubtless, they all deserved it, the noise they made was really -dreadful!” - -Walter’s mother appears to have been a very intelligent, kind-hearted, -well-educated woman. Not educated according to our standard, exactly; -since, at the age of eighty, when sitting down, she never touched the -back of her chair any more than if the eye of the schoolmistress was -then upon her, who used to force pupils “to sit upright.” She died -before Walter came to be the “great unknown” whom everybody was -wondering about. But, after all, what matters it, so far as she was -concerned? since it is _love_, not greatness, for which a mother’s heart -hungers; and Walter loved his mother. - -After her death, among her papers was found a weak, boyish scrawl, with -penciled marks still visible, of a translation in verse from Horace and -Virgil, by “her dear boy Walter.” I said, just now, what mattered it to -_her_ that he was famous? little, truly, so that he loved her; and yet, -for _him_, for any one, to whom the world’s praises have come, ah, it is -of the loved dead that they _then_ think? - -With all his glory, with all his troop of friends, seen and unseen, I -doubt if he was ever so happy as when lying at _her_ feet, wrapped in -the warm sheepskin, in the little sunny parlor at Sandy Knowe. When you -read his books—and it is a great thing to say that children _may_ read -them—you will remember all these little stories I have been telling you -about his childhood; and that, when he came to die, full of age and -honors, _this_ is what he said to his son, as he stood by his bedside: -“My dear, be a good man: be virtuous, be religious—be a _good_ man. -_Nothing else will give you any real comfort when you come to lie -here._” - - - - - AUNT MAGGIE. - - -Maggie More—that was her name; people who knew her well called her Aunt -Maggie; this did not displease her; she was a sociable little body, -quite willing to befriend anybody who felt the need of an aunt, or whom -the world had used hardly. Maggie was not rich as we use the word, but -she was rich in good health, in good temper, and a certain faculty of -making the best of everything that happened. The little shop she kept -would have made a Broadway storekeeper laugh. Well, let him laugh; he -could afford to do it, if he never made a dishonest penny oftener than -Aunt Maggie. _She_ never told a poor soul who had scraped a few -shillings together to buy a calico dress, that “it would wash,” (meaning -that it would wash _out_.) _Her_ yardstick never had a way of slipping, -so that six yards and a half measured, when you got it home, but six -yards. She never gave crossed sixpences and shillings to children who -were sent to buy tape and needles; and so, as I told you, Aunt Maggie -did not get rich as fast as they who do such things; but Maggie had read -in a Book which the people I speak of seldom open, because, when they -do, it is sure to prick their consciences—Aunt Maggie had read in that -book, that “they who make haste to be rich shall not be innocent,” and -she believed it. She had not yet outgrown the Bible; it did not lie on -her little deal table merely to gather dust, or that the minister might -see it when he called once a year. She did not think that, though the -Bible was well enough for those who lived at the time it was written, it -could teach her nothing at this day; she did not think it a proof of -courage or of a superior understanding to make light of its blessed -teachings. No, no, Aunt Maggie knew better; she had seen too many in her -lifetime, who had talked that way when everything went well with them, -sink down in despair when the waves of trouble dashed over them, and she -had seen too many whom that blessed book had buoyed up through billows -of trouble that rolled mountain high, not to cling to the Bible. No, no; -Aunt Maggie was an old woman, but she was not yet old enough to let go -her Heavenly Father’s hand, and try to walk alone. She knew how surely -she should stumble and fall if she did. - -Nor did Aunt Maggie’s religion consist merely in reading her Bible and -going to church; when she read on its pages, “Visit the fatherless and -widows in their affliction,” she did it. - -“What is the matter, Aunt Maggie?” asked a bronzed sea captain, who had -rolled into her little shop to buy a new watch ribbon. “This is the -first time I ever saw you look as if there was a squall ahead. Got any -watch ribbons, Aunt Maggie?—none of your flimsy things for an old -sea-dog like me. Give us something that will stand a twitch or -two—that’s it—take your pay—(throwing her his purse)—and mind you take -enough—there’s nobody else wants it now”—and the old captain drew a long -sigh. - -“The Lord does,” answered Aunt Maggie, folding her arms on the counter, -and looking earnestly in the captain’s face. - -“What do you mean by that, hey? Has some Bible society run a-foul of -you? Want a church built, to shut out everybody who don’t believe as you -do, eh, Aunt Maggie?” and the old captain stowed away a bit of tobacco -in his cheek, with a knowing look. - -“It’s just here,” said Aunt Maggie—“the poor ye have always with you; -that was said a great many thousand years ago, but it is just as true -now.” - -“I don’t know who should know, Aunt, better than you,” said the captain; -“you who are always helping them. Go on.” - -“Well, there’s a poor young creature who lies dead a stone’s throw from -here, an English girl, whose husband brought her to this country, and -then left her to take care of herself. I was with her all last night, -and this morning she laid her little babe in my arms, and I promised to -care for it when she was gone. Poor thing! she had her senses but a few -minutes to tell me anything. Her parents, it seems, disinherited her for -marrying her husband. She would not tell their name. She had pawned, one -by one, every article in her possession, for money; and now, there’s the -babe. God helping me, she shall be taken care of as I promised, but you -know it’s little I have—and the mother must have decent burial.” - -“English—did you say she was?” asked the captain. - -“Aye—English,” said Aunt Maggie—“fair-haired and blue-eyed—the pride of -some home. Oh! how little they, who must have loved her once, think how -cold and desolate she lies now. It is well,” said Aunt Maggie, “that -_God_ can forgive—when earthly parents turn away.” - -“You don’t know what it is, Aunt Maggie,” said the captain, striding -across the floor, “to have the child you loved better than your heart’s -blood, leave your arms for a stranger’s, whom she has known mayhap but a -day.” - -“It must be bitter,” said Aunt Maggie, “and yet, year after year, we -turn our backs upon Him who has done more for us than any earthly parent -can. If He still feeds us, cares for us, forgives us, what are _we_ -to——” - -“True—true!” said the old captain, dashing his hand across his eyes; -“this girl is English, you say?” - -“Yes; and as you are English too, I thought mayhap you’d like to help a -countrywoman; I am going to see to the babe now,” said Aunt Maggie; -“mayhap you’d like to see it too?” - -“Aye—aye,” replied the captain. - -On they went, to the end of the long street—past grog shops, and pawn -shops, and mock-auction shops, and second-hand furniture shops, and -rickety old tenement houses, where ragged clothes flapped, and broken -windows were stuffed with paper; where dogs barked and parrots -screamed—for many of these poor people, who can scarcely keep -themselves, keep these pets,—past young girls, homeless and shameless, -alas!—past young men, old, not in years, but in sin—past little -children, who only knew God’s blessed name to blaspheme it. At last Aunt -Maggie turned down an alley, dark, narrow, and dingy, and entering one -of the low doors, began to ascend the creaky stairs, that seemed -swarming with children, of all sorts and sizes, dwarfed in the cradle by -disease and neglect. When Aunt Maggie reached the top flight, she -stopped before a door, through which came the faint wailing of a little -babe, and the low lullaby of a woman’s voice. Upon the bed, opposite the -door, lay the dead woman, with a sheet thrown over her face. - -“Would you like to see her?” asked Aunt Maggie, turning to the captain. -“’Tis a sweet face.” - -“Yes—no,” answered the captain, turning away, and then advancing again -toward the bed. - -“Mary! Mary!” he cried, as the pale upturned face lay uncovered before -him: “_my_ Mary _here_!” and he threw his arms around the neck of the -dead girl, and trembled like the strong tree before the tempest blast. - -“_His_ Mary!” murmured Aunt Maggie, taking the motherless babe from the -old woman’s arms; “_his_ Mary—then this is his grandchild. Didn’t I say -that the Lord would provide for the helpless?” - -Yes, “_his_ Mary!” Death hides all faults. We only remember the goodness -of those upon whose marble faces our tears fall fast; and so the old -captain took his little grandchild to his heart, and Aunt Maggie left -her little shop and became its nurse. And not till many years after, -when the little babe had grown to be a tall girl, did Aunt Maggie tell -her the story that I have been telling you. - - - - - A FUNERAL I SAW. - - -I have been to a funeral to-day. It was in a church;—I had to pass -through a garden to reach it;—the warm rain was dropping gently on the -shrubs and early flowers, and inside warm tears were falling; for before -the chancel lay a coffin, and in it was a fair young wife and mother, -pale and sweet as the white flowers that lay upon the coffin-lid. Near -it was her husband, and beside him were her aged parents, bowed down -with grief that she who they thought would close their fading eyes, -should fade first. In a house opposite the church, were the dead -mother’s babe, only a few days old, and two other little ones, just old -enough to prattle unconsciously as they went from room to room, “Mamma -has gone away.” I knew, though they did not, how day after day would -pass, and these little girls, who had always seen mamma _come back -again_, after she had “gone away,” would stand at the window, looking -this way and that, with their little bright faces, and listening for her -light footstep; and my heart ached and my eyes filled as I thought how -every day, as they grew older, they would need her care and feel her -loss the more; for it is only in part that a father, even the kindest, -can fill a watchful mother’s place;—he, whose business must be out of -doors and away; how can he know how weary the little feet get wandering -up and down, with no mamma’s lap to climb upon; how weary the little -hands,—putting down one thing, and taking up another, with no mamma to -nod smilingly and say, “I see”—or “it is very pretty, dear;” how -homesick the little rifled heart feels, though it scarce knows why; how -tasteless the pretty cup of milk mamma used to hold to the rosy lips; -how empty parlor and nursery, chamber and hall? How much less gentle is -nurse’s touch than hers; how much sooner she wearies of answering little -curious questions, and getting bits of string and toys for restless -fingers to play with; how much longer seems the time now, before papa -comes home to dinner and tea,—poor papa—who, with an iron hand, crushes -down his own great sorrow and tries and fails to speak to them in _her_ -soft, sweet, winning way; and tries and fails to soothe their little -insect griefs, though he would die to save them a heart-pang. - -All this I thought of as I looked at these two little curly-headed girls -and their baby sister; and I said to myself, I do not know why God took -away their young mother, whose work just seemed begun, and left the aged -grand parents who were waiting to go. Why he made that house desolate -and silent, once so musical. Why he turned those tender lambs out from -that soft, warm fold. With all my thinking I could not find that out; -but I am just as sure, as if I could, that He did it in love, not in -anger; I am just as sure as if I were in Heaven this minute, that it was -best and right; though they, and you, and I, must wait till we get there -to know the how and why. - - - - - WATCHES. - - -Every urchin has had the little gilt toy-watch that is always at -half-past seven o’clock. Who should attempt to convince its happy -possessor that it did not keep good time, or it was not the exact -counterpart “of father’s,” would be trespassing upon the good old -proverb, that where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise. Next to -this comes the silver watch, which “goes;” _really_ goes; and which is -susceptible of being wound up by its short-jacketed owner, on his way to -school, to drive some non-watch-possessing boy to the verge of -distraction. The manner in which this watch is alternately set forward -and allowed to run down at the caprice of its owner, is known only to -anxious parents, whose entreaties in favor of a more systematic mode of -treatment, and whose threats of taking it away, go into one ear only to -go out at the other. Then there is the Ladies’ Lilliputian watch; the -dear little mite, perhaps set around with diamonds. This dear little -mite, so pretty to look at, with its curious chatelaine of little -trinkets, dangling at the belt. Time would fail to tell how often it is -unnecessarily inspected in omnibuses, cars, and ferry-boats; in shops, -and places of amusement, and on the public promenade; and how dainty -looks the jeweled forefinger of the owner, as the obedient lid obeys the -touch on the spring. All this is interesting till it gets to be an old -story; till all its owner’s lady-friends have commented approbatively or -despairingly upon it as the case may be. Then, it is occasionally left -on the sofa, or piano, or mantel, over night, instead of nestling in its -soft-cushioned box in the drawer, as at first; or it is dropped on the -hearth, or it is left hanging for days in the watch-pocket of some one -of the many dresses in the closet, until a speedy visit to the -watchmaker’s seems essential to its restoration to activity. - -The watchmaker smiles as he examines it; he has seen “ladies’ watches” -many a time, and oft. He understands without explanation why it don’t -“keep as good time as my husband’s,” or “my brother Tom’s watch;” he -keeps his gravity when he is asked if hanging it up, or wearing it, is -most conducive to its health, or if it can possibly be that its -galloping one time and standing still at others is owing to a defect in -the machinery. He smiles blandly; advises leaving it on a short visit; -has the hands pointed right, and the case polished up with chamois-skin -and rouge; and restores it to its dainty owner, always with the proper -charge for its board and lodging, with a suppressed grin. - -Next comes the “presentation watch,” which is often seen on exhibition -at the show-windows of Topaz and Brothers; a massive showy affair, -bought by some public person, _to give to himself_, or herself, through -this flattering medium. The uninitiated stand gaping, gazing, wondering -and coveting, through the glass windows, as they read the laudatory -inscription. Bless ’em, they will be wiser, if they live long enough. - -Then there is Papa’s watch, which was “never known to go wrong,” no more -than its owner; oh no! Other clocks, other watches may point where and -as they like; _his_ is the only infallible. Biddy, the cook, may quote -the kitchen clock till she is black in the face to bear her out in -serving the family meals at just such a moment; her retort of, “and sure -didn’t the masther set the kitchen clock his own self,” avails her -nothing, while _that_ oracular watch is five minutes ahead of it. - -Then there is grandpa’s lumbering, great, old-fashioned, silver watch; -with a great big cornelian seal hanging to the silver chain; grandpa -laughs to scorn all the flibbertigibbet inventions of modern days; he -tells how _that_ watch was worn by his brave grandsire at the battle of -Bunker Hill; yes, sir; and shows a place where a bullet _should_ have -spoiled it, if it didn’t; so narrow was the escape. Grandpa has left -that watch in his will to his favorite grandson; and never dreams, poor -old man, that he will very likely use it to pay off some foolish debt, -one of these degenerate days. - -Lastly, there is the matron’s solid, sensible, gold watch; worn for use, -not show, on a simple black cord about the neck; unless when it hangs -over the toilet-table while she is changing her dress. Examine it -closely, and you will see numerous little indentations in the case. Not -for worlds would she have them removed, by any jeweler who ever polished -a diamond. Sometimes she sits in her nursery, with that watch in her -hand, passing her finger slowly over those indentations, while warm -tears drop over them; for little Johnny—whose little frocks lie folded -away, and may never more be worn—little Johnny made those places, with -the pained teeth which caused at last the cruel death-spasms. How many -times she has sat with him on her knee, holding that watch between his -lips, and hearing the grit of those two little front teeth upon it. She -remembers the very morning she first discovered that those little pearly -treasures had found their way through the swollen flesh; and she -remembers how papa was called, and the watch put between the coral lips, -that he too might hear the wonderful sound; and she remembers how baby -laughed; and how rosy his cheeks were, that morning; and how they both -kissed him; and how——but dear, dear! the tick of that watch is the only -music in the nursery now. - - - - - OLD ZACHARIAH. - - -Did you ever see Zachariah Tubbs? No, of course you haven’t; he was not -a man you’d be likely to notice; you, who take off your hat so killingly -to a dainty French bonnet; you who make way for old Lorenzo Dives, the -fat, wealthy old whited sepulchre of a banker; of course you never saw -Tubbs. Tubbs didn’t belong to “your set.” Tubbs was a hale old man who -believed carriages were for sick folks, and legs were to walk with. -Tubbs never ran away with another man’s wife, nor got drunk, nor cheated -his neighbor. How should _you_ know Tubbs? - -Sunday after Sunday his shiny bald head came into church, with its -fringe of snow-white hair; the ruddy hue of his cheek deepening and -deepening as he grew older. There he was in his place, forenoon and -afternoon, singing as only those sing, who have learned to say lovingly -and filially “Our Father;” he, and the children God had given him,—a -good round dozen—girls and boys,—half and half—“not one too many,” as -the old man said every time a new name was registered in the Family -Bible; Sally’s and Mary’s and Jenny’s and Helen’s; Tommy’s, Charley’s, -Billy’s, and Sammy’s; all of them free to chop up the piano for kindling -wood if they chose, and that perhaps was the reason they _didn’t_ -choose. I don’t think the old man ever thought of the phrase “family -government;” but for all that he had a way of laying his hand on little -heads, that was as soothing as the “hop” pillows, which country ladies -use to hurry up their naps with. One after another the girls grew up to -maidenhood and womanhood, and one after another married, and left the -old homestead for houses of their own; throwing their arms round the -neck of the good old man as they went, but still, with a world of love -and pride in the tearful glance which rested the next minute on the -husband they had chosen. Ah me—! one after another they all came back, -doubled and trebled, to lay their heads again under the old roof-tree, -where they could never know again the lightsome, care-free dreams of -girlhood. - -Not a complaint, not a reproach for their misfortunes (for such things -_have_ been) from the silver-haired old patriarch. He, smiling, blessed -them all the same, rising up and sitting down, going out and coming -in—they and theirs; that they were poor and desolate built up no -separating wall between him and them. A few more chairs at the hearth—a -few more loaves on the table—that was all. There was enough and to spare -in that father’s house, for their tastes were simple, and the morning -and evening prayer went up on as strong wings of faith as if no cloud -had settled on the fair, matronly faces about him. - -The boys? oh, yes, the boys; well, they outgrew jackets, and went into -longtailed coats and “stores.” Business fought shy of them. I suppose, -because they were too honest to cheat; but the old man said, “Never -mind; try again, boys; there’s always a place for you here, when things -go awry.” And things did go awry; and one after another the boys came -home too, till they could “turn round again.” Never a wrinkle more on -the smooth white forehead of Zachariah—never a smile less on his placid -face; no frownings and fidgetings and pshawings when little feet -pattered loudly in parlor and hall; some on his shoulders, some on his -knees, some at his feet; _still_, “not one too many,” and each, as he -said, worth a thousand dollars apiece; and Heaven knows they cost him -that, first and last; but he was not a man to remember it, as he sat in -their midst, with his spectacles on his nose and his Bible on his knee, -reading all the precious promises garnered there, for just such as he. -“It is all right,” he said at the altar; “It is all right,” he said over -the coffin; “It is all right,” he said, when he folded his worse than -widowed daughters to his warm, fatherly heart. - -Ah! laugh at this good old man’s Bible if you like; I know it is the -fashion; it is considered smart and knowing, and all that, to put out -the sun, and try to grope through the world by one’s own little -glimmering taper. Wait a bit—till your feet stumble on the dark -mountains; till the great cry of your agony goes up to that God, whom, -loading you with blessings, you yet reject and disown; like the willful -son, who, in the lordly pride of new-fledged manhood, turns -contemptuously from the mother who will never cease to love him; and -yet—and yet—_his first great sorrow finds him with his head on her -breast_. - - - - - LITTLE GERTRUDE. - - -And so you are “sorry it is Sunday.” That is a pity. I would like to -make Sunday the pleasantest day of the whole week to you. I should not -require you to sit still with your hands folded. I could not do that -myself, so I am sure I should not expect it of a restless little child. -I should not make you read all day, because I should know you would get -too weary to understand what you were reading; I should be almost sure, -when my eye was off you, or my back turned, that you would pull a string -out of your pocket to play with, or tie your handkerchief up in knots, -or fall asleep. I should expect if I did so that you would say, “I am -sorry Sunday has come.” I know that a great many very good people think -very differently from me about these things; but I can’t help thinking, -when I hear their children say, “I am sorry Sunday has come,” that _I_ -am more right than _they_. Let me tell you a story: - -Gertrude’s father was dead. He loved Gertrude better than anything in -the world except Gertrude’s mother. He was never weary of her—never too -tired with business to kiss her when he came home. On Sunday he took her -on his knee, and told her how cunning little Moses looked in his little -cradle in the bulrushes, where his mother had placed him, hoping that -the king’s daughter would take him for her own baby, and so keep him -from being killed like the other little Hebrew babies; and then Gertrude -would ask him all sorts of questions about it, and clap her little hands -when the king’s daughter did take him and chose his own dear mother -(though she did not know her to be his mother) to be his nurse. And then -Gertrude would wonder how this nurse could possibly keep from telling -little Moses, when he got big enough to understand her, that she _was_ -his own mother; and then she would say, “Oh, papa, I know they _did_ -have nice times when nobody was by to see the poor Hebrew mother kiss -her own baby.” - -Well—when they had done talking about that, Gertrude’s father would tell -her of the Syrian maid who cured the sick prophet; and the story of -Daniel, and the story of the ravens who fed Elijah; and then by and by -the bells would ring for church, and Gertrude would take hold of her -father’s hand and walk along with him past the beautiful fields, where -the tall grass waved, and the little ground-bird built her nest, and -down the winding grassy road, under the shady oaks, and elms, and -maples, round whose trunks the sweet brier and wild grape climbed, and -then Gertrude would stop to pick the wild roses; and her Papa did not -tell her it was “wicked” or wrong to gather flowers on Sunday, but he -would tell her to bring him a clover blossom, or a daisy, or a rose, and -show her how different they were one from the other in shape, color and -perfume, and yet how beautiful was each; and then he would show her the -dew-drops strung upon the blades of grass glistening in the sunlight; -and the contented cattle, their tired necks relieved from the heavy -yoke, lying in the shade, thanking God for Sunday _by enjoying it_, -teaching us a dumb lesson, which we should do well to learn, always -keeping in mind that we have souls, while they have not. Well—then -Gertrude and her Papa went into church. Gertrude liked the singing very -much; her Papa sung beside her, and sometimes after looking cautiously -round, for she was a timid little thing, she would sing softly too, her -little finger moving along the line of the hymn they were singing. -Gertrude did not understand all the sermon, her Papa did not expect that -she would, but he always took her to church half a day, because the -minister never forgot that little children had souls, and always had -something to say to them in every sermon. After church, when Gertrude -skipped along home like a little kid, by his side, her father did not -think it a sin, or say “sh—sh”—when she gave a merry little laugh -because God had made the world so fair and given her so much love and -happiness that she could not possibly keep it all pent up in her little -heart; not he—he patted her pure uplifted forehead, and the world seemed -very fair to him too, and Sunday very blessed. - -Gertrude’s father has blessed Sabbaths still—but not on earth; and -little Gertrude, with her warm trusting heart, has passed from his -pleasant smile, and sheltering arms, over the threshold of a strange, -cold home. Sunday comes and goes to little Gertrude, but oh how -wearily! They who have the care of her think that God is pleased with -long faces, and so Gertrude is placed in a chair after breakfast -Sunday morning, and forbidden to stir till the bell rings for church; -she may not step out on the piazza to see God smile on the green -earth; she may not enjoy the blue sky, or bright flowers, which he has -spread out to make the Sabbath “a delight;” she must fix her eyes on a -book, and read—read—read—till her brain reels, and then she goes to -church morning—afternoon—evening—till at last _she_ too has learned to -say, “I am so sorry ’tis Sunday.” - -[Illustration: THE FAITHFUL DOG.—Page 249.] - - - - - THE FAITHFUL DOG. - - -We all know that animals have no souls, and yet it is sometimes hard to -believe it, when they give, as they often do, such proofs of -intelligence. I am very sure that I have been as much attached to a dog -or a horse, which has been my constant companion, as I have to human -beings. And, after all, who more human than they? what beautiful -examples they have set us of constancy, of patience, and of kindness to -those who have injured them. - -Listen, while I tell you a story of a dog belonging to an English -nobleman. The farmers in the neighborhood of this gentleman complained -to him that the dog frightened their flocks; and one of them finding a -dead lamb, one day, brought it in his arms to the nobleman, accusing the -dog of the murder. The nobleman had no proof that his dog killed the -lamb; but, as he was just about starting upon a long journey, and not -wishing either to take the dog with him, or leave him behind to the -angry farmers, he said to his servant, pointing to the dog, who lay upon -the carpet, “Take that dog, after I have gone, and give him away to -somebody at a distance, that these farmers may not be finding fault with -him, and troubling me when I come back.” He then left the room. The dog, -who understood, at least, the tones of his master’s voice, and the -glance of his eye, if nothing else, waited till he heard his footsteps -die away, and then immediately took leave of the house, and all it -contained, and started off by himself. In the evening, the nobleman, not -seeing the dog about as usual, asked his servant if he had disposed of -him. The servant said he had not, and spent an hour to no purpose, in -searching for him. All the servants were questioned, but none knew -anything of the dog; and they, together with the nobleman, came to the -conclusion, that the angry farmer who had imagined that he had killed -his lamb, had killed him out of revenge. - -About a year after this, the nobleman, who was journeying with his -servant in Scotland, being overtaken by a storm, took shelter in a very -poor inn, quite away from the main road. As the storm kept increasing, -he concluded to stay all night. The landlord and his wife looked -strangely at each other, when he told them this, and the maid servant -who spread the cloth for his supper seemed quite disconcerted. “She is -evidently not accustomed to wait upon lords,” said the nobleman to his -servant, “and is awkward and embarrassed, you see, in consequence.” - -He ate with a good appetite the plain fare that she set before him, and -was still seated at the table, when the door was pushed open and in -came—a dog—_his_ dog,—the very dog he thought had been killed by the -farmer. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed to his servant, “my dear old dog;” -and he stretched out his hand to pat him. But the dog, after looking -long and earnestly at his master, shrank away from him, and took the -first opportunity to go out of the room; but still took his station on -the outside, as if watching for something. Of the dog’s history, the -nobleman learned from the hostler, that he had followed some travelers -there, and being very foot-sore and weary, remained there when they went -away, and had been there ever since; “and,” added the hostler, “he is as -harmless a dog as ever lived.” By and by the nobleman went up to his -chamber; when he got to the top of the stairs, the dog sprang before -him, with a fierce growl, and planted himself between his old master and -the door, as if to prevent his entrance. The nobleman patted him, -calling him by the kind old names he used to like, and the dog licked -his hand, as if to say, “oh yes, I remember them all;” but still he -stood before the door to prevent his master from going inside. - -Then the dog, still looking at his master, moved in advance a few paces, -would go down one stair, then run back, and tug at his master’s clothes -with the greatest violence; then rub his face fondly against his -master’s side, and whine and coax, trembling all the while with -agitation and excitement. - -“One would suppose, by the behavior of my dog, that there was something -wrong about this house,” said the nobleman to his servant. - -The servant looked anxious, but only said, “I wish we had not come here, -your honor.” - -“There is no help for it now,” said his master; “the storm is perfectly -furious, so I’ll make the best of it and go to bed. We have pistols, if -there’s mischief brewing; you sleep, I suppose, in the little room near -mine.” - -During this conversation, the dog seemed very uneasy, and when the -servant left the room he ran to the door, looking back, as if hoping his -master would go too; and when he advanced a few steps, he jumped up and -down as if beside himself with joy; but, upon finding that he only did -it to close the chamber door, he hung his head, and looked as -disconsolate as he had just before looked delighted. - -His master could not help observing all this, but he felt determined not -to give way to his fears. The dog chose a particular part of the room to -lie down in, and no entreaties could get him away from that spot. So the -nobleman got into bed, and after listening awhile, and hearing nothing -but the storm, and being wearied with his journey, fell asleep. - -He did not sleep long, for the dog kept pacing about the chamber, -sometimes coming close to the bed-curtains, and sometimes whining -piteously, and seeming not at all comforted even when his master’s hand -patted him so kindly. Again his master fell asleep; but he was soon -roused by his faithful four-footed watchman, whom he heard scratching -violently at the closet-door, and gnashing his teeth, and growling -furiously. His master jumped out of bed and listened; the storm had -ceased, so that he heard distinctly every noise. The dog was still -trying to force a passage into the closet with his paws, and not being -able to do so, attempted with his strong teeth to gnaw at it -mouse-fashion. - -There is no doubt the mischief, whatever it may be, is in that closet, -thought the nobleman; yet it was impossible to open it, because, after -forcing the lock, it was found secured on the inside. - -A slight rapping was now heard at the chamber door, and the servant -whispered through the key-hole—“For mercy’s sake, my lord, let me in.” -The nobleman, taking his pistols in his hand, went to the door and -opened it. - -“I have never closed my eyes,” said the servant; “all seems quiet up -stairs and down, but why does that dog keep up such a furious barking?” - -“That’s just what I mean to know,” replied his master, bursting in the -closet door. The moment the dog saw that, in he rushed with his master -and the servant; but unfortunately, just then the candle went out, so -that they could see nothing, though they heard a rustling noise at the -farther end of the closet, and the nobleman thought best to fire off one -of his pistols, by way of alarm; as he did so, the dog uttered a -piercing cry, and then a low groan. - -“It is not possible I have killed my brave dog my noble defender!” said -the nobleman mournfully. He started for a light, and met the landlord -coming with one in his hand, which he snatched from him without -answering any of his questions; the landlord followed; and giving one -glance at the closet, exclaimed to his attendants, who were behind him, -“It is all over.” - -Well, without horrifying you with particulars, the amount of the matter -was, that a door led from that closet out into the stable yard; that -through that door, up into the closet, and then into the chamber, the -bad landlord had entered, and killed a traveler for his money, just -before the nobleman arrived. He had then hurriedly thrust the bloody -body into a sack and thrown it into that closet, intending when the -nobleman went to sleep to take it away, and then murder him also. But -the dog was too keen for him. It made no difference to the dog, that the -master, whose life he wished to save, had once turned him, a petted -favorite, out of doors. The dog remembered not that he had injured him, -but that he was still his master, and was once kind to him, and by every -sign, _except_ speech, had he entreated him not to sleep in that room. - -The wounded dog, after the discovery, licked his master’s hand, as if to -say, “I have saved your life, now I am willing to die.” - -You can imagine the feelings of his master as he afterward bound up his -wounds, and when the innkeeper and his accomplices were handed over to -justice, how tenderly he carried the dog in his arms till he reached his -home; how the nobleman’s wife and children hugged and petted him, and -made a soft bed for his wounded limb; and how the tears came into their -eyes, whenever they thought how generously he had taken his revenge for -being turned out of doors. Ah, it will not do for us to call those -“_brutes_” whose daily lives put ours to shame! - -One thing more, how surely the Eye that never sleeps, brings hidden -wickedness to justice! and what humble agents, as in this case, are -sometimes employed to do it, and how often those wretches who plan a -murder or robbery with such wonderful skill, yet after all, overlook -some little thread which they have left behind, which the law seizes -hold of, and winds round their throats. Ah! it is only _in seeming_ that -sin prospers. - - - - - A QUESTION ANSWERED. - - TO THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WRITES FOR MY INTERCESSION IN HER FAVOR, - “BECAUSE HER MOTHER DOES EVERYTHING AS I SAY.” - - -Does she? Then I must be very careful what I say. I have had many -letters from little girls, whose bright eyes I never shall see, begging -me to say this, that, or the other thing, in print, that their mammas -may see it, and so grant them the favors they desire. Now I don’t like -to come between a mother and her own little girl. I should not allow any -one to do that to me. I think I know more about my little girl than any -one else can possibly know. I watch her closely, I know all her faults -and all her good points, and I think I understand how to deal justly -with both, though I may be mistaken. I have never “forbidden her to read -tales or stories,” as you say your mother has you, because I think -children should be allowed to read them at proper times, when they are -good and innocent, no matter how “startling” and “wonderful” they may -be. Studying is dry work, though necessary, and most schools, as now -conducted, inexpressibly tedious to a restless, active child; and after -school hours are over, and a good dinner has been eaten, and a brisk run -has been taken out of doors for exercise, I think it does a child good -to read a nice, bright story. I often bring storybooks to my little -girl, and when I find any interesting anecdote in a big book I am -reading, I turn down the leaf, that she may read it too, and we often -talk it over, and sometimes she thinks very differently from me about -it, and then I like to get at her reasons for doing so; and often she -will use a big word to express herself that I doubt she knows the -meaning of, although she has used it quite correctly, and when I say, -“Now, what does that big word mean?” she says, “Oh, I can’t tell you, -_but I know it fits in there_;” and so it does. Now I think this makes -home pleasant for her, and I always fancy she is more willing to go back -to her books and her lessons after it. - -Now perhaps it is _your_ fault that your mother has denied you “tales -and stories.” It may be that you not only neglect your lessons -altogether for them, but your home duties also—for even little girls can -and ought to help their mothers at home in a thousand ways. Suppose you -try getting your lessons, and doing whatever she wishes at home and at -school, and then see if she is not willing you should read good, -innocent stories. I think she would be, for every mother knows that -_her_ household duties go on much more smoothly and pleasantly if she -occasionally takes a walk, or visits a friend, or reads a pleasant book, -and surely this must be true of a little girl, after sitting many hours -in a schoolroom, repeating words which often convey no ideas to her -mind, sometimes because the teacher only makes it more misty when he -tries to explain it; mamma, perhaps, thinking it is the teacher’s -business, and the teacher thinking it is mamma’s fault, when the child -complains to either; sometimes because the little brain is so -overtasked, that its owner settles down into listless discouragement; -sometimes because the air of the schoolroom is so bad as to stupefy both -teacher and scholar. I often wish that when teachers see their pupils’ -cheeks flush, and their heads droop, they would stop study, and read -some interesting book aloud for half an hour. I am very sure that their -scholars would study all the better after it. I don’t think a good story -at proper times hurts any girl or boy. Childhood craves it, and, _I_ -think, should have it, and I hope many good men and women will continue -to keep up the supply for them, and I hope that no little child, because -I say this, will be so foolish as to think that eating cake _all_ the -time is better than to live on bread, and eat cake _occasionally_, for -it is labor, after all, that sweetens amusement, when we feel and know -that we have earned it. You know you can’t play all your life. You can’t -read storybooks always. One of these days you must be an earnest woman, -take care of your own house, tend your own little baby, who will look -straight into your eyes and believe everything _you_ tell it, right or -wrong, as if God himself were speaking. This is very sweet, but it is -very solemn too; you must prepare for this, and one way is _never to -neglect duty for pleasure_. Labor first—amusement afterward. - - - - - THE NURSE’S DAY OUT. - - -We all know that “nobody is to blame” when a railroad accident occurs. -The same is true of waking up a baby. Mothers know what delicate -management is often required to lull baby to sleep. How many tunes have -sometimes to be hummed, how many walkings up and down the floor, how -many trottings, how many rockings, how many feedings, before this -desirable event comes off. At last the little lids give promise of -drooping, the little waxen paws fall helpless, the little kicking toes -are quiescent, mamma draws a breath of relief, as she pushes her hair -off her heated face, and baby looks as if nothing on earth could ever -disturb its serenity. Won’t there? Tramp, tramp, tramp, comes the baby’s -papa up stairs with a pair of creaking boots. Mamma rushes to the -nursery door, with warning forefinger on her lips and an imploring -“John, dear, the baby! it is the nurse’s day out—pray don’t wake her -up.” “John, dear,” true to his sex, creaks on, and argues this wise, “My -dear, I’ve often noticed that it isn’t _that_ kind of noise that ever -wakes baby.” Of course, mamma is too much of a woman not to know that a -_man is never mistaken_ even with regard to a subject he knows nothing -about; but it strikes her that sometimes strategy is a good thing; so -the next day she places his slippers below stairs in a very conspicuous -and tempting position, trusting that his tired feet may naturally seek -that relief. I say _naturally_, because she knows that he would as soon -thrust his feet into two pots of boiling water as put them in those -slippers, if he thought the idea came from a _female_ mind, so naturally -does the male creature hedge about his godlike dignity. Well, the baby -is quieted and patted down again; when in comes its aunty, and begins to -brush the lint off her dress with a stiff scraping sound. To a -remonstrance she replies, “Just as if _that_ noise could wake up baby;” -and while she yet speaks, up go the little fat hands in the air, and the -eyelids struggle to unclose, and mamma begins humming again “Yankee -Doodle” or “Old Hundred,” saucy or sacerdotal, no matter which, it is -all the same to Morpheus. This accomplished she creeps on tiptoe away -from the bed, congratulating herself that _now_ certainly she can get a -breathing spell and time to change her morning dress. Just then “dear -John” appears again, and wants something; a bit of string, or a bottle, -maybe, but whatever it is, he is sure it is on the top shelf in the -closet of that room; and though he is not going to use it immediately, -he wants it _found_ immediately because—he _wants_ it! and because, -though “impatient woman can never wait an instant for anything,” man is -very like her in that respect, though he don’t see it. So the search is -instituted, and down tumbles one thing and then another off the shelves, -rattling and rustling and bumping, and finally it is discovered that -“the pesky thing” isn’t there, but is down in the kitchen cupboard; this -piece of information dear John conveys to his wife in a shrill “sissing” -whisper, “because a whisper,” he says, how loud soever, “never yet woke -up a baby!” - -Just then the large violet eyes unclose and the little mouth dimples -into a pretty smile of recognition, and “dear John,” whose attention is -called to it, exclaims, peeping into the crib, “Well now, who’d have -thought it?” and creaks off down stairs after his bottle or ball of -string as calm as a philosopher; and then asks his wife at dinner “if -she has mended that lining in his coat-sleeve that he spoke about at -breakfast time.” - - - - - SWEET SIXTEEN. - - -Poetically, it is very well. Practically, I object to it. Has it ever “a -decent dress,” although the family seamstress works from morning till -night of every day in the year, taking in and letting out, lengthening -and shortening, narrowing here and widening there? The very first day a -new dress is worn, don’t “sweet sixteen” tear it, and that in a most -conspicuous place, and in the most zig-zag manner? _Could_ she “help -it,” when there is always a protruding nail or splinter lying in wait -purposely for her, which by no foresight of hers could be walked round, -or avoided? Don’t the clouds always seem to know when she has on a new -bonnet, and the mud when she wears new gaiters? And when she wants her -umbrella at school, isn’t “the nasty thing” always at home, and when she -needs it at home, is it not always perversely at school? Don’t “sweet -sixteen,” when she takes a notion to sit down and sew, always locate -herself by the side of the bed, which she sticks full of needles, and -going her way straightway forgetteth, till roused by the shrieks of -punctured sufferers? Don’t “sweet sixteen” always leave the street door -open, and the gas in her room burning at high pressure all night? Does -she ever own a boot-lacing, or a pin, or a collar, although purchases of -these articles are made for her continually, if not oftener? Isn’t her -elder sister always your “favorite,” and was she ever known to like her -breakfast, dinner or supper, or prefer wholesome food to sweet and -dyspeptic messes? Is she ever ready to go to bed of a night, or get up -of a morning? Don’t she always insist on wearing high heels to her -boots, which are constantly putting her feet where her head should be? -Don’t she always, though consulted as to the hues and make of her -garments, fret at the superior color and fit of those of Adelina -Seraphina Elgitha Smith’s? And finally, although she has everything she -wants, or thinks she wants, isn’t everything, and everybody, “_real -mean, and so there!_” - - - - - SITTING FOR MY PORTRAIT. - - -The other day I was riding in an omnibus, when it got too full by one -little girl, whom I offered to take on my lap, as the mother had her -arms full of parcels. She sat for a moment on my knee with her finger in -her mouth, and head turned shyly away. Then she made up her little mind -to look round in my face, and see whether or no she would continue to -stay with me. I declare that I awaited that scrutiny as bashfully as -ever a timid lover did his maiden’s answer. I actually felt the blood -rushing up to my cheek, as the clear blue eyes looked searchingly into -mine, as if God himself were asking, “Lovest thou me?” - -Then the little thing turned her head away again, but not till she had -given me a warm, bright smile, by which I knew that her heart knew no -fear of me. I did not speak, because we understood each other; I waited -as one waits near a bush upon which a little humming bird has -alighted—fearful lest a breath should disturb it. By and by she gave a -careless glance out the omnibus window, and says—by way of encouraging -me—“There’s horses out there.” - -“Yes,” said I. - -She waited a few minutes longer—then finding me still apparently -bashful—she says— - -“There’s shops out there.” - -“Yes,” said I again. - -Then she waited another while—and then turning her cunning little face -full upon me as if determined to _make_ me speak, she says— - -“_Ain’t_ there many _peoples_ out there?” - -Now you may laugh—but that child’s favorable verdict, after looking at -me so intently, gave me more pleasure than I know how to tell you; had -she jumped down off my lap—I shouldn’t have dared to face my -looking-glass that day, lest some hateful passion, born of the world’s -strife, had written its satanic “Get thee behind me,” on my face. - - - - - ABOUT A JOURNEY I TOOK. - - -When I was a little girl, I disliked traveling, above all things; the -very idea of going away from the chimney-corner, gave me a homesick -feeling at once. I would rather have stayed all alone in the house, than -ridden off with the merriest party that ever wore traveling dresses. I -had a kind of cat-liking for my corner, and as I always had plenty to -think about, I was never troubled at being left alone. Now, that I have -girls of my own, I like “my corner” better than ever, but I have changed -about traveling, which I like very much in pleasant company. By -“traveling” I don’t mean going round the country with heaps of dresses -in big trunks, and parading up and down on the piazza of a hotel, to -show them off. Not at all. I mean that I like to take as few changes of -garments as I can possibly get along with, and putting on some very -plain dress, which it will not fret me to have trod on, and rained on, -and powdered with dust, with a nice book or two in my trunk, in case of -a rainy day, start off to see what beautiful things nature has hidden -away for those of her children who love to search them out. In this way, -I started last summer to make the trip of the Northern lakes. That was -something new for me. I had seen Niagara, and the Catskills, and been to -Saratoga, Lake George, and all the places where people usually go in the -summer months; now I wanted something entirely different. I found it in -Toronto; and the difference, I am sorry to say, did not please me. The -city wore to me a very dilapidated and tumble-down air; the houses, with -scarcely an exception, looked streaked and shabby; pigs ran loose about -the streets, and over the plank sidewalks. Now and then I saw a handsome -private carriage, or a large hotel-looking house; but the high walls -about the grounds looked forbidding, gloomy and unsocial; not a peep was -to be had of the pretty flowers behind, if indeed there were any. In -that it seemed to me a very desolate kind of place; and the mammoth -hotel where we stayed, with its immensely high, wide halls, echoing back -the footsteps of the few travelers who walked through them, to their -large, dreary, immense rooms, seemed to make me still gloomier. For all -that, the people whom I met in the street had fine broad chests, and a -healthy color in their faces, and looked out of their clear bright eyes -as if life were a pleasant thing to them; as I doubt not it is. Still, I -would rather not live in Toronto; and after spending two days in it, I -was very willing to get into the cars, and rush through the backwoods -country, on my way to Detroit. Such splendid trees as I saw in those -backwoods! I could only think of the “cedars of Lebanon,” tall, -straight, green columns of foliage, that looked as if they had grown, -and would continue to grow hundreds of years. Nestled under them, were -now and then rude log huts. In the doorway stood the stately mother with -her bronzed face, and clinging to her skirts, rosy little barefooted -children, rugged as the wild vine that twisted its arms round the huge -trees before their door. - -Near by, stood their father, the woodman, resting on his ax, to look at -the cars, as the shrieking whistle sent the cattle bounding through the -clearing, and the train disappeared, leaving only a wreath of smoke -behind. And so on, for miles and miles through that bright day, we never -wearied of gazing till the sun went down. Once I caught a glimpse of a -tiny log hut, the low roof festooned with morning glories—pink, blue, -and white. I cannot tell you what a look of refinement it gave the -little place, or how pretty a little, curly, golden-haired girl, in a -red frock, and milk-white feet, looked, standing in the doorway. Some -gentle heart beat there, in the lone wilderness, I knew by those morning -glories. The pretty picture has often come up before me; and I have -wished I were an artist, that I might show you the lovely lights and -shadows of that leafy backwoods home. When we reached the pretty city of -Detroit, it was so dark we could only dimly see it. We were very tired, -too, having ridden in the cars from early morning till nearly nine in -the evening. So we gazed sleepily out the carriage windows, as we were -being rattled through the streets to the hotel, now and then seeing a -church-spire, now a garden, now a brilliantly lighted row of stores, now -a large square, and passing groups of men, women, and children, of whom -we knew no more than of the man in the moon, and who had eaten their -breakfasts, dinners and suppers, and had been born, vaccinated, -baptized, and married, all the same as if they did not know we were in -existence. It is a strange feeling, this coming into a strange place, -and at night, and wondering what daylight will have to show to us the -next morning, as we sleepily close the bedroom shutters, and lie down in -that strange bed. - -The familiar picture, your eyes have opened upon so many mornings, does -not hang on _that_ wall; it is hundreds of miles away. Joseph and his -brethren, or Henry Clay, or the Madonna, or the Benicia Boy, may be -there; but you don’t feel acquainted with them, and feel a strange -delicacy about washing, and combing your hair, in their company. -Breakfast, however, above all things! especially when you have not dared -to eat heartily the night before. So we got ready, and, having satisfied -ourselves, took a carriage to see Detroit. I liked it very much; the -people were wide awake, and not content with tumble-down old -institutions. New handsome buildings were being put up, besides many -that were already finished. The streets were clean, and prettily set off -by little garden-patches, with flowers, trees and vines about the -houses. There was selling and buying too, and a thorough go-ahead air, -in the place, as if this world was not yet finished by any manner of -means, as they seemed to think in Toronto. Our coachman was very -intelligent and civil, so I catechized him to my heart’s content as to -who lived here, and who lived there, and what this church steeple -believed, and who worshiped in the other; or why General Cass, being -such a big man, didn’t live in a bigger house, and where all the nice -peaches came from, about the streets, and where I could find some nice -crackers to nibble, when I went off in the steamboat that afternoon, and -where were the bookstores, and how much we were to pay for asking so -many questions! - -Exchanging our carriage for a steamboat, or “propeller” as they called -it, we bade good by to Detroit, and glided away up to Lake St. Clair; to -the head of Lake Superior. Eleven days we were on the water, more than -long enough to cross the ocean to Old England. I was very fearful I -should not prove a good sailor, particularly as I was told, before -starting, that the lakes sometimes had a touch of old Ocean’s roughness. -My fear was lost in delight as our boat plowed its way along so gently, -day after day, and I sat on deck, the fresh wind blowing over my face, -looking down upon the bright foam-track of the vessel, or upon the -pretty sea-gulls which with untiring wing followed us hundreds of miles, -now and then dipping their snowy breasts in the blue waves, or riding -securely on their foaming tops. Sometimes little tiny brown birds flew -upon the deck of the vessel, as if glad to see human faces, in their -trackless homes. Winter begins very early up on these lakes; so while it -was still sweltering weather in New York, we were not surprised to see -the gay autumn leaves hung out, like signal flags, here and there on the -shore, warning us not to stay too long, where the cold winds lashed the -waves so furiously, or without a word of warning locked them up in icy -fetters without asking leave of any steamboat. It was hard to believe -it, even in sight of the pretty autumn leaves, so soft was the wind, so -blue was the sea and sky, so gently were we rocked and cradled. Now and -then an Indian, a _real live Indian_, in a real Indian canoe, would pass -us with a blanket for a sail, shouting us a rough welcome in his own -way, as he passed. Now and then a little speck, just on the edge of the -water where it seemed to meet the sky, would gradually grow larger and -larger till it turned out to be another boat, and with a burst of music, -from the band on board, they too would pass away, and leave us silent as -before. Now, where the lake grew narrow, we saw little huts, dotted in -and out along the line of shore. There life and death with its solemn -mysteries went on, just as it does in your home or mine. Now and then we -stopped at what the captain called “a landing,” for wood or coal or -freight for the boat. Then the people who lived there flocked down to -see us, and to buy melons of us, which were a great treat, where nothing -but pines and potatoes would grow. Then we would leap over the gangway -to the wharf, and scamper up into the town, to take the exercise we -needed after being lazy so long, and then “all hands on board!” and away -we glided again; the strange friendly faces on the pier smiling as we -passed away. - -Oh, it was lovely! I never wanted to leave the boat; I wanted you, and -every body else, who enjoy such things, to come there and float on those -blue waters, with me forever. - -Oh, had you only been there beside me on one of many heavenly evenings, -you would never, never have forgotten it! The red sun sank slowly into -the blue waves, on one side of us, while the moon rose majestically out -of the water, on the other; and before us the beautiful island of “The -Great Spirit” was set like an emerald in the sapphire sea. Then, when -all this glory passed away into the darkness, and I sat marveling if -Heaven with “its golden streets and gates of pearl,” _could_ be fairer, -up flashed “the Aurora” in long quivering lines of light, rose-color and -silver, till earth and sea and sky were all ablaze with glory! - -My heart beat quick, I held my breath, as though some great being were -sweeping past, whose glorious silken robe I would, but dare not, bow my -lips to press. - -Now I must tell you, that I went into an Indian wigwam, where the door -was a blanket; where the bedstead was made of twigs and branches; where -a big brown woman was stirring something, witch-fashion, in a boiling -pot over the fire; where copper-colored children, with diamond eyes, and -long, black, snaky locks, were squatted in the sun, outside the wigwam, -while the square-cheeked men caught fish in the little canoes, from the -sparkling “rapids,” that seemed just going to wash away their -bird’s-nest looking huts. As to the “romantic Indian maid” we read -about, I am sorry to tell you that she wears a hoop! for I saw it with -my own eyes. However, she seemed so proud and well pleased with her -first attempts at the genteel, that I wouldn’t smile, as I felt like -doing. - -I didn’t ask her how she managed to get in and out of their little -egg-shell boats with that hoop, or through the small aperture that -served for a door to the wigwam. Perhaps she dropped it off on the -outside when she wanted to go into her queer house—who knows? I might -say I should have liked her better without it, on that bright morning, -as she stood there by the blue Sault River, with her glossy black hair -blowing about her bright eyes. Eleven days in all we were on these -beautiful lakes; more than long enough to go to Europe, which I hope -some day to see. _One night too long_ we were on the water before we -reached Chicago. And what a night that was, of fog and rain and thunder -and lightning. So vivid was the lightning that no one would have been -surprised at any moment had it struck the vessel. Every peal of thunder -seemed as if it thumped us directly on the head. The steamer tipped and -rolled, and the rain beat into the cabin windows and dripped on the bed, -and deluged the floor. The military company whom we took on board a few -hours before, hushed their songs and jests, and watched with us for the -daylight that was to ensure the safety of all on board. It came at last; -and we breathed freely as we stepped safely on shore. How little we -thought, as we shook hands with the merry captain, and I promised “to -take another trip on his nice boat next summer,” that the very next -night he would be shipwrecked on those waters! - -Ah! the poor captain! My eyes fill, my heart aches, as if I had known -him years, instead of those few bright fairy days. Poor Captain Jack -Wilson, with his handsome, sunshiny face, cheery voice, and manly ways! -How little I thought there would be no “next summer” for him, when he so -kindly helped me up on the “hurricane deck,” and into the cosy little -“pilothouse” to look about; who was always sending me word to come -“forward” or “aft,” because he knew I so much enjoyed seeing all -beautiful things; who was all goodness, all kindness, and yet, after we -left him that morning, found a grave in that cruel surf! - -The afternoon of the day we said our last good by to him on the Chicago -pier, we had taken a carriage to drive round the city, and reined up at -the draw, for a boat to pass through. It was the “Lady Elgin” going -forth to meet her doom! We kissed our hands gaily to her, in the bright -sunshine, and that night as we slept safely in our beds at the hotel, -that brave heart, with a little wailing babe pressed to it, had only a -treacherous raft between him and eternity. The poor, poor captain! It -was _so_ hard to give him up! As his strong arm sustained the helpless -in that fearful night, may God support his own gentle ones in this their -direst need. - -This was indeed a gloomy ending to our lovely lake trip. We saw many -things to interest us on our return to New York through Cleveland and -Pittsburgh, but, as you may suppose, we were not very gay; every now and -then, when we saw anything beautiful, we would say to each other, “The -_poor_ captain!” You know there are some people whom it is so hard to -“make dead;” and he was one of these. So strong, so sunshiny, so full of -life! How blessed to know all this bright intelligence cannot be -extinguished like a taper; else, how sad, my dear children, would life -be to us. - - - - - WHEN I WAS YOUNG. - - -Not one girl in ten, now-a-days, knows how to sew. “’Twas not so in my -time,” as the old ladies say, with an ominous shake of the head. No; in -my school-days proper attention was given to rivers, bays, capes, -islands, and cities in the forenoon—interspersed with, “I love, thou -lovest, he, she, or it loves;” then, at the child’s hungry -hour—(twelve)—we were dismissed to roast beef and apple dumplings. At -three we marched back with a comfortable dinner under our aprons—with -cool heads, rosy cheeks, and a thimble in our pockets; and never a book -did we see all the blessed afternoon. I see her—the schoolma’am (angels -see her now), with her benevolent face, and ample bosom—your -flat-chested woman never should keep school, she has no room for the -milk of human kindness; I see her sitting on that old cane-bottomed -chair, going through the useless ceremony of counting noses, to see if -there were any truants; and of course there never were from choice, for -our teacher never forgot that she was once a child herself. I see her -calling one after another to take from her hand a collar, or wristbands, -or shirt-bosom to stitch, or some button-holes to make;—good old soul! -and then, when we were all seated, she drew from her pocket some -interesting book and read it aloud to us—not disdaining to laugh at the -funny places, and allowing us to do the same—hearing, well pleased, all -our childish remarks, and answering patiently all our questions -concerning the story, or travels, or poetry she was reading, while our -willing fingers grew still more nimble; and every child uttered an -involuntary “Oh!” when the sun slanted into the west window, telling us -that afternoon school was over. - -Ah, those were the days! - -I bless that schoolmistress every time I darn a stocking or make or mend -a garment; and I am glad for her own sake that she is not alive now, to -see the ologies and isms that are thumped into children’s heads, to the -exclusion of things better suited to their age, and which all the French -and Italian that ever was mispronounced by fashion, can never take the -place of in practical life. Yes—girls _then_ knew how to sew. Where will -you find a schoolgirl who does it neatly, now? who does not hate a -needle, and most clumsily wields it when compelled to? and not by her -own fault, poor thing! though her future husband may not be as ready as -I to shield her with this excuse. Modern mothers never seem to think of -this. Male teachers, with buttonless shirts on their own backs, seem to -ignore it. No place for the needle _in_ school, and no time, on account -of long lessons, out. Where is a modern girl to learn this all-important -branch of education, I want to know? A fig for your worsted work, your -distorted cats, and rabbits, and cows! Give me the girl who can put a -shirt together, or the feminine of a shirt either—which, by the way, I -could never see the impropriety of mentioning, any more than its male, -though I am not going to make any old maid scream by saying “chemise”—of -course not! - -I am concerned for the rising generation; spinally in the first place, -stitch-ically in the second. All the stitches they know of now are in -their sides, poor things! I should like every schoolhouse to have a -playground, where the pupils could stay when they were not in -school—which should be almost never, until ventilation, recesses, and -school hours are better regulated—in fact, till the whole system is -tipped over, and buried fathoms under ground, and only spoken of as the -tortures of the Inquisition are spoken of—with shuddering horror—as -remnants of darkness and barbarism. I don’t want children to be burned -up, but I don’t care how many badly conducted schoolhouses burn down. I -consider every instance a special interposition of Providence; and even -if some of the children _are_ burned—horrible as that is—is it not a -quicker mode of death than that they are daily put through, poor, -tortured things? - - - - - A NURSERY THOUGHT. - - -Do you ever think how much work a little child does in a day? How from -sunrise to sunset, the little feet patter round—to us—so aimlessly. -Climbing up here, kneeling down there, running to another place, but -never _still_. Twisting and turning, and rolling and reaching, and -doubling, as if testing every bone and muscle for their future uses. It -is very curious to watch it. One who does so may well understand the -deep breathing of the rosy little sleeper, as with one arm tossed over -its curly head, it prepares for the next day’s gymnastics. Tireless -through the day, till that time comes, as the maternal love which so -patiently accommodates itself hour after hour to its thousand wants and -caprices, real or fancied. - -A busy creature is a little child. To be looked upon with awe as well as -delight, as its clear eye looks trustingly into faces that to God and -man have essayed to wear a mask. As it sits down in its little chair to -ponder precociously over the white lie you thought it “funny” to tell -it. As, rising and leaning on your knee, it says, thoughtfully, in a -tone which should provoke a tear, not a smile—“I don’t believe it.” A -lovely and yet a fearful thing is that little child. - - - - - THE USE OF GRANDMOTHERS. - - -A little boy, who had spilled a pitcher of milk, stood crying, in view -of a whipping, over the wreck. A little playmate stepped up to him and -said, condolingly:—Why, Bobby, haven’t you got a _grandmother_? - -Who of us cannot remember this family mediator, always ready with an -excuse for broken china, or torn clothes, or tardy lessons, or little -white fibs? Who was it had always on hand the convenient stomach-ache, -or headache, or toothache, to work on parental tenderness? Whose -consoling stick of candy, or paper of sugar plums, or seed-cake, never -gave out; and who always kept strings to play horse with, and could -improvise riding whips and tiny kites, and dress rag-babies, and tell -stories between daylight and dark to an indefinable amount to ward off -the dreaded go-to-bed hour? - -Who staid at home, none so happy, with the children while papa and mamma -“went pleasuring?” Who straightened out the little waxen limbs for the -coffin when papa and mamma were blind with tears? Who gathered up the -little useless robes and shoes and toys, and hid them away from -torturing sight till heaven’s own balm was poured into those aching -hearts? “Haven’t you got a grandmother?” Alas! if only our grown up -follies and faults might always find as merciful judgment, how many whom -harshness and severity have driven to despair and crime, were now to be -found useful and happy members of society! - - - - - THE INVENTOR OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. - - -Did you ever ride in an old-fashioned stage coach? cramped in your back, -cramped in your legs, with a “crick” in your neck, while you were packed -in, and strapped in so closely that it was next to impossible to move a -toe or a finger? Was the day hot and dusty, and had the tired horses -hill after hill to crawl and climb up? Was some fellow-passenger’s knee -boring a hole in your back, and did you bump, and thump, and bob about, -hour after hour, unable to sleep, and too weary almost to live, till, -when you drew up at last to some little country tavern, before which -Lafayette or Washington hung creaking on a sign, with John Smith’s Hotel -underneath, you didn’t care whether you ever got out or not; whether you -ever ate, or drank, or laughed again; whether your trunk was safe, or -lost on the road, miles back? Well, if you have not experienced all -this, perhaps your father or mother, or uncle, or aunt have; and they -will tell you that is one of the slow methods in which people used to -travel before railroads and cars were invented. Ah, but, you say, stages -were safer than railroad cars! Were they? They never tipped over, I -suppose, or rolled over a precipice of a dark night, or had defective -wheels, or drunken drivers, or balky horses, or any thing of that sort. -And if anybody was very sick, or dying, at a distance, they might not -have been buried weeks, I suppose, before one could reach them. - -Well, people after a while thought they might travel faster than this, -and quite as safely, too. - -George Stephenson, the great Railway Engineer, was one of the first who -thought this, and worked hard, and long, to make it possible. I want to -tell you about him, because it seems to me quite beautiful that a poor, -uneducated boy, as he was, should have brought so great a thing to pass. -I rejoice in it, because I love to think that in our country our most -useful and best men have, many of them, been very poor and humble when -young; and because I want every boy who reads this to feel encouraged to -try what _he_ too can do, instead of folding his hands and saying, “oh, -what’s the use? I was born poor, and I shall die poor; I’m ignorant, and -I shall die ignorant. Who cares what becomes of _me_?” I tell you _I_ -care for one, and if nobody cared, you ought to care _yourself_. It is -very certain, if you _don’t_ care yourself, that nobody can do much for -you. Well, George Stephenson was the son of a poor collier, in England. -He was the second of six children, for whom their father and mother -worked hard to find bread and butter. Little George lived like other -working people’s children: played about the doors, went bird’s nesting -now and then, or of errands to the village; and as he grew bigger, -carried his father’s dinner to him when at work; or helped nurse his -brothers and sisters at home; for in a poor man’s house, you know, every -little hand and foot must do something in the way of helping. As to -school, none of them thought of such a thing; it was as much as they -could do to keep a roof over their heads, and something to eat and -drink. Dewley Burn was the name of the place where the one-roomed -cottage stood, in which George was born; and near which his father was -employed, to tend the engine-fire near the coalpit. Robert Stephenson, -George’s father, was a kind-hearted, pleasant man. You may know that, -because all the young people of an evening used to go and sit round his -engine-fire while he told stories to them; sometimes about Sinbad the -Sailor; sometimes about Robinson Crusoe, and often something which he -himself “made up” to please them. Of course “Bob’s engine-fire” was a -great place. No stoop of a village tavern on “muster day” was ever more -glorious to happy urchins. You can almost see the picture; the bright -fire blazing, and rows of bright eyes glistening in its light, some -black, some blue, some gray; curly locks and straight locks, slender -lads, and fat lads; some with chins on their palms, and elbows on their -knees, some flat on their backs or sides, on the ground; and all -believing every word of Bob’s, as you now do storybooks, which they -would have given their ears to get hold of, though I have my doubts, if -they are better, after all, than were “Bob’s stories.” Now you are not -to think because George’s father worked as a collier, that he had no -love for beautiful things. On the contrary, he used to take nice long, -breezy summer walks, whenever he got a chance, with his little son. And -when George had grown up to be a man, and long after his good father’s -white head was under the sod, George used to speak often of his lifting -him up to look into a black-bird’s nest, and of the delight and wonder -with which he gazed at the little peeping creatures for the first time. -I dare say your father and mother can tell you some such little thing -which _they_ remember about their childhood’s home, which stands out in -their memory now, from the mist of years, like a lovely picture, sunny -and glowing and untouched by time. - -These are blessed memories to keep the heart green. They are like the -little swaying wild flower that the dusty traveler sometimes finds in a -rock crevice, breathing out its sweetness all the same as if it were not -hemmed in by flinty walls and bars; more beautiful than the most -gorgeous garden flowers, which every passer by has gazed at, and -handled, because to God and ourselves it is sacred. These childish -memories! they are the first round of the ladder by which our -world-weary feet shall climb to heaven, after those who have rocked our -cradles. - -Near Dewley Burn lived a widow, named Grace Ainslie, who kept a number -of cows that used to nibble the grass along the woods. A boy was needed -to watch them, and keep them from being run over by the coal wagons, or -straying into the neighboring fields. To this boy’s duty was added that -of barring the gates at night, after the coal wagons had passed through. -George applied for this place, and to his great joy he got it, at two -pence a day. It was easy work to loll about on the fresh green grass, -and watch the lazy cows as they nibbled, or stretched themselves under -the trees, chewing and winking, hour after hour. George had plenty of -time to look for birds’ nests and make whistles out of sticks and -straws, and build little mills in the water streams. But if you watched -the boy, you would see that, best of all, when he and his friend Tom got -together, he liked to build clay engines. The clay they found in the -bogs, and of the hemlock which grew about, they made their steam pipes. -I dare say some solemn wise head might have passed that way, and sighed -that these boys were “wasting their time” playing in the mud; not -remembering that children in their “foolish play,” by their little -failures and successes in experimenting, sometimes educate themselves -better than any book-read man in the land could do it; at least, at -_that_ age. Then it was a blessed thing that the child’s work lay _out -of doors_, and not in a stifling close factory, or shop. That his limbs -got strong and his cheek brown and sunburnt, and his eye bright as a -young eagle’s. Every day now added to his growth, and of course to his -employment; though scarcely big enough to stride, he led the horses when -plowing, and when he was able to hoe turnips and do such farm work, he -was very much delighted at his increased wages of fourpence a day. When -he was thirteen, he made a sun-dial for his father’s cottage. You may be -sure his father was very proud of that. His little head had been busy, -you see, when he lay on the grass watching the cows. By and by George -got eighteen pence a day, and at last the wish of his heart, in being -taken as an assistant to his father in feeding the engine fire. George -was very much afraid, he was such a little fellow, that he should be -thought too young for the work, and when the overseer of the colliery -went the rounds, to see if everything was done right, George used to -hide himself, for fear he would think him too small a boy to earn his -wages. Some lads as fond as he was of bird’s-nesting, and such -amusements, would not have been in such a hurry to make themselves -useful; but George’s parents worked hard, and he loved them; he knew -that white hairs were creeping among those brown locks of his mother’s, -and that his good, merry father would not always be able to tend the -engine fire; and so though his tame black-bird, who made the cottage her -home in winter, flying in and out, and roosting on the head of his bed, -and disappearing in the spring and summer, in the woods, to pair and to -rear its young, and then coming back again in winter to live with -George; although his bird was a very pretty pet, and his tame rabbits -were a great pleasure, too, yet little as he was, he was anxious to -shoulder his share of the burden that was pressing so heavily on his -parents. Ever since, too, that he had modeled that little clay engine in -the bog, he had determined to be an engineer, and the first step to this -was to be an assistant fireman. Imagine, then, his delight when, at -fourteen years, he got the post at the wages of a shilling a day. - -George’s home was one small room, crowded with three low-posted beds, in -which father and mother, four sons, and two daughters slept. This one -room was, of course, parlor, kitchen and sleeping-room, all in one. This -cottage was furnished by the Duke who employed these people; he being -also their landlord. Now I would be willing if I ever made bets, to bet -you something handsome, that this Duke had a liveried servant behind his -chair at home, and a table loaded with dainties, and silver and cut -glass, and more wines in his castle than he knew how to use; and horses -and hounds, and carriages and pictures, and statues, and conservatories -and hot houses, and all that; and yet, that he was not one half as happy -as the Stephensons in that little cottage with one room. Aching heads -are apt to go with dainty food, and weak limbs with soft beds. When a -poor man has a friend, he generally knows that he is loved for -_himself_; when a rich man has one, he is never sure how much his riches -have to do with his friendship. Many a rich man has sighed for the days -when he used to run barefoot; and many a jeweled lady for the day when -the little brook was her looking-glass. Things are more equal in this -life, after all, than grumblers are apt to imagine. Well, to go back to -George, all the time he was feeding that fire, he had his eyes open, -watching everything about the engine; nothing escaped his notice; I have -no doubt his father watched him, with an honest pride shining out of his -eyes. It must have been very pleasant for the two to work together, and -help each other; for George was growing strong and big, and used to try -to make himself stronger by lifting heavy weights. When he was -seventeen, he was made a “flagman.” That was a station as watchman above -his father, as the flagman holds a higher rank than the fireman, and -receives higher wages. No doubt good old Robert was as delighted as -George could be at this promotion. We can imagine, too, how his mother -and sisters, as they worked industriously to keep the little one room -cottage tidy and comfortable, sang cheerfully as they worked, when they -thought of their good strong brother. It is a flagman’s duty, when the -engine is out of order, to call on the chief engineer to set it right. -George had rarely need to do this. The engine was a perfect pet with -him. He understood every part of it; he took it to pieces and cleaned it -himself, and learned so well how it worked, and what it needed, that -nobody could instruct him anything about it. It is said that all the -important improvements of steam-engines have been made, not by learned -literary men, but by plain laborers. - -Everything that George undertook, howsoever small the matter might be, -he determined to understand perfectly, and to do well and thoroughly. -When George _said_ that he knew he could do a thing, all his friends -knew it was no idle boast. So you will not be astonished when I tell you -that he went on studying and improving till he became a famous man; so -famous that he received calls from abroad, asking his advice as “a -constructing engineer” about building bridges and railways, and all such -things. I guess he never thought of _that_, when he was building bridges -of mud with his play-fellows. Little children, you see, are not _always_ -“wasting their time” when they are playing quietly by themselves. No, -indeed. I guess he didn’t think then that he should build a two-mile -bridge across the St. Lawrence in connection with the Grand Trunk -Canadian Railway, which should be so much admired and praised for its -_taste_ as well as skill; or, when he slept in the little cottage with -only one room in it, that he should one day become “a Member of -Parliament;” or that when he died, he should be buried in state at -Westminster Abbey, where all the famous, great men were buried, and that -immense crowds of people should go to his funeral, and be so sorry that -a man who was so useful to his country should die, when he was only -fifty-six years old. But so it was. I think George made good use of -those fifty-six years; don’t you? - - - - - TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS. - - -I want to say a few words to the _little children_ who write me such -nice letters. - -Some of you live in and about New York, some at a great distance from -it. I should be very glad, had I time, to write each of you a long -letter—indeed, many long letters; but how is this possible, if I “make -some more books for you,” as you all request me to do? One cannot write -a book as fast as one can read it through; perhaps you do not think of -that. Besides, I write every week for the New York _Ledger_. Then I have -a great many other calls upon my time, of which you know nothing. Like -your own mamma, I have children. They sometimes say, “Oh, do throw away -that tiresome pen, and talk to us.” And then I say, “Yes, presently.” -But still I have to keep on writing. Then, you know, if I only used my -head, and never my feet, my head would not last long. I must exercise a -great deal every day, else I should fly up the chimney, or through the -roof, like a witch. But for all that I don’t forget one little girl or -boy who ever wrote to me; and although I cannot answer, it always -pleases me to hear from you. I want you all to believe this, and write -me whenever you feel like it. - - - - - BABY EFFIE. - - -Do you see this little baby? Her name is Effie, and her young mother is -dead. Well, partly on that account, and partly because she is just the -loveliest, and brightest, and sweetest baby that ever was born, she -rules every one in the house. How? why, by one smile or cunning little -trick, she can make them all go and come, fetch and carry, rise and sit -down, all the same as if they had no will but hers. For instance, you -may say, now at such a time I will go to such a place; but if that baby -catches sight of you going out, and makes up a little grieved mouth -because you are going, unless you could coax her to forget it, with a -piece of the moon, or some such wonderful thing, you would very likely -stay at home with her. If you say your side aches, and really, Effie -grows so fat on her good sweet milk, that you must let nurse carry her -more, even if she _does_ whimper a little; and you may really _mean_ to -do it; but oh, why has she such a dear little red mouth, and such a -distracting way of fixing her lips, and such a pleading look in her soft -eyes, and such a musical little coax to make believe talk, unless it be -that her dimpled feet shall always be on your obedient neck? You can’t -look at her as if she were only a rag baby. And very likely you’d get -thinking, too, that nobody could tie her bonnet, or cloak, save -yourself, or button her little red boots right; so that no fold of her -mite of a stocking should double under her ridiculous little toes. - -Perhaps you think it is a very simple thing to wash and dress little -Effie. That shows how little you know. Now listen. That baby has four -distinct little chins that you must watch your chance to wash between -her frantic little crying-spells; then she has as many little rolls of -fat on the back of the neck, that have to be searched out, and bathed; -and all the time you are doing this you have to be talking little baby -talk to her, to make her believe you are only playing, instead of -washing her. Then baby won’t have her ears or nose meddled with; and if -you interfere with her toes, she won’t put up with it a minute; and it -takes two people to open her chubby little fists when it is time to wash -them. Then you haven’t the least idea of the job it is to get one of her -stiff little vexed arms out of her cambric sleeve; or how many times she -kicks while you are tying on her tiny red shoe. Then she is just as mad -as can be when you lay her over on her stomach to tie the strings of her -frock; and she is still more mad if you lay her on her back. And -besides, she can stiffen herself out, when she likes, so that “all the -king’s men” couldn’t make her sit down, and at another time she will -curl herself up in a circle, so that neither they nor anybody else could -straighten her out; then you had better just count the garments that -have to be got off and on before this washing and dressing business is -done; and then every now and then you have to stop to see that she is -not choking or strangling; or that you have not put any of her funny -little legs or arms out of joint, or hurt her bobbing little head. Now, -I hope you understand what a delicate job it is. But when the last -string is tied, and little Effie comes out of this daily misery into -scarlet-lipped, diamond-eyed peace, looking fresh and sweet as a -rosebud, and dropping off to sleep in your arms, with quivering white -eyelids and pretty murmurings of the little half-smiling lips, while the -perfect little fat waxen hands lie idly by her side, ah—then you should -see her! - -You would understand then, how hard it is to keep from spoiling her; not -by loving her too much; _that_ never hurt anybody; but by giving her -everything she wants, whether it is best for her or not, just because it -is so heart-breaking to see the tears on her cheeks. _That_ would never -do, you know, not even for little motherless Effie; for how is she ever -to become good, if she can get everything she wants by crying for it? -She can’t understand that now, but by and by she will; and then those -who have care of her _must_ learn to say _no_, no matter how pretty and -coaxing she is, if she should want a hammer and a watch to play with; -yes, even though she should cry about it. - -Nobody can tell whether Effie is loveliest sleeping or waking. Poor -little dear; when she is asleep she often makes the motion of nursing -with her lips, just as if her mother were living, instead of dead, and -she were lying on her warm breast. And then, too, she often smiles till -little dimples come in her cheeks, and her lips part, and show her four -little white teeth, which have troubled her so much in coming, and which -look so like little pearls. And sometimes in her sleep she kicks her -little fat leg, with its pretty white foot, and pink toes, out on the -coverlet, just as if she were fixing herself for a pretty picture that -some artist might paint her. And when she wakes, she puts her little -cheek up against yours to be loved and kissed, and—but dear me, you will -think I am quite a fool, if I go on this way; and I shouldn’t wonder; -for it really _is_ true that I am never tired of telling dear little -Effie’s perfections all the same as if she were the only lovely baby -that was ever born; although every house holds half a dozen, more or -less; still perhaps you might as well not say to _me_ that any of them -can begin to compare with little Effie. - -But really, after all, I can’t stop till I tell you how much that child -knows. I am not certain that it would do to tell state secrets before -her; for though she can’t talk, and though she sits on the floor, -playing with her toys, I sometimes feel, when she drops them, and looks -up with her sweet, earnest little face, as if she had lived another life -somewhere, and her grown-up-soul had come back and crept into that -little baby’s body. Sometimes, when I look at her, I wish, oh! so much, -that I could always keep all sorrow, and all suffering from her, and -make her whole life happy; but this cannot be. Besides, I know, that He -who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will surely care for little -motherless Effie. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NEW STORY BOOK FOR -CHILDREN *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. 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. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/66655-0.zip b/old/66655-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d58c34e..0000000 --- a/old/66655-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h.zip b/old/66655-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index fcf5a87..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/66655-h.htm b/old/66655-h/66655-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 55c5672..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/66655-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8325 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A New Story Book For Children, by Fanny Fern</title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - body { margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 10%; } - h1 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; } - h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; } - .pageno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; - text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; - border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; } - p { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; text-align: justify; } - .sc { font-variant: small-caps; } - .large { font-size: large; } - .xlarge { font-size: x-large; } - .small { font-size: small; } - .xsmall { font-size: x-small; } - .lg-container-b { text-align: center; } - .x-ebookmaker .lg-container-b { clear: both; } - .lg-container-l { text-align: justify; } - .x-ebookmaker .lg-container-l { clear: both; } - .linegroup { display: inline-block; text-align: justify; } - .x-ebookmaker .linegroup { display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; } - .linegroup .group { margin: 1em auto; } - .linegroup .line { text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em; } - div.linegroup > :first-child { margin-top: 0; } - .linegroup .in10 { padding-left: 8.0em; } - .linegroup .in2 { padding-left: 4.0em; } - .linegroup .in4 { padding-left: 5.0em; } - .linegroup .in6 { padding-left: 6.0em; } - .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; } - ol.ol_1 {padding-left: 0; margin-left: 2.78%; margin-top: .5em; - margin-bottom: .5em; list-style-type: decimal; } - div.pbb { page-break-before: always; } - hr.pb { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-bottom: 1em; } - .x-ebookmaker hr.pb { display: none; } - .chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; } - .figcenter { clear: both; max-width: 100%; margin: 2em auto; text-align: center; } - div.figcenter p { text-align: center; text-indent: 0; } - .figcenter img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; } - .id001 { width:40%; } - .x-ebookmaker .id001 { margin-left:30%; width:40%; } - .ic001 { width:100%; } - .ig001 { width:100%; } - .table0 { margin: auto; margin-top: 2em; } - .nf-center { text-align: center; } - .nf-center-c0 { text-align: justify; margin: 0.5em 0; } - p.drop-capa0_0_6 { text-indent: -0em; } - p.drop-capa0_0_6:first-letter { float: left; margin: 0.100em 0.100em 0em 0em; - font-size: 250%; line-height: 0.6em; text-indent: 0; } - @media handheld { - p.drop-capa0_0_6 { text-indent: 0; } - p.drop-capa0_0_6:first-letter { float: none; margin: 0; font-size: 100%; } - } - .c000 { margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c001 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em; } - .c002 { margin-top: 2em; } - .c003 { margin-top: 1em; } - .c004 { margin-top: 4em; } - .c005 { page-break-before:auto; margin-top: 4em; } - .c006 { vertical-align: top; text-align: justify; text-indent: -1em; - padding-left: 1em; padding-right: 1em; } - .c007 { vertical-align: top; text-align: right; } - .c008 { margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; } - .c009 { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; } - .c010 { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-top: 0.8em; - margin-bottom: 0.8em; margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%; width: 30%; } - .c011 { margin-top: 2em; font-size: .9em; } - .c012 { margin-top: 1em; font-size: .9em; } - .c013 { margin-left: 5.56%; text-indent: -2.78%; margin-top: 2em; font-size: .9em; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - div.tnotes { padding-left:1em;padding-right:1em;background-color:#E3E4FA; - border:thin solid silver; margin:2em 10% 0 10%; font-family: Georgia, serif; - } - .covernote { visibility: hidden; display: none; } - div.tnotes p { text-align: justify; } - .x-ebookmaker .covernote { visibility: visible; display: block; } - .figcenter {font-size: .9em; page-break-inside: avoid; max-width: 100%; } - .x-ebookmaker img {max-height: 31em; width: 100%; } - .chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; } - .ol_1 li {font-size: .9em; } - .x-ebookmaker .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: 0em; } - body {font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: justify; } - table {font-size: .9em; padding: 1.5em .5em 1em; page-break-inside: avoid; - clear: both; } - div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; } - div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; } - .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; - page-break-before: always; } - .x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { float: left; } - </style> - </head> - <body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A New Story Book for Children, by Fanny Fern</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A New Story Book for Children</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Fanny Fern</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 2, 2021 [eBook #66655]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NEW STORY BOOK FOR CHILDREN ***</div> - -<div class='tnotes covernote'> - -<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p> - -<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/frontispiece.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>LITTLE EFFIE.—Page <a href='#Page_305'>305</a>.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class='titlepage'> - -<div> - <h1 class='c001'><span class='small'>A</span><br /> NEW STORY BOOK<br /> <span class='xlarge'>FOR CHILDREN.</span></h1> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='large'>BY</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='large'>FANNY FERN.</span></div> - <div class='c002'>NEW YORK:</div> - <div>MASON BROTHERS, 7 MERCER STREET;</div> - <div>BOSTON: MASON & HAMLIN;</div> - <div>PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.</div> - <div>1864.</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'>Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>MASON BROTHERS,</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-l c002'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in6'><span class='small'>JOHN F. TROW,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Printer and Stereotyper</span>,</span></div> - <div class='line in4'><span class='small'>50 Green Street.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'>THIS BOOK</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='xsmall'>IS</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='xsmall'>TO</span></div> - <div class='c003'><strong>“Little Effie.”</strong></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_v'>v</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CONTENTS.</h2> -</div> - -<table class='table0' summary='CONTENTS'> - <tr> - <th class='c006'></th> - <th class='c007'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>A Story about Myself</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_7'>7</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Grandpapa’s Bald Head</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_27'>27</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>John Brown</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_32'>32</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Ploughboy Poet</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_56'>56</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Old Hickory</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_68'>68</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Deaf and Dumb French Boy</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_76'>76</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Three Gifted Sisters</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_82'>82</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Kind Word</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_103'>103</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Corsican and the Creole</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_106'>106</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Two Quarrelsome Old Men</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_128'>128</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Little Princes</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_131'>131</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Old Doctor Johnson</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_146'>146</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Little Lord</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_157'>157</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Policeman</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_165'>165</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Little Adrian</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_173'>173</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Peddler’s Son</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_186'>186</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Jemmy Lawton</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_193'>193</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>How a Great Lord Educated his Son</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_200'>200</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Boy Walter Scott</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_206'>206</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Aunt Maggie</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_224'>224</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_vi'>vi</span><span class='sc'>A Funeral I Saw</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_231'>231</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Watches</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_234'>234</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Old Zachariah</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_239'>239</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Little Gertrude</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_244'>244</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Faithful Dog</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_249'>249</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>A Question Answered</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_258'>258</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Nurse’s Day Out</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_262'>262</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Sweet Sixteen</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_266'>266</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Sitting for my Portrait</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_268'>268</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>About a Journey I Took</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_270'>270</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>When I Was Young</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_283'>283</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>A Nursery Thought</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_287'>287</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Use of Grandmothers</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_289'>289</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Inventor of the Locomotive</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_291'>291</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>To my Little Friends</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_303'>303</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='sc'>Baby Effie</span>,</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_305'>305</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span> - <h2 class='c005'>A STORY ABOUT MYSELF.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Nobody could be more astonished than I, to -find myself famous. I never dreamed of it, -when I sat in a small room, at the top of the house -where I lodged, scribbling over a sheet of coarse -foolscap with <i>noms de plume</i>, out of which I was -to choose one for my first article—which article I -never thought of preserving, any more than the -succeeding ones, supposing my meagre pecuniary -remuneration the only reward I was to hope -for. I think the reason I selected the name -“Fern,” was because, when a child, and walking -with my mother in the country, she always used -to pluck a leaf of it, to place in her bosom, for its -sweet odor; and that gloomy morning, when I -almost despaired of earning bread for my children, -I had been thinking of her, and wishing she were -living, that I might lay my head upon her bosom -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>and tell her all my sorrows; and then memory -carried me back, I scarce knew how, to those -childish days, when I ran before her in the woods, -to pluck the sweet fern she loved; and then I said -to myself, my name shall be “Fanny Fern”—little -dreaming anybody would ever know or care -anything about it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I loved my mother;—everybody did. She had -the kindest heart and sweetest voice in the world; -and if there was any person in the circle of her acquaintance -who was particularly disagreeable to -her, for that person would she be sure to do a service, -the first opportunity.</p> - -<p class='c009'>In a spare room in our house was an old armchair, -and in it lay a large Bible. I often used to -see my mother go into that room, sighing as she -closed the door; and, young as I was, I had learned -to watch for her coming out; for the sweet, -calm, holy look her features wore, fascinated me -like a spell. <i>Now</i> I know how it was! now, that -the baptism of a woman’s lot has been mine also; -and often, when blinded by the waves of trouble -which have dashed over my head, have I thought -of the open Bible in the old armchair, its pages -wet with tears, which no human eye saw fall, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>wiped away by no human hand, but precious in -<i>His</i> eyes as the seed of the husbandman, from -which He garners the golden harvest sheaves.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Thus my mother was unselfish—ever with a -gentle word for all; thus she looked upon life’s -trials, as does the long-absent traveler upon the -wayside discomforts of the journey, when the beacon -light gleams from the window of the dear old -home in sight. Thank God! she has reached it; -and yet—and yet—the weary hours of desolation, -my heart has ached for her human voice; in which -I have sat with folded hands, while memory upbraided -me with her patience, her fortitude, her -Christ-like forbearance, her sweet, unmurmuring -acceptance of the thorns in her life-path, for His -sake, who wore the thorny crown.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Weeping, I remembered her gentle touch upon -my arm, as I gave way to some impetuous burst -of feeling, at the defection of some playmate, or -friend, on whose unswerving friendship my childish -heart had rested as on a rock. I saw her eyes, -pitiful, imploring, sometimes tearful; for well she -saw, as a mother’s prophet-eyes alone may see, her -child’s future. She knew the passionate nature, -that would be lacerated and probed to the quick, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>ere the Healer came with His heavenly balm. She -knew that love’s silken cord could guide me, where -the voice of severity never could drive; and so -she let my hot, angry tears fall, and when the -storm was spent, upon the dark cloud she painted -the bow of promise, and <i>to those only</i> “<i>who overcome</i>,” -she told me, was “given to eat of the tree -of life.” Alas! and alas! that her child should be -a child still!</p> - -<p class='c009'>If there is any poetry in my nature, from my -mother I inherited it. She had the most intense -enjoyment of the beauty of nature. From the -lowliest field-blossom, to the most gorgeous sunset, -nothing escaped her observant eye. I well remember, -before the dark days came upon me, a -visit I received from her in my lovely country -home. It was one of those beautiful mornings -when the smile of God seems to irradiate every -living thing; to rest on the hilltops, to linger in -the valleys, to sweeten the herbage for the unconscious -cattle, and exhilarate even the bright-winged -insects who flutter in the sunbeams; a morning -in which simply to live were a blessing, for which -humanity could find no adequate voice of thanks.</p> - -<p class='c009'>From out the dusty, noisy city, my mother had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>come to enjoy it. I had just placed my sleeping -babe in its cradle, when I heard her footstep upon -the nursery stairs. Stooping to kiss its rosy cheek, -she seated herself at my window. The bright-winged -orioles were darting through the green -foliage, the grass waved in the meadow, starting -up the little ground-bird to make its short, quick, -circling flights; the contented cattle were browsing -in the fields, or bowing their meek heads to -the little brook, to drink; brown farmhouses nestled -peacefully under the overshadowing trees, and -far off in the distance stretched the hills, piled up -against the clear blue sky, over which the fleecy -clouds sailed leisurely, as if they too enjoyed all -this wealth of beauty. My mother sat at the window, -the soft summer wind gently lifting the -brown curls from her temples;—then slowly—musically, -as she laid her hand upon mine, while her -whole face glowed, as did that of Moses when he -came down from the mount, she said, “O Lord! -how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou -made them all; the earth is full of thy riches. -Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment: -who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain: -who walkest upon the wings of the wind. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>Every beast of the forest is thine; and the cattle -upon a thousand hills. The world is thine, and -the fullness thereof. I will sing praise unto God -while I have my being.” When my mother ceased -to speak, and relapsed again into silence, seemingly -unconscious of my presence, I did not disturb -her; for I knew that her soul was face to face with -Him who hears the voiceless prayer, and needs not -the bended knee.</p> - -<p class='c009'>My mother was eminently social, and particularly -fond of the society of young people; so -much so, indeed, that my young companions were -always disappointed when she was absent from -our little gatherings. Her winning, motherly -ways, her warm welcome, her appreciation and -toleration of exuberant young life, was as delightful -as rare. I will not speak of the broken-hearted -whom she drew to her bosom, of the needy to -whom she ministered, of the thousand little rills -of benevolence with which she fertilized so many -hearts and homes; they are written, not in a perishable -book of remembrance like mine, but in one -which shall endure when the earth shall be rolled -up like a scroll.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Had my mother’s time not been so constantly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>engrossed by a fast-increasing family, had she -found time for literary pursuits, I am confident -she would have distinguished herself. Her hurried -letters, written with one foot upon the cradle, -give ample evidence of this. She <i>talked poetry -unconsciously</i>! The many gifted men to whom -her hospitality was extended, and who were her -warm personal friends, know this.</p> - -<p class='c009'>A part of every year my mother spent in the -country. One summer, while I was yet a child, -we were located in a very lovely spot near Boston. -Connected with the church where my mother worshiped, -was a female prayer meeting, held alternately -at the houses of its different members. -One warm summer afternoon, my mother passed -through the garden where I was playing, and -asked me if I would like to go too. I said yes, -because I liked to walk with my mother anywhere; -so we sauntered along the grassy path under the -trees, till we came to a small, wooden house, half -hidden by a tall hedge of lilacs. Then my mother -led me through the low doorway, and up a pair of -clean wooden stairs, into an old-fashioned raftered -chamber, through whose open window the bees -were humming in and out, and the scent of flowers, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>and song of birds, came pleasantly enough to -my childish senses. Taking off my sunbonnet, -and brushing back my curls, she seated me on a -low stool at her feet, while one of the old ladies -commenced reading the Bible aloud. All this -time I was looking around curiously, as a child -will, at the old-fashioned paper on the walls, with -its pink shepherdesses and green dogs; at the -old-fashioned fireplace, with its pitcher of asparagus -branches, dotted with little red berries; at -the high-post bedstead, with its rainbow-colored -patchwork quilt, of all conceivable shapes and -sizes; at its high-backed, stiff-looking chairs, with -straw seats; at its china parrot on the mantel, and -its framed sampler on the wall, with the inevitable -tombstone and weeping willow, and afflicted female, -handkerchief in hand.</p> - -<p class='c009'>After the tremulous old lady had done reading, -they asked my mother to pray. I knelt with the -rest; gradually my thoughts wandered from the -china parrot, and patchwork quilt and sampler, to -the words my mother was speaking. Her voice -was low, and sweet, and pleading, as if God was -very near, instead of on the “great, white throne,” -far away from human reach, where so many good -<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>people are fond of placing Him. It seemed to -me as if her head were lying, like the beloved -John’s, upon His bosom; and He were not too -great, or good, or wise, to listen well pleased to -her full heart’s outpourings. Of course, these -thoughts did not then, even to myself, find voice -as now, but that was my vague, unexpressed feeling. -Every musical word fell distinctly on my -ear; and I listened as one listens to the sweet, -soothing murmurs of a brook, in the fragrant summer -time. I had loved my mother before; now I -<i>revered</i> her; and it was with a new, delicious -feeling I slid my hand within hers, as we passed -through the low doorway, and back by the pleasant, -grassy paths, to our home. How little she -knew what was passing under the little sunbonnet -at her side, or how near heaven she had brought -me, in that old, raftered chamber.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I have spoken of my mother’s patience and forbearance. -One scene I well remember. It occurred -in our little sitting room at home. My -mother had entered, with her usual soft step and -pleasant tones, and addressed some question to me -concerning the lesson I was learning, when a person -entered, upon whom she had every claim for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>love, the deepest and strongest. To some pleasant -remark of hers, this individual returned an answer -so rude, so brutal, so stinging, that every drop of -blood in my body seemed to congeal as the murderous -syllables fell. I looked at my mother; the -warm blood rushed to her temples, the smile faded -from her face; then her eyes filled with tears, and -bowing her head low upon her breast, with a -meek, touching grace I shall never forget, she -glided voiceless from the room. I did not follow -her, but I knew where she had gone, as well as if -I had done so. When I next saw her, save that -her voice had an added sweetness, no trace of the -poisoned arrow, so ruthlessly aimed at her peace, -remained.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I have said my mother was hospitable; but -her hospitality was not extended, like that of -many, only to those who could give an equivalent -in their pleasant society. One guest, who was -quite the reverse of this, often received from her -the kindest attention, not gratefully, not even -pleasantly, for he was churlish to a degree. Vexed -that she should thus waste her sweetness where it -was so unappreciated, I one day expressed as -much to my mother, adding, “that nobody liked -<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>him.” “Hush!” said she; “that is the very reason -why I should be the more kind to him. He -has a large family, and trouble and care have -made him reserved and silent; he may thank me -and yet not say so; besides, I do not do it for -thanks,” she continued, cramming his carpet bag -with her usual Lady Bountiful assiduity. The -cup of cold water in the name of the Master, to -the lowliest disciple, she never forgot.</p> - -<p class='c009'>To all these sweet womanly traits in my mother, -was added a sound, practical judgment. On -one occasion, while visiting me, a law paper was -sent for my wifely signature. Without looking -at it, for I hated, and to this day hate, anything -of a business nature, I dipped my pen in the inkstand -to append it. “Stay! child,” said my mother, -arresting my hand, “do you know what that -paper is about?” “Not I!” was my laughing -reply; “but my husband sent it, and on his broad -shoulders be the responsibility!” “That is -wrong,” said she, gravely; “you should never -sign any paper without a full understanding of -its contents.” It seemed to me then that she was -over-scrupulous, particularly as I knew she had the -same implicit confidence in my husband that I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>had. I had reason afterward to see the wisdom -of her caution.</p> - -<p class='c009'>My mother came to me one day, after rambling -over my house with a motherly eye to my housekeeping—she -who was such a perfect housekeeper—and -held up to me a roll of bank bills, which she -found lying loose upon my toilet-table. “Oh, they -were safe enough!” said I; “my servants I know -to be honest!” “That may be,” was her answer; -“but don’t you know that you should never place -temptation in their way?”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Foremost among my mother’s warm, personal -friends, was Dr. Payson. For many years before -the removal of our family from Portland, he was -her pastor, and afterward, whenever he visited -Boston, our house was emphatically his <i>home</i>; my -mother welcoming his coming, and sitting spiritually -at his feet, as did Mary of old her Christguest. -Let me explain how I first came to love -him. When I was a little girl, I used to be told -by some who visited at our house, that if I was -not a good girl, and did not love God, I should go -to hell. Now hell seemed, as far as I could make -it out from what they said, a place where people -were burned forever for their sins on earth—burned, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>without being consumed, for millions and -millions of years; and after that and so on, -through a long <i>eternity</i>—a word I did not then, -and do not now, comprehend. Well, I used to -think about all this; sometimes as I went to -school; sometimes as I lay awake in my little bed -at night, and sometimes when I woke earlier than -anybody else in the morning; and sometimes on -Sunday, when I, now and then, caught the word -“hell” in the minister’s sermon. I don’t know -how it was, but it never frightened me. I think it -was because I could not then, any more than I can -now, believe it. The idea of loving anybody because -I should be punished if I did not, seemed to -freeze up the very fountain of love which I felt -bubbling up in my heart, and I turned away from -it with horror. I could not pray or read my Bible -from fear. I did not know what fear was. I did -not feel afraid of death, as my playmates did. -When they told me to love God, I said that I did -love Him. They did not believe me, because -I did not like to talk about myself, or have others -talk to me about myself; not that I was -ashamed, but that it seemed to me, if I did so, -that I should cease to feel. Sometimes, when -<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>they persisted in questioning and doubting me, I -would get troubled, and run away, or hide. I did -not like to “say my prayers,” as it is called; and -at set times, morning and evening, and get on my -knees to do it. I liked to have my prayer rise up -out of my heart, and pass over my lips, without -moving them to speech; and that wherever I happened -to be, in the street, or in company, or -wherever and whenever God’s goodness came into -my mind, as it did often; for turn which way I -would, I could see that his careful footprints had -been before me, and his fingers busy, in making -what I was sure then, and am sure now, none but -a <i>God</i> could make. I did not understand a word -of my catechism, though I said it like a parrot, -because our minister told me to. “Election,” -“Predestination,” and “Foreordaining,” seemed -to me very long words, that meant very little; -and the more they were “explained” to me, the -more misty they grew, and have continued to do -so ever since; and I don’t like to hear them talked -about.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The God <i>my eyes</i> see, is not a tyrant, driving -his creatures to heaven through fear of hell; he -accepts no love that comes to him over that compulsory -<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>road. He pities us with an infinite pity, -even when we turn away from Him; and the mistaken -wretch who has done this through a long -life, and worn out the patience of every earthly -friend, never wears His out, is never forsaken by -Him; his fellow men may hunt him to the world’s -end, and drive him to despair, and still the God -<i>I</i> see, holds out his imploring hands, and says, -“Come to me!” and even at the last moment, -when he has spent a long life in wasting and perverting -every faculty of his soul, the God I see -does not pursue him vengefully, or even frown -upon him, but ever that small, soft whisper, -“Come to me!” floats by him on the sweet air, is -written on the warm sunbeam, which refreshes -him all the same as if he had never forgotten to -utter his thanks for it. Now, if this man dies, and -turns away at the last from all this wonderful -love, what more terrible “hell” can there be, than -to remember that he has done so? that he has -never made the slightest return for it, or ever recognized -it? that no living creature was ever -made better, or purer, or wiser, or happier, that -he lived in the world? but that, on the contrary, -he has helped them to destroy themselves as he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>has done himself? What “flames” could scorch -like these thoughts? And that, in my opinion, <i>is</i> -hell, and all the hell there is. It is just such a hell -as wicked men have a foretaste of in this world, -when they stop long enough to listen to that heavenly -monitor conscience, which they try so hard to -stifle. It is just such a hell as the wayward son -feels, who runs away from the love and kindness -of home, and returns to find only the graves of -those who would have died for him.</p> - -<p class='c009'>But I am wandering a long way from what I -was to tell you about—Dr. Payson.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I was dressing my doll one day, when my -mother called me to come to her. I knew that -some visitor had just come, for I heard the bell -ring, and then a trunk drop heavily in the entry. -I thought very likely it was a minister, for my -mother always had a plate and a bed for them, -and it made no difference, as I have told you, in -her kindness, whether the minister was a big -doctor of divinity, or a poor country clergyman, -unknown beyond the small village where he -preached. Well, as I told you, my mother called -me; and it <i>was</i> a minister who had come, and he -had gone up to his room with a bad nervous headache, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>brought on by traveling in the heat and -dust; and I was to go up, so my mother said, and -bathe his head with a preparation she gave me; -very gently, and very quietly, as he reclined in the -big easy chair. I did not want to go; I did not -like ministers as well as my mother did; and I -often used to run out one door, as they came in at -another; and I was often obliged to come back, -with a very red face, and shake hands with them. -I did not like to hear them say to me, that “my -heart was as hard as a rock,” and that “if I did -not get it changed, I should go to hell.” My -heart did not seem hard to me; I loved everybody -and everything <i>then</i>; and I loved God too, in my -own way, though not in the way they seemed to -want me to, because I should go to hell if I did -not; this thought made my heart grow hard in a -minute—made me “feel ugly,” as children say; -and that’s why I ran away from the ministers who -kept telling me what a “wicked” child I was.</p> - -<p class='c009'>So you may be sure, when I heard what my -mother said, I took the bottle she put in my hand, -which I was to use in bathing the minister’s forehead, -very unwillingly, and went very slowly up -stairs to my task. My mother had been there before -<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>me, and closed the blinds, and given him a -footstool for his weary feet; and there he sat, -looking very pale, with his eyes closed, and his -head laid back in the easy chair. He did not look -at all like the other ministers I was so afraid of; -and I cannot tell you why, as I tip-toed up to his -chair, and moistened my fingers to bathe his heated -forehead, and pushed back the dark locks from -it, that I thought of the pictures I had sometimes -seen of our Saviour, which looked to me so very -sweet and lovely. He did not speak, or open his -eyes, as my fingers moved over his temples; but I -knew that it gave him relief, because he soon sank -into a gentle slumber, and his head drooped a little -on one shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I cannot tell why I did not then go out of the -room—I, who disliked ministers so much—when I -might easily have done so; but instead, I sat down -on a low seat near him, and watched his face, as -if there were some spell in it, which forbade me to -go; and I felt so quiet and happy while I sat there, -and dreaded lest some one should call me away. -By and by he stirred, and passing his hand slowly -over his forehead, opened his eyes; they were -dark and soft as a woman’s. Holding out his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>hand to me, with a smile which I have never forgotten -to this day, he said, as he drew me to his -side, and laid his hand upon my head, “The Lord -bless you! my child;” then he seated me upon -his knee; but he said not a word to me about -“hell,” or my being “wicked,” but closing his -eyes again, he began telling me the story of the -Saviour’s crucifixion. Now, I had heard it -many times before, I had read it myself in the -Bible, when I was told to do so, and yet, that -day, in that quiet, darkened room, with that -gentle hand upon my shoulder, I heard it for the -first time. For the first time my tears fell, and -my heart went out to the pure, patient sufferer on -Calvary. When the story was finished, in those -low, sweet tones, I did not speak. Placing his -hand upon my head, he said, again, “The Lord -bless you! my child;” and so I passed out with -his loving benediction, and closing the door, listened -still on the other side, as though only <i>there</i> I -could learn to be good.</p> - -<hr class='c010' /> - -<p class='c009'>Many, many long years after this, when I was -a grown woman, I visited my birthplace, Portland, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>from which my mother removed when I was -six weeks old. I wandered up and down the -streets of that lovely, leafy city, and tried to find -the church where good Dr. Payson used to preach. -Then, too, I wanted to see the house where I was -born—the house where he laid hands of blessing -on my baby forehead, when it was purple -with what they thought was “the death-agony.” -But where it was that the little, flickering life began, -I could not find out; for my mother had then -gone to the “better land.” Ah! who but God -can comfort like a mother? who but God can so -forgive? How many times I have shut my eyes, -that I might recall her face—her blue, loving eyes, -her soft, brown, curling hair; and how many -times, when in great trouble, I have said, “Mother! -mother!” as if she <i>must</i> hear and comfort -her child.</p> -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_026.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>GRANDPA’S BALD HEAD—Page <a href='#Page_27'>27</a>.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span> - <h2 class='c005'>GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>“Shall I have a bald head, grandfather, when -I am eighty?” asked little Kitty; “and -will it shine, and be smooth, like yours?” “Your -head don’t look much like it now, little puss!” -said the old man, lifting the silky, yellow curls; -“and that puts me in mind that I’ve a story to -tell you—a ‘real, true story;’ and all about grandpa, -too.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“When grandpa was little, like you, he -didn’t live in a city like this, where the houses all -touch one another, and it is as much as ever one -can get a glimpse of the sky, because they are so -tall. He lived in a little log house, ’way off in the -forest, and there was no other log house in sight -for a great many miles. There were no carriages -to be seen there, or fine ladies, or fine gentlemen; -but there were plenty of squirrels darting up and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>down the trees, and running off to their hiding -places; and there were more little birds than I -could count hopping over the ground, and singing -in the branches overhead; and there were plenty -of pretty wild flowers, peeping out here and there, -in quiet, out-of-the-way little places, and little -patches of bright green moss, so soft and thick, -that they looked just like velvet cushions, for little -fairies to sit on; and there was a red and white -cow, who gave us plenty of good milk for breakfast -and supper; and some funny little pigs, with -black, twinkling bead eyes, and very short tails, -who went scampering about just where they liked, -and munching acorns.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“The log house was very rough outside, but my -mother had planted blue and white morning glories, -and bright yellow nasturtiums, all around it, -and they climbed quite up to the little roof, and -hung their blossoms about it, so that, had it not -been for the funny old chimney, peeping out of -the top, you might have thought it a little bower, -like the one down in your mother’s garden yonder. -Sometimes my mother took me on her knee -at sunset, and sat in the doorway, to watch the -little birds and squirrels as they went to bed, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>sometimes I sat by her side in the grass, while she -milked the old red and white cow. Sometimes I -watched my father as he chopped wood. I liked -to see the great ax come down in his strong -hand, and I liked to see the splinters of wood fly -about. Often he would cry out, ‘Not so near, -Dan! not so near, boy; or some fine day I’ll be -chopping your head off!’ At this, my mother -would come running out of the house, and catching -me up under her arm, set me down in the -doorway, after she had placed a board across, to -prevent my clambering out again. But one day -my mother had gone out, far into the forest, to -look for the old red and white cow, who had -strayed away; so I was left alone with my father. -I was very glad of that; because he was so busy -chopping and piling up his wood, that he hadn’t -much time to say ‘What are you at, Dan?’ as -my mother did, who seemed to me to have eyes -in the back of her head, whenever I wanted to be -mischievous. So, at first I sat quite still on the -doorstep, as my mother told me, watching my -father’s ax as it gleamed in the sun, and then -came down with a crash in the wood. By and -by I got tired of this, and crept a little nearer; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>and as my father did not notice it, I hitched on a -little farther and then a little farther, so that I -could see better. Then I got quite close up, and -just as my father raised the ax to strike, I -stooped my head to pick up a splinter of wood -from the log he was chopping. The next moment -I found myself fastened down tight to the -log, and heard my father groan out, as if he were -dreadfully hurt. Then he caught me up in his -arms, kissed my face, and held it up to the light, -while his own was as white as if he were dead; -for there, on the log, on the edge of the ax, lay -one of my long yellow curls, and I was not killed -at all, nor even scratched; and here,” said the old -man, taking a paper from his pocketbook, and -drawing out a bright, golden curl, “here is the -lock that the ax cut off, instead of grandpa’s head; -it don’t look as if it ever grew on this bald, shiny -pate, does it? See, it is just the color of yours, -Kitty; grandpa keeps it in his pocketbook, and -whenever he feels troubled and worried about anything, -he looks at it, and says, Well, God took -care of me <i>then</i>, and I won’t believe that he will -forget me <i>now</i>.” Little Kitty took the curl in her -hand, and looked at it very steadily awhile. Presently -<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>she looked up at her grandpa and said, “Did -your mother whip you when she came back, for -getting off the doorstep?” “No,” said grandpa, -laughing, “I think she forgot to do that. I remember -she gave me a great deal of milk that night -for my supper, and kissed me, and cried a great -deal, when she tied on my nightgown and put me -into bed.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span> - <h2 class='c005'>JOHN BROWN.</h2> -</div> -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave,</div> - <div class='line in10'>His soul is marching on!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>You have all heard that song, sung at the piano -at home, whistled in the street, and shouted -by the soldiers as they went off to the war; well, -shouldn’t you like to have me tell you what sort -of a <i>child</i> John Brown was?</p> -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_033.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>JOHN BROWN.—page <a href='#Page_32'>32</a>.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>Little boys who live in cities, and wear velvet -coats, and hats with plumes in them, and have -long, silky curls, just like a little girl’s, hanging -over their shoulders to their belts, and drag along -through the streets holding on to a nurse’s hand, -when they are seven or eight years old, and are -more afraid of a little mud on their boots or on -their velvet coats than anything else; who have -more rocking horses, and whips, and humming -tops, and velocipedes, and guns, and swords, and -marbles, and Noah’s arks, and bat and balls, than -they know what to do with, can hardly imagine -how a little boy in the country, with none of these -things, and with nobody to amuse him, or to tell -him how to amuse himself, could possibly be happy -or contented. I am going to tell you about John -Brown, who was another kind of boy. He had -never seen a city, or wore a hat on his head. He -jumped out of bed himself without any nurse, and -ran out of doors barefoot into the grass, eating -a bit of bread for breakfast, or anything that -came handy. There were no houses about, for he -lived in a little hut, in the wilderness, with nothing -but trees, and wild beasts, and Indians. He -was only five years old when his father took him -and his mother in an old ox cart, and went ’way -off in the forest to live. As I told you, he had no -toys; and he used, though such a little fellow, to -help drive the cows home; and now and then he -would ride a horse, without any saddle, to water. -Sometimes he would watch his father kill rattlesnakes—great -big fellows, too, such as you have -shuddered to look at, even through a glass case in -the Museum; and he learned not to be afraid of -them, too. At first he trembled a little at a live -<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>Indian, when he met him in the woods, and was -more afraid still of his rifle; but very soon he became -used to them, and liked to hang about and -see what they did; and after a while he learned -some of their queer talk himself, so that they -could understand each other very well. I suppose -he got along with the Indians much better than -his father, who stammered very badly, and is said -never to have spoken plain at all, except when he -was praying. Wasn’t that very strange? Johnny’s -father used to dress deerskins; and Johnny -learned it so well by watching him, that he could -at any time dress the skin of a squirrel, or a raccoon, -or a cat, or a dog. He learned, too, to make -whiplashes of leather, and sometimes he would -manage to get pennies for them, which made him -feel very grand, just as if he kept shop. When he -was about six years old, a poor Indian boy gave -him a marble—the first he had ever seen. It was -bright yellow, and Johnny thought it was splendid, -and kept it carefully a long while, turning it -over, and holding it up to the light, and rolling -it on the floor of his father’s hut. One unlucky -day, Johnny lost the yellow marble. I dare say -you will laugh when I tell you that it took years -<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>to cure him of mourning for that marble; and that -he used to have long fits of crying about it. But -you must remember that it was the only toy he -ever had, and that there were no shops about -there where he could get more. One day, after -the loss of the marble, he caught a little squirrel. -It bit Johnny badly while he was catching it. -However, Johnny held on to him, for he was not -a kind of boy to let a thing go, after he had once -made up his mind to have it; and so the squirrel -made the best of it, particularly when he found he -had lost his bushy tail in the fight, and he let -Johnny tame him, and feed him, and he would -climb up on Johnny’s shoulder, and look at him -with his little bright eye, and then scamper down -again over the grass, and then back again, and -perch on Johnny’s hand, so that he was just as -dear to him as your little brother is to you; or the -good little boy next door, who plays with you in -your father’s yard, and never once vexes you. -One day Johnny and his squirrel went into the -woods to play; and while Johnny was busy picking -up sticks, the squirrel wandered away and got -lost; and for a year or two after that, the poor -boy mourned for his little pet, looking at all the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>squirrels he could see, for his own little bob-tailed -squirrel, because no other squirrel would do but -that one he had tamed and loved. But he never -found him; and, between you and me, perhaps it -was just as well for the squirrel. I dare say he is -cracking nuts quite happily in some snug tree, and -scampering about with his little baby squirrels, -and has quite forgot Johnny and his lost tail.</p> - -<p class='c009'>What Johnny liked above all things, was to be -sent off by his father a great way though the wilderness, -with droves of cattle; and when he was -only twelve years old, he used to go with them -more than a hundred miles. What do you think -of that? He was quite proud of it himself, and -nobody could have affronted him more than to -offer to help him at such times. He was more -like a little Indian than anything else; he could -hear so quickly any sound a long way off; and he -declared that he had often smelled the frying of -doughnuts at five miles’ distance. Pretty good -nose, hadn’t he?</p> - -<p class='c009'>When Johnny was eight years old, his mother -died. Ah! you may be sure that the loss of the -yellow marble, and the bob-tailed squirrel, was -nothing to this. He cried and mourned for her, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>as he wandered through the woods, or drove cattle -for his father, and I suppose sometimes, though -he loved his father, that when he came within -sight of the little hut, he would rather have lain -on the ground all night, than to have gone into it, -and missed her pleasant “Well, Johnny, is that -you, dear?” Well, he got along as well as he -could, and grew a hardy, tough lad in the open-air -work his father gave him to do.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Some time after this, when away some hundred -miles from home with a drove of cattle, he stopped -at an inn with a landlord who had a very bright -little slave boy, just Johnny’s age. This little -slave boy’s master made a great pet of Johnny, -and brought him to the table with his best company, -and repeated all his smart sayings, and -asked them if they did not think it wonderful, -that a boy of his age could drive so many cattle -safely one hundred miles from home? And, of -course, they petted Johnny too, and praised him, -and thought he was quite a wonder. I suppose -Johnny would have felt very nice about it, had it -not been that the little slave boy, who was just his -age, and as bright a little boy as Johnny, was -beaten before his very eyes by his master, with an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>iron shovel, or anything that came handy; and -while Johnny was fed with everything good, this -little fellow was half starved, and half frozen with -cold, on account of his thin clothing. Johnny -could not forget that; he had never seen anything -like it before; when he went to his comfortable -bed, it troubled him; when he ate good food, it -seemed to choke him; when he put on warm -clothes, he felt ashamed to be warm, while the little -slave boy was shivering; and Johnny felt -worse, because he was only about ten years old, -and couldn’t do anything to help him; but as he -was going home through the woods, he said, -aloud, as if he were telling it to “Our Father, -who art in Heaven,” “When I grow bigger, I’ll -fight for the slaves; and I’ll fight for the slaves -wherever I see them, so long as I live.” For all -this, Johnny was such a bashful boy, that about -this time, when a lady to whom he was sent on an -errand gave him a piece of bread and butter, he -did not dare to tell her he didn’t eat butter, but as -soon as he got out of the house he ran for a long -distance, till he was out of sight, and then threw -it away.</p> - -<p class='c009'>About this time a friend of Johnny’s, who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>owned some good books, offered to lend him some -to read, for he knew how to read, although he -had been to school but little. He liked history -very much, and became so interested in these -books, that he wanted to know all the people who -had studied and read books too, and who could -tell him about the world, and things which had -happened in it, and how everything came about; -and this desire for learning gave him a dislike to -foolish talk and foolish people; and whenever he -heard any sensible talk go on, as he traveled off -with his cattle, he just pricked up his ears, and -stored it away in his little head, to think of -when he got home. You have no idea how much -he picked up and how much he educated himself -in that way. It would shame many boys who go -to good schools, only to turn out lazy, stupid -dunces.</p> - -<p class='c009'>When Johnny was fifteen, his father put him -at the head of his currier and tanner establishment. -Here Johnny had a large company of men -and boys to look after. Now, <i>men</i> don’t like -much to have a <i>boy</i> order them to do this or that, -even though they are working for that boy’s -father; but Johnny was so bright and knowing, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>and pleasant, that you will not be surprised to -hear that they got along nicely together. Instead -of quarreling with him, the men used to praise -him for being so smart; so that, though he was -very bashful when he began business, by the time -he was twenty, he began to think he really <i>was</i> a -smart fellow, sure enough. But that was natural, -you know; and I only think it was a wonder he -was not quite spoiled by so much praise, and so -much power, when he was so young. His young -brother used to make fun of him and call him -“King Johnny,” because he spoke in such a decided -way to the workmen, when he wanted anything -done; but Johnny went about his business -and let him talk. He had his hands full cooking -his own dinners, and learning arithmetic, and surveying, -and I don’t know what else besides; for he -was not a fellow who could even be idle a minute, -you may be sure of that. The world was too full -of things he wanted to know, and he was in too -great a hurry to get at them.</p> - -<p class='c009'>All the time John was a young man, he never -wanted, or wore, fine clothes, although he was -neat and tidy. He ate plain food, and never -touched tobacco, or spirits, or tea, or coffee. He -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>drank milk, or only water. So, you see, he had a -clear head for study and business, and I don’t -think he ever knew the meaning of the word -“dyspepsia.” When John got a letter, he always -wrote on the back of it the name of the person -who wrote it, and either “Not answered,” or -“Not time to read,” or “No answer needed.” I -tell you this to show you how thoroughly he did -everything he undertook; and so honest was -John, that he refused to sell his customers any -leather, until every drop of moisture had been -dried out of it, because the water would make it -weigh more, you know, and, of course, he would -get money that did not <i>really</i> belong to him. I -think, had John lived in New York, some of the -business men here would have thought him crazy, -or he would have thought them crazy; but, you -see, John couldn’t cheat; not even though he -should never be found out in it. Most young -men, when they are of John’s age, think more -about their own affairs than anything else—their -own business, their own pleasures, etc.; whether -they will ever be rich men, <i>how</i> rich they will be, -and all that. It was not so with John. He wanted -money, ’tis true, but all this time he had not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>forgotten the little slave boy, and others like him, -and it was for such as he that he wanted money, -that he might help them away from their masters, -and help them to be free by and by. He married, -and had many children of his own, and when -these children grew up, they all felt just as their -father did about the slaves. After a time, John -helped eleven slaves to get away to Canada, where -they were quite safe. How glad they must have -been! and how they must have loved John! -Somebody asked John how he felt when he got -them there? he said that he was so happy about it, -that he was quite ready to die then. But there -was other work for John and his boys to do. -There was a place called Kansas, where John’s -boys went to live; but as soon as the people there -found out that John’s boys and himself loved the -slaves, they began to steal their cattle, and burn -their fences, and try, in every possible way, to -trouble and bother them. So John’s boys wrote -home to the old man about it, and told him that -he must send them some guns and muskets, to defend -their property and their lives with. Well, -the old man didn’t have to stop to think long -about that. He told his other boys, who were living -<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>at home with him, about it, and they agreed to -start right off for Kansas, with as many guns and -muskets as they could get. John had no idea of -his boys out there being murdered and robbed, -without fighting for them, especially when they -were treated so merely for pitying the poor slaves. -When they reached there, John and his four boys, -they each had a short, heavy broadsword strapped -to their sides. Each one had a quantity of firearms -and revolvers, and there were poles standing -endwise round the wagon box, with fixed bayonets, -pointing upward. Oh! I can tell you, he -was in real earnest about it! Well, they suffered -great hardships there, while fighting for their -rights: one of John’s boys was taken by the enemy, -and driven with chains on him, so far in a hot sun -to prison, that he became a maniac; another of -his sons was so injured, that he became a cripple -for life; another son was murdered while quietly -walking along the road, and as he lay a corpse on -the ground, one of his brutal enemies discharged -a loaded pistol in his mouth. All this John had -to bear, but he only said, “It is very hard; but my -sons have died in a good cause—died for the poor -slaves.” Most people thought, “John has had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>enough of it now; he will fight no more about -slavery; he has taken the rest of his boys back to -his old home in the mountains, and he will not be -in a hurry to have them killed.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>They were mistaken. John was only waiting -to whet his sword. He knew how to wait. One -day, the whole country about Harper’s Ferry was -in a state of distraction. The women and children -were frightened to death, for John Brown was -down there; and it was said he was going to help -all the slaves he could to get away from their masters; -and that his boys were there to help him, -and a great many other men; and that they had -guns, and swords, and pistols in plenty, and meant -to fight fiercely, if anybody tried to hinder them. -John chose Harper’s Ferry, because there were -mountains all about it, and he had known every -turn in them, and all their valleys, too, for seventeen -years, and in case they were beaten, he -thought it would be a good place for himself -and the slaves to hide in, as well as a good -place to fight from. The first night of John’s -attack on the town, he and his men put out all the -lights in the street, and took possession of the -armory, where the firearms, you know, are kept. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>Then they took three watchmen, and locked them -up in the guardhouse. There must have been -friendly black people in the town who helped -them do all this. Some of them cut down the -telegraph wires, and others tore up the railroad -track after the train had passed. When it came -daylight, John and his men took prisoner every -person who came out into the streets, and when -people said, “Why do you do this? What do -you mean?” John and his men said, “We mean -to free the slaves!” One of the workmen employed -at the armory, when he came to work that -morning, and saw an armed guard at the gate, -asked of John’s guard, “By what authority have -you taken possession of this building?” “By the -authority of God Almighty!” said he.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, one after another, the workmen who -came to their work in the armory that day, were -taken prisoners. There was a terrible panic, I can -tell you. John and his five sons were inside the -armory grounds, while others were stationed outside -the walls, to hold the town—some at the -bridges, some at one place, some another. When -the workmen whom John took prisoners told him -how troubled their wives and children would be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>about them, John kindly allowed them to go -home, under a guard of his soldiers, to tell them -not to be frightened. John wanted, in doing this, -to make the people understand that the prisoners -in his hands should not be hurt; a brave man, you -know, is always a tender-hearted man. Poor -John! he lingered too long about these things. -The people whom he allowed to go in the cars, -before he tore up the railroad track, wrote -on little slips of paper terrible accounts of him, -and scattered them through the country as the -cars went flying through; so the first thing he -knew, one hundred soldiers came to Harper’s Ferry -from Charlestown. Now, indeed, they had -bloody work. John’s men began to get killed, -but not one of them but sold his life as dearly as -he could, fighting fiercely till he could fight no -longer. Some lay dying in the street, some of -the corpses floated down the river, some were -taken, bleeding and gasping, to prison. Even -after John’s men were dead, his enemies continued -to kick and beat their insensible bodies, and many -ran sticks into their wounds. And now John -knew that all that was left him, was to sell his life -as dearly as he could. With one son dead by his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>side, and another shot through, he felt the pulse -of his dying boy with one hand, and held his rifle -with the other, and told his few men about him to -be firm and calm. He said that his boys came -with him to fight of their own accord, and that -they had died in a good cause. Well, the soldiers -soon battered down the building, and got in -where John and his men were. An officer, as -soon as he saw John, although he and his men -had then done firing, struck him in the face, and -knocked him down. The same officer repeated the -blow several times, and then, when John was lying -on the ground, helpless, another soldier ran his bayonet -twice into the old man’s body, whose face and -hair were clotted with blood. Then they searched -his pockets, and took what they wanted, and then -carried him, bleeding, to the guard house, and laid -him on the bare floor, without anything under -him. Then the governor hurried down to see -him, with several of his friends, and though the -poor old man was writhing in agony with his -wounds, and the blood and the smoke were not yet -washed from his face, for thirty hours they let -him lie upon the floor, with his head propped up -on a chair, while they questioned him, and while -<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>the mob insulted him. After that, John was carried -off to Charlestown jail, under a guard of soldiers. -The body of John’s son was carried off for -the doctors to cut up. Seven days after this John -was dragged from his bed, and being unable to -stand, was supported on each side by an officer -into court, and there laid on a bed, to be tried by -the laws of Virginia, for what he had done. -Well, John had a “<i>Virginia</i> trial.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>A trial, you know, is a fair hearing on both -sides. John was faint and bleeding, and unable -to stand; they refused to let him have a lawyer -to speak for him, and declared him guilty without -hearing at all his side; although the law declares -a man innocent till he is proved <i>by law</i> to be guilty. -Then they told the jailer to shoot him if anybody -tried to help him escape; and this was -John’s <i>trial</i>. Now, John did not wish to die -with the character of a robber or a murderer, and -before they took him out of court, he lifted his -head up from his mattress and told them that he -had not had a fair trial; that he was too sick to -talk; that his money, fifty or sixty dollars in gold, -had been taken from him, and that he could not -now pay anybody to do any errands for him; that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>they ought to give him time to send for his -friends. But it was of no use, because they had -determined <i>not</i> to give him time; so he was -brought into court again on his bed soon after, -and sentenced to be hung, <i>i. e.</i>, if he did not die -first, on Friday, the second day of December; -and when the judge said that John would be hung -where everybody would have a chance to see it, -one man jumped up before John and clapped his -hands, because he was so glad that he should see -the brave old man die.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Forty-two days in all, John lay in a Charlestown -prison. All that time, sick as he was, -no clean clothes were given him, although sixty -dollars of his money were taken from his -pocket when he was arrested. All those forty-two -days and nights, he had lain there in the stiff, -dirty, blood-stained garments in which he fell.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, John had two Virginia militia companies -come out of curiosity to see him in prison. -He treated them civilly, but told the jailer, after -they left, that he did not like being made a monkey -show of. Everybody who loved slavery, was -allowed to gape and stare at John as much as -they pleased; but John’s friends, although they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>were ladies and gentlemen who had traveled a -long distance, found it hard work to get leave to -take a peep at him.</p> - -<p class='c009'>John’s wife wanted to come and see him before -he died, and bid him good by. John told -her she would be insulted and badly treated, and -she had better stay at home with the children; -and besides, I suppose, John was afraid it would -make it harder for him to die, and leave her and the -girls all alone in the world. But the poor woman -could not bear not to look in the face of her children’s -father once more, and at last John told her -she might come. When she got there, the jailer -led her into the cell, but she could not speak to -John, nor John to her. She only laid her head -upon his breast, and clasped his neck with her -arms.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then, seeing a heavy chain on John’s ankles, -and fearing it might pain him, she kneeled on the -floor and pulled two pair of woolen socks on his -feet. Then John told her what to say to his children -at home, and how he wanted them to live, -when he was dead; and that she must pay some -money to some persons for him, whom he named; -and then he read her his “will,” which he had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>made. And then John and his wife ate their -“last supper” together. Perhaps these words -will remind you, as they did me, of another “Last -Supper.” And then the jailer, Captain Anis, told -the poor wife that she must go. And then John -said to his wife, “God bless you! Mary; good -by;” and then she went out, and never saw John -more, till she looked upon his dead face.</p> - -<p class='c009'>There were three ropes sent to hang John -Brown with; South Carolina sent one, Missouri -one, and Kentucky one. They chose the Kentucky -rope, because it was the stronger, and then -it was shown, in public, to the people. Well, -the second day of December, when the old man -was to be strangled, came at last. It was a lovely -day, so mild and warm that the windows of all -the houses were open. The scaffold was to be in -a field, half a mile from the jail. At seven in the -morning the carpenters came to fix it. At eight -o’clock the soldiers began to come; horsemen, -dressed in scarlet jackets, were placed about the -field, and a double line of sentries farther on; -then the State of Virginia, fearing, after all this, -that it would not be safe enough from a feeble, -sick old man, brought a huge brass cannon, so -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>placed and pointed, that if a rescue were attempted, -John might be blown into little atoms in a -moment. There were about five hundred soldiers -in the field; and lines of them were stretched over -fifteen miles. There were not many people of the -place there to see John hung, for they dared not -leave their slaves alone at home, for fear of mischief -in their absence; for all the poor slaves knew -very well that John was to be hung that day, because -he was <i>their friend</i>.</p> - -<p class='c009'>At eleven o’clock, they brought John out of -jail, and put him in the wagon, to drive him to -execution.</p> - -<p class='c009'>As John stepped from out the door of his prison, -a black woman, with a little child in her arms, -stood near. He stopped for a moment, stooped -over, and kissed the little black child. Soon after, -as he passed along, another black woman said, -“God bless you! old man. I wish I could help -you, but I cannot.” This made the tears come in -John’s eyes for the first time.</p> - -<p class='c009'>By John’s side was seated the undertaker, and -on the wagon was a black coffin, enclosed in a -box, because his body was to go to his poor wife -after these Virginians had done with him. Then -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>several companies of soldiers, mounted on horseback, -rode beside the wagon, which was drawn by -two white horses. As they went along, John -looked at the lovely Blue Mountains and the -bright sky, and the warm sunshine spread over all, -and said, calmly, “This is a beautiful country; I -have not seen it before.” The jailer, who sat beside -him, could hardly say “yes,” he was so astonished -to see John so quiet and smiling, as if he -were only taking a ride on that lovely day. Then -the undertaker said to John, “You are more -cheerful than I am, Captain Brown.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Yes,” said the old man, “<i>I ought to be</i>.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>And now the wagon had come to the field, -where stood the gallows, and all those hundreds -of soldiers, and the great brass cannon. The -bright sun shone on the bayonets and muskets of -the soldiers and their gay uniforms, and the lovely -Blue Mountains looked very calm and peaceful; -and the soldiers kept very close to old John, for -Virginia felt uneasy till the breath was out of -him. Then John got out of the wagon and stood -on the scaffold, and took his hat off for the last -time, and laid it down by his side. Then he -thanked the jailer, who had been kind to him; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>then they tied his elbows and ankles; then -they drew a white cap over his eyes, and then -they put the Kentucky rope around his neck. -Then the sheriff told John to step forward; and -John said, “I can’t see; you must lead me.” -Then the sheriff asked John to drop his handkerchief, -for a signal for him to hang him; and John -said, “Now I am ready; only don’t keep me long -waiting.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>When John asked his enemies for time for -his trial, they wouldn’t let him have any; now, -when he did not want any more time, they kept -him waiting. So they made the old man stand -there, blindfolded, full ten minutes, while they -marched the soldiers up and down, and in and out, -just as if they were drilling on parade. Some -of the soldiers felt ashamed of this cruelty to the -old man, and muttered between their teeth, for it -was as much as their necks were worth to say it -loud, “Shame! shame!” Then, at last, after the -military maneuvers were over, the rope was cut, -and John struggled and strangled and died. -Then, you know, after that, Virginia had to be -<i>very</i> sure the old man <i>was</i> really dead; so first the -Charlestown doctors went up and poked him over, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>and pulled him about; then the military doctors -had their turn; lifting up his arms, and putting -their ears a great deal closer to his breast than -they would have cared to do once, to see if he -breathed; then they swung the body this way -and that, in the air, for thirty-eight minutes. -Then they lifted the body upon the scaffold, and it -fell into a harmless heap. Then, although all the -doctors who had pulled him around declared that -he was dead, still Virginia was so afraid of John, -that she insisted on cutting the dead body’s head -off, or making it swallow some poison, for fear, by -some hocus pocus, it might wake up again. But -it didn’t wake—<i>at least, not in the way they expected</i>. -But there is fierce fighting down in Virginia -to-day; for, though John Brown’s body lies -mouldering in the grave,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c012'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><i>His soul is marching on!</i></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE PLOUGHBOY POET.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Mother Nature does not always, like other -mothers, lay her pet children on downy pillows, -and under silken canopies. She seems to -delight in showing that money shall buy everything -<i>but</i> brains. At any rate, she not only -opened our poet’s big, lustrous eyes, in a clay -cottage, put roughly together by his father’s own -hands, but, shortly after his birth, she blew it -down over his head, and the mother and child -were picked out from among the ruins, and carried -to a neighbor’s for safe keeping—rather a -rough welcome to a world which, in its own slow -fashion, after the mold was on his breast, heaped -over it honors, which seemed then such a mockery.</p> - -<p class='c009'>But the poor little baby and his mother, happy -in their mutual love, knew little enough of all this. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>A good, loving mother she was, Agnes by name; -keeping her house in order with a matron’s pride; -chanting old songs and ballads to her baby-boy, -as she glided cheerfully about; not discouraged -when things went wrong on the farm, and the -crops failed, and the table was scantily supplied -with food—singing, hoping, trusting, loving still; -a very woman, over whose head cottages <i>might</i> -tumble, so that her <i>heart</i> was but satisfied.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Robert’s father was a good man, who performed -each day’s duty as carefully as though -each day brought other reward than that of having -done his duty. It is a brave, strong heart, -my dear children, which can do this. All can -labor when success follows; it is disaster, defeat, -difficulties, which prove what a man’s soul is -made of. It is just here that the ranks grow thin -in life’s battle—just here that the faint-hearted -perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to -the enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his -duty, plodding on, year after year;—when one -plan failed, trying another; never saying, when his -day’s work was done, “Ah! but this is too discouraging! -I’ll to the alehouse, to drown my -griefs in strong drink!” Neither did he go home -<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>moody and disconsolate, to drive his children into -corners, and bring tears to the eyes of his toiling -wife. But morning and evening the prayer went -up, with unfailing trust in Heaven. Oh! but that -was glorious! I love William Burns! Did he -say at night, when so weary, “<i>Now</i>, at least, I’ll -rest?” Not he: there were little bright eyes -about him, out of which the eager soul was looking. -So he gathered them about his armchair on -those long winter evenings, and read to them, and -taught them, and answered their simple yet deep -questions. One of Robert’s sweetest poems, the -Cotter’s Saturday Night, was written about this. -Robert’s father told his children, too, of the history -of their country; of skirmishes, sieges, and -battles; old songs and ballads, too, he repeated to -them, charming their young ears. Was not this a -lovely home picture? Oh! how much were these -peasant children to be envied above the children -of richer parents, kept in the nursery, in the long -intervals when their parents, forgetful of these -sweet duties, were seeking their own pleasure and -amusement. More blessed, surely, is the humblest -roof, round whose evening hearth gather -nightly, all its inmates, young and old.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>Nor—poor as they were—did they lack books. -Dainties they could forego, but not books; confusedly -thrown about—soiled and thumbed; but—unlike -our gilded, center-table ornaments—well -selected, and well read. And so the years -passed on, as does the life of so many human -beings, quiet, but eventful.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Who sneers at “old women”? I should like -to trace, for a jeering world, the influence of that -important person in the Burns family. Old Jenny -Wilson! Little she herself knew her power, when, -with Robert Burns upon her knee, she poured -into his listening ear her never-ending store of -tales about fairies, and “brownies,” and witches, -and giants, and dragons. So strong was the impression -these supernatural stories made upon the -mind of the boy, that he declared that, in later -life, he could never go through a suspicious-looking -place, without expecting to see some unearthly -shape appear. Who shall determine how much -this withered old woman had to do with making -the boy a poet? And yet, poor humble soul—that -is an idea which seldom enters the mind of -his admirers. The bent figure, with wrinkle-seamed -face, gliding noiselessly about your house, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>doing odds and ends of household labor, now -singing a child to sleep, now cooking at the -kitchen fire, now repairing a garment, or watching -by a sickbed—always on hand, yet never in -anybody’s way; silent, grateful, unobtrusive, yet -beloved of Heaven—have you not known them?</p> - -<p class='c009'>Robert’s mother, the good Agnes, had a voice -sweet as her name. The ballads she sang him -were all of a serious cast. She had learned them, -when a girl, from <i>her</i> mother. Oh, these songs! -Many a simple hymn, thus listened to by childhood’s -ear, has been that soul’s last utterance this -side the grave. All other childish impressions may -have faded away, but “mother’s hymn” is never -forgotten. That strain, heard by none else, will -sometimes come, an unbidden, unwelcome guest; -and neither in noise nor wine can that bearded man -drown it—this <i>mother’s hymn</i>! Sing on, sing -on, ye patient, toiling mothers! over the cradle—by -the fireside. Angels smile as they listen. The -lark whom the cloud covers, is not lost.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The father of Robert Burns did not consider, -because he was a poor man, that it was an excuse -for depriving his boys of any advantages of education -within his reach, as many a farmer, similarly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>situated, and intent only on gain, has thought -it right to do. His good sense, in this respect, -was well rewarded; for Robert’s first teacher said -of him, that “he took such pleasure in learning, and -I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of -the two was most zealous in the business.” It is -such scholars as these who brighten the otherwise -<i>dreary</i> lot of the teacher. Pupils who study, not -because they must, and as little as possible at that, -but because they have an appetite for it, and crave -knowledge. Of course, a good teacher endeavors -to be equally faithful to all the pupils who are -intrusted to him—the stupid and wayward, as -well as the studious. But there must be to him a -peculiar pleasure in helping, guiding, and watching -over a pupil so eager to acquire. The mother -bird, who coaxes her fledglings to the edge of -the nest, and, by circling flights overhead, invites -them to follow, understands, of course, how the -little, cowering thing, who sits crouched on a -neighboring twig, may be too indolent, or too -timid to go farther; but she looks with proud -delight upon the bold little soarer, who, observing -well her lesson, reaches the top of the tallest tree, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>and sits, swaying and singing, upon its topmost -branch.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Robert, however, had not always the good -luck to have, as in this case, an intelligent, appreciative -teacher. I suppose it is not treason to -admit, even in a child’s book, which, by some, is -considered a place for tremendous fibbing, that a -teacher may occasionally err, as well as his pupil. -That teachers have been known to mistake their -vocation, when they have judged themselves qualified, -after trying and failing in every other employment, -to fill such a difficult and honorable -position.</p> - -<p class='c009'>It seems there was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to -whose school Robert was sent. It was the very -bad custom of those times, when pupils of his -age first entered a school, to take the master to a -tavern, and treat him to some liquor. This Robert -did, in company with another boy, named Willie, -who entered at the same time. Do you suppose -that schoolmaster ever thought remorsefully -about this in after years, when he heard what a -wreck strong drink had made of poor Robert? -Well, the boy Willie and Robert became great -friends from that day; often staying at each -<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>other’s houses, and always spending the intervals -between morning and afternoon school, in each -other’s company. When the other boys were -playing ball, they would talk together on subjects -to improve their minds. Now, as they <i>walked</i> -while they talked, their omitting to play ball was -not of so much consequence as it would otherwise -have been—at least, according to my motto, which -is, <i>chests first, brains afterward</i>. But to go on. -These disputatious youngsters sharpened their -wits on all sorts of knotty subjects, and also invited -several of their companions to join their -debating society—whether to improve them, or to -have an audience to approve their skill, I can’t -say; perhaps a little of both.</p> - -<p class='c009'>By and by the master heard of it. He didn’t -like it. He had an idea boys should have no -ideas that the master didn’t put into their heads -for them. So one day, when the school was all -assembled, he walked up to the desks of Robert -and Willie, and began, very unwisely, to taunt -them about it before all the scholars—something -in this style: “So, boys, I understand that you -consider yourselves qualified to decide upon matters -of importance, which wiser heads usually let -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>alone. I trust, from debating, you won’t come to -blows, young gentlemen,” &c., &c. Now, the -boys who had not joined their debating society, -set up a laugh, like little rascals, at the rebuked -Robert and Willie. This, of course, as the teacher -should have known, stung them to the quick; -and Robert, with a flushed face, resolved to -“speak up” to the master. I find no fault with -his reply, which was this; that both he and Willie -rather thought that he (the master) would be -pleased, instead of displeased, at this effort to improve -their minds. At this, Hugh Rodgers -laughed contemptuously, and said he should be -glad to know what these mighty nonsensical -discussions might be about. Willie replied that -they had a new subject every day; that he could -not recollect all; but that the question of that day -had been, whether is a great general, or respectable -merchant, the more valuable member of society. -At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed more -uproariously and provokingly than before, saying, -that it was a very silly question, since there could -be no doubt for a moment about it. “Very well,” -said Robert Burns, now thoroughly roused, “if -<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>you think so, I will take any side you please, if -you will allow me to discuss it with you.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>The unfortunate schoolmaster consented. He -commenced the argument with a pompous flourish -in favor of the general. Burns took the other -side, and soon had the upper hand of the schoolmaster, -who made a very lame reply. Soon the -schoolmaster’s hand was observed to shake, his -voice to tremble, and, in a state of pitiable vexation, -he dismissed the school.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Poor man! he understood mathematics better -than human nature; and himself least of all. This -was an unfortunate victory, for two reasons. It -was an unnecessary degradation of a man who -had his estimable qualities, and it increased the -self-sufficiency of young Burns, who was born -with his arms sufficiently a-kimbo. Alexander-fashion, -he soon sighed for another conquest. His -bedfellow, John Nevins, was a great wrestler. -Nothing would do, but he must floor John Nevins. -Strutting up to John, he challenged him to -the combat. John soon took that nonsense out -of him, by laying him low. Vanquished, he -sprang to his feet, and challenged him to a discussion. -<i>There he had him!</i>—John having more -<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>muscle than brain. Burns’s pride was comforted, -and he retreated, a satisfied youth. This is all I -know about Robert’s <i>childhood</i>.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Silver hairs were now gathering thickly on his -good father’s temples, as he toiled on, to little use, -while children grew up fast about his knees, to be -fed, schooled, and clothed by his labor. Robert -and his brother looked sadly on, as his health -declined. Robert had little inclination for his -father’s work, and yet, somebody must take his -place; for consumption was even then making -rapid and fearful havoc with his constitution. -The good old man ceased from his labors at last, -and went where the weary rest. For a while, -Robert strove to fill his place—strove well, strove -earnestly. But the farmer who stops to write -poems over his plough, seldom reaps a harvest to -satisfy hungry mouths. And so, poverty came, -instead of potatoes, and Robert Burns, although -the troubled eyes of his wife looked into his, and -his little children were growing up fast about -him, and needed a good father, to teach them -how to live in this world, and to earn bread for -them till they became big enough to earn it for -themselves, it came about that, instead of doing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>this, he drank whisky to help him forget that he -ought to keep on ploughing, if poetry did not -bring him bread, and so made poverty a great -deal worse. His wife was very, very sorrowful -about it, and his little children became tired of -waiting for him to love them, and care for them. -Perhaps you say, Oh, how <i>could</i> he do so? My dear -children, how can <i>anybody</i> ever do wrong? How -can <i>you</i> ever vex your dear mother, who is so -good to you, and go pouting to bed, and never tell -her that you are “sorry”? and still, while you are -sleeping, that dear, good, forgiving mother stoops -over your little bed, and kisses your forehead, and -looks to see if you are warm and comfortable, -before she can sleep, the same as if you had been -a good child, instead of a bad one. I hope you -will think of this before that good mother dies, -and tell her that you are very sorry for grieving -her; and I hope, too, that Robert Burns, before -it was too late, said that he was sorry for grieving -those who loved him, and for wasting his life; -but I do not know about that.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span> - <h2 class='c005'>OLD HICKORY.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Many a time, I dare say, you have sat on your -bench at school, with your cotton handkerchief -spread over your knee, looking at the stern -face of this famous man upon it; every bristling -hair upon his head seeming to say for itself, In -the name of the commonwealth, stand and deliver! -You have thought, perhaps, that a man with -such a sharp eye and granite face as that, must be -a very terrible person, whose heart was quite left -out when he was made, and whom little children -had better run away from. It is just because this -was <i>not</i> true, that I first believed in General Jackson. -A brave man is never a mean one; and it -<i>is</i> mean to despise or bully children and women. -I place <i>children</i> first, because every woman who -has ever had one, does so. But to my story. We, -who have lived so peacefully and quietly in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>land for which our brave ancestors fought, do not -think as often as we ought of the sufferings and -trials through which they purchased it for us. -Until lately, our houses were not burned down -over our heads, or ransacked and robbed, nor our -mothers and sisters insulted before our eyes, nor -our fathers and brothers dragged off as prisoners -of war, and kicked and cuffed for sport by the -enemy. All this, Andrew Jackson’s boyish eyes -saw. Do you wonder at the fire in them? One -of his earliest recollections was of the meeting -house in his native place turned into a hospital -for his wounded, maimed, dying, brave countrymen; -and his own widowed mother, leading him -there by the hand to nurse them, and dress their -wounds, and comfort them, as only a woman with -a strong heart and angel touch can. Could the -boy stand by and see all this, and not long for the -time when he should grow big, and stout, and -tall, and help fight for his country? Could he -help being impatient, he, the son of this unprotected -mother, when one after another of these -poor fellows was brought in, with their fresh, -ghastly wounds, and laid down to die? And -when, later, his cousin’s house was taken by the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>British, and the furniture was broken in pieces, -and his cousin’s wife was insulted by the officers, -and he and his brother were taken prisoners, and -ordered by the officer, with an oath, to clean his -muddy boots; and, because they both refused, -were cut and slashed across the face and head by -this bullying, cowardly fellow, Andrew then being -only twelve years old; and then were marched -miles and miles away down South, and not allowed -a morsel of food by the way, and forbidden even -to scoop up water from the streams they were -fording, to quench their feverish thirst? Ah! do -you wonder now at that stern face? Suppose -your dear mother, whom your dear father, whom -you can just remember, loved so tenderly, was -driven across the country with you and your little -brother, from place to place, for safety, in those -troublous times, and subjected to all kinds of hardships, -bearing up under it bravely, as good women -will. Suppose that when you and your brother—still -boys—were dragged off as prisoners of war, -this dear, brave mother traveled off alone, and -never rested till she managed, by an exchange of -prisoners with the British general, to get her -dear boys back again; but wan and wasted with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>small pox, and the wounds that they had received -from that big, cowardly British officer, all undressed -and uncared for; these boys, <i>her</i> Andrew, -her Robert? Well, as your mother would have -nursed you and your brother through her tears, so -Andrew Jackson’s mother nursed her fatherless -boys. But was Andrew a boy to forget either -his mother’s love, or the British? No, indeed! -And when, after he became well, and the whole -band went to live in the house of a friend, and -Andrew picked beans, and pulled fodder, and -drove cattle, and went to mill, do you wonder -that when he was sent to the blacksmith’s, to get -the farm tools mended, he brought home spears -of iron, and all sorts of odd-looking, rough -weapons, that, while waiting for the blacksmith, -he had himself manufactured “to kill the British -with”? Do you wonder that he fastened the -blade of a scythe to a pole, and exclaimed, fiercely, -as he cut down the weeds with it, “Oh! if I were -only a man, wouldn’t I sweep off the British with -my grass blade?” And he did it, too, afterward. -Let those who call him “fierce, savage, vindictive,” -remember how these sorrows of his childhood -were burned in upon his soul; remember -<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>what burning tears must have fallen upon the -little bundle containing all his dead mother’s -clothes, she who had struggled and suffered -through the war of the Revolution, and left him -an orphan at fifteen years, with only the memory -of her love and his country’s wrongs. As he -stood weeping over that little bundle, friendless, -homeless, and heart-broken, thinking of all she -had been to him, and looking wistfully forward -into the dim unknown, he did not see the future -President of the United States, and hear his voice -falter as he said, “I learned that, years ago, from -my dear, good mother!” Well might he remember -her then. You ask me if Andrew found no -opportunity to get an education in these troublous -times? You may be sure his mother knew the -value of that! and sent her boys, when quite -young, to the best schools she could find in their -native place. Schools, in those days, were not -the furnace-heated, mahogany-desked affairs we -see now. Pupils did not carry an extra pair of -shoes to put on when they entered, for fear of -soiling the floor. Velvet jackets were not worn -by the boys, nor gold bracelets by the girls. Andrew -Jackson’s schoolroom was an old log house -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>made of pines, the crevices being filled in with -clay, which the boys used to pick out when it -came spring, to let in the fresh air. In this school -no French, nor drawing, nor “moral science,” -was taught. Reading, writing, and arithmetic -was all. For a gymnasium, there were the grand -old trees, which the freckled, sunburnt, redheaded -Andrew was free to swing upon when -school was done; and he went up and down them -like a squirrel. I think he was better at that than -at his books, if the truth must out; however, -“learning” did not go before chests in those -days, luckily for us, who enjoy the blessings for -which our fathers’ strong arms fought. So Andrew -studied some, and leaped, and wrestled, and -jumped more;—was kind to defenceless small -boys, but had his fist in the face of every fellow -who made fun of him, or taunted him, or in any -way pushed him to the wall.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Andrew had one very bad habit when a boy, -which, I am sorry to say, followed him all his life. -He swore fearfully! An oath, from anybody’s -mouth, is hateful; but from a <i>child’s</i> mouth! I -know nothing more saddening and pitiful. Often, -I know, children will use such words, quite unconscious -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>of their meaning, as they pick them up -from those who have no such excuse for their -utterance, till the habit becomes so fixed, that -only in later life, when they pain some person -who is “old-fashioned” enough to reverence the -name they use so lightly, do they become conscious -of the extent of this disgusting habit. The -idea of its being “manly” to swear is ridiculous -enough; since the lowest, most brutal ruffian in -creation, can, and does, outdo you in this accomplishment. -I think Andrew would have enjoyed -his boyish sports quite as well without these bad -words; and he <i>was</i> a splendid fellow for all athletic -exercises. Had he been alive when that -game of cricket was won by the English cricketers, -I don’t know what would have happened; -well, it <i>wouldn’t</i> have happened; or had it, the -victors would never have gone home alive to tell -of it!</p> - -<p class='c009'>Andrew was a good son to his mother; he -was honest, and truthful, and kind to her always. -He never forgot her as long as he lived. He used -often, when President of the United States, to -stop in the midst of his conversation, and say, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>reverently and proudly, “<i>That</i> I learned from my -good mother!”</p> - -<p class='c009'>One cannot help feeling sad that she should -have lived long enough only to bear the burden -and heat of the day, and not share with her boy -its calm repose and reward. And yet, who can -believe that a mother and son so loving are -divided, though one crosses alone the dark river -before the other? We have seen, of a fine summer -morning, after the sun shone out, fine gossamer -threads, before invisible, floating, yet fixed, in -the air above us. So, when the light of eternity -shines on our life-path, shall these chords of a -mother’s love be seen to have entwined themselves -around and about us—leading us in a way -we knew not.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Jackson’s life was a strange one. It is for me -only now to speak of his childhood and youth. -His relation to our country’s history will not suffer -you to rest satisfied with this. His after-life is -better told than I could tell it you, by a man who -is now looking over my shoulder, and who says, I -have just told you a fib. If you read “Parton’s -Life of Andrew Jackson,” however, you will see -that I have told the truth.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I was sitting, this morning, at my window, -looking at a fine sunrise, when suddenly I -thought, how terrible, were I to become blind! -And then I asked myself, were I to choose between -blindness and deafness, how should I decide? -Never to see the dear faces, never to see -the blue sky, or green earth, or delicate flowers;—never -to listen to the melody of birds, or the -sweet voices of the trees and streams, or hum of -busy insect-life; or, more dreadful still, never to -hear the sweet voices of those I love;—oh, how -could I choose? When we murmur and complain, -surely we forget the blessings of hearing -and sight; they are so common, that we forget to -be grateful; so common, that we need to have -written pitying words to the deaf of our own kin, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>or led the sightless, fully to understand their -sufferings. And yet all the world is not now dark -to the blind, or voiceless to the deaf, thanks to the -good people who teach both these unfortunates. -How different was their position once, a long -while ago! Let me tell you about it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>In France lived a little boy, born of parents -who had six deaf and dumb children, three boys -and three girls. It must have been very dull to -them all; but one of them, little Pierre, seemed to -feel it most. Children of his own age would not -play with him, they seemed to despise him; so he -trotted round like a little dog, trying to amuse -himself with sticks, and stones, and anything that -came in his way; his body grew tall, like other -children’s, but his mind remained a little baby. -He didn’t know whether he had been made, or -had made himself. His father taught him to -make prayers by signs, morning and evening. -Poor little fellow! he would get on his knees, -and look upward, and make his lips move, as -if he had been speaking; but he did not know -there was any God: he was worshiping the -beautiful sky. He took a great fancy to a particular -star, because it was so bright and beautiful; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>and at one time, when his mother lay very sick, -he used to go out every evening, and kneeling -down, make signs to it, to make her well; but -finding that she did not get any better, he grew -very angry, and threw stones at the star, supposing -that it might, after all, be the cause of his -deafness, his mother’s sickness, and all their other -troubles. Seeing others move their lips when -speaking, he moved his, hoping the talk would -come out; and sometimes he made noises like an -animal. When people told him the trouble was -in his ears, then he took some brandy, poured it -into his ears, and then stopped them up with cotton, -as he had seen people do who had cold in -their heads. Pierre desired much to learn to read -and write. He often saw young boys and girls -who were going to school, and he desired to follow -them; not that he knew what reading and -writing really were, but from a feeling that there -were some privileges and enjoyments from which -he ought not to be shut out. The poor child -begged his father, as well as he knew how, with -tears in his eyes, to let him go to school. His -father refused, making signs to him that he was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>deaf and dumb, and therefore could never learn -anything. Then little Pierre cried very loud, and -taking some books, tried to read them; but he -neither knew the letters nor the words. Then he -became angry, and putting his fingers into his -ears, demanded impatiently to have them cured. -Then his father told him again, that there was no -help for it; and Pierre was quite heart-broken. -He left his father’s house, and without telling -him, started off alone to school, and going into the -schoolhouse, asked the master, by signs, to teach -him to read and write. The schoolmaster (I think -he could not have had any little children of his -own) refused him roughly and drove him away -from the school. Then Pierre cried very much; -but you will be glad when I tell you that, although -only twelve years old, he was such a little -hero that he wouldn’t give up. He took a pen, -and tried, all alone, to form the writing signs; -and that, indeed, was the best and only thing he -could do, and he stuck to it, though everybody -discouraged him.</p> - -<p class='c009'>His father used sometimes to set him to watch -the flocks; oftentimes people, in passing, who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>found out his condition, gave the boy money. -One day—and it was a great day for poor Pierre—when -he was thus watching the flocks, a gentleman -who was passing took a fancy to him, and -inviting him to his house, gave him something to -eat and drink. Then the gentleman went off to -Bordeaux, where he lived. Not long after, -Pierre’s father, for some reason or other, moved -to Bordeaux; and then this kind gentleman -spoke of Pierre to a learned man of his acquaintance, -who was interested in deaf and dumb persons, -and he consented to take Pierre and try to -teach him. Are you not glad? and you will be -gladder still, when I tell you how fast he learned, -and how, by his own strong will, assisted by his -kind tutor, he unriveted, one by one, the chains -with which his wits were bound, and casting them -aside, stood forth under the bright star, at which -he used to throw stones, and understood now -what it was, and who made it. You may be -sure that nobody had to tease little Pierre to -learn <i>his</i> lessons, as some little children have to -be teased to study theirs. No indeed! he felt like -jumping and leaping for joy that he was able to -learn; and it seemed to him that there was nothing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>left in the world worth fretting about, now -that he could learn, like other children.</p> - -<p class='c009'>That is all I know about little Pierre, but I -hope he grew up a <i>good</i> as well as a smart man; -don’t you?</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS.</h2> -</div> -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Like as a father pitieth his children.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>According to this text, Charlotte Brontë, -though no orphan, had no father. She was -born in the little village of Haworth, England. -Her father was a clergyman, and a very curious -man, if the stories told of him are true. I dare -say he may have been a good man in his way, but -I don’t fancy his way. I don’t like his burning -up some pretty little red shoes, belonging to his -little children, because he did not like the color. -I don’t like his firing off pistols, when he got -angry, and terrifying his little meek wife. I -shouldn’t want to hear such a terrible minister -preach, had I gone to his church. Well, never -mind that. His feeble little wife was taken very -sick, and the doctor said she must die; die, and -leave those little children to the care of this father -I have spoken of, who seemed to be about as fit -for the charge, as an elephant would be to take -care of little humming birds. One touch of his -great paw would crush the life out of them.</p> -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_083.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>LITTLE CHARLOTTE.—Page <a href='#Page_82'>82</a>.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>You may be sure the poor dying mother felt -badly enough about all this, as she lay in her bed, -growing thinner, and paler, and weaker each day. -She could see the churchyard where she was to be -buried from her chamber window; in fact, one -had to pass through it, with its moss-grown tombstones, -to get to the house, which was a very -gloomy one at best, as parsonage houses are too -apt to be. I suppose she tried very hard to feel -willing to leave them; but she found she could -not do it, if she saw their dear little faces every -day. So they did not go to her sick-room any -more; she could hear the pattering of their tiny -feet in the entry, and their hushed whispers as -they passed her door, and so, pressing her hands -tightly over her mother heart, to still its pain, and -leaning on the Crucified, she passed away.</p> - -<p class='c009'>It is very dreadful for a child to lose its mother—much -worse, I think, than to lose a father; -because a father, be he ever so good and kind, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span><i>must</i> be away from his little ones, and cannot, by -any possibility, understand their little wants and -ways as a mother can; and a child’s heart is such -a tender thing to touch; one may mean well, and -give it such exquisite pain, and the poor thing -cringes, and shrinks, and has no words by which -it can tell its distress. But suppose the father understands -nothing about a child’s heart. Suppose -he thinks to treat it like a grown person’s, who -has been knocked about the world till he don’t -care for anything, who never cries, never laughs, -never is glad, never is sorry, never wants to lay -his head on a dear, kind shoulder, and cry—what -then? Suppose that father, instead of taking -breakfast, dinner, and supper with his lonely little -children, takes his meals up in his own room, and -leaves them sobbing over theirs, while they try to -swallow the food that tasted so sweet when their -dear mother sat at the head of the table—what -then? Suppose it was a bleak, dreary country -where they lived, where no flowers grew, where -were no gardens; and that, when these little children -became tired of huddling together, like a -frightened flock of lambs, in their gloomy nursery, -where never a cheerful fire was lighted, or cheerful -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>lamps twinkled when night came on—suppose -they tied on their little bonnets, and, led by -the eldest, who was only seven, went through -the damp churchyard, past their mother’s grave, -and out on the bleak, cold hills to walk, without -their father to lead them by the hand, or take -them up in his arms when tired, or speak a kind -word, or warm their little chilled hearts or hands -in any way? Suppose day after day went by in -this fashion, what sort of children do you suppose -they would become? Healthy, hearty, rosy, -jumping little things, such as God and man love -to see, loving play and frolic, with broad chests -and shoulders, and bright eyes and hearts? Not -at all. They never once thought of playing; they -hadn’t a toy in the house; their heads grew big, -and their bodies grew little; and they were as -wide awake at night, as if somebody had hired -them not to go to sleep. But their father slept -soundly, all the same as if their little hearts were -not like an empty cage, out of which music and -beauty has taken wing forever. Well, <i>God loved -them; that’s a comfort</i>, and that thought kept -little Charlotte’s heart from sinking, when she -tried to be mother to her younger brothers and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>sisters; all the while she needed a mother herself, -more than any dictionary could ever tell.</p> - -<p class='c009'>After a while, an aunt came to their house, to -take charge of them. I was glad of that. I hoped -she would make them play dolls, and run, and -jump about; I hoped she would make the fires -and lamps burn cheerily, and go round the house -shedding brightness from her finger tips, as only -a woman knows how. I hoped she would go out -to walk with the little orphans, and when they -came home to supper, sit down with them at the -table, and say funny things to make them laugh; -and good things to make them happy and glad. -I hoped she would tie on their little night dresses -with her own hands, and kiss them down on their -pillows, and say, God bless you, my little darlings! -It was <i>such</i> a pity she didn’t. I am sure a <i>woman</i> -ought to understand little children better than she -seemed to. But she just shut herself up in her -room, the same way their father did, and took all -<i>her</i> meals alone. I have no patience with her. I -wish I had lived near them; they should have eaten -and drank with me, poor little souls! Well, -they had a kitchen, and a good old servant, named -Tabby, in it, and, from what I can find out, she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>was more of a mother to them, in her rough fashion, -than anybody else. I told you these children -had no toys; and, what was worse, they did not -want any; they used to read newspapers and talk -politics, just as your father and his gentleman -friends might, in your parlor. As to “Mother -Goose,” I am sure they never heard of her, though -they read many books that are considered much -wiser, and which were just as much out of place -in a nursery, as a joint of roast beef would be to -set before your little month-old baby, for its dinner. -But how should they know that? Nobody -about them seemed to think that childhood comes -but once; or, in fact, was intended to come at all -for them. “Milk for babes” was not the fashion -at Haworth parsonage. Well, time passed on, till -their father concluded to send Charlotte away to -school, with her sisters. So they were put into -a little covered cart with their things, and jolted -along. I hope their father kissed them when they -went away, but I am not at all sure of it. I am -afraid he was too dignified. It is hard enough for -a child to go away to school with a warm kiss on -the lips, and a trunk full of comfortable clothes, -in every stitch of which is woven a mother’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>blessing. It is hard enough for a healthy, romping -child, who is able to ask for what it wants -everywhere, and on all occasions, to leave home, -and go a long distance to a strange school, even -though it may have letters often, and plum cakes -often, and all sorts of little love-tokens, which -home delights to send to the absent one. But to -these little timid ones, who had never played with -children, and were as much afraid of them as of -strange, grown people; who had come up, shy -and awkward and old-fashioned, and were painfully -conscious of it, as soon as it was brought to -their notice by contrast with those children, who -had come from their warm firesides like some -graceful house-plants, full of blossoms and verdure—ah! -it was very sad for the poor little -Brontë girls. What could they do when they got -there, but stand at the window, and cry, as they -looked out upon the snowy landscape? And when -the girls urged them to play ball, and other such -healthful games, they had no heart for it—no -physical strength for it, either; they would have -been tumbled over forty times in a minute, by -their playmates, like so many ninepins, with a -great, thumping ball. Well, they had a bad time -<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>of it, any way, at this school—bad food, bad air, -and exposure. I suppose, too, their clothes were -not warm enough, for the hand was cold that -would have made the warm garment for those -bloodless, shrunken limbs. It is “mother’s” fingers -that fit the cloak close to the little neck, so -that through no treacherous crevice the cruel -“croup” may creep; it is “mother’s” fingers that -quilt the little winter skirt with the soft, warm -wool, and furnish the thick stocking, and comfortable -hood. It is “mother’s” eye which sees -just the thing that is needed to meet all weathers. -We can imagine how they went shivering along, -half clad, to the church on Sunday, where never a -fire was lighted; how blue were their fingers; -how cold their little feet! No wonder they grew -sick. Little Maria Brontë, who was delicate under -the remains of the whooping cough, suffered most -severely from cold, and want of nourishing food. -A blister was applied to her side for her relief, -and the poor, weak child, happening to linger in -bed one morning later than the usual hour for -rising, was harshly dragged in this state into the -middle of the room, and then punished, because -she had not strength enough to dress herself in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>time to appear with the other scholars. This must -have been very hard to bear. Perhaps you ask, -Why didn’t Charlotte Brontë write home about -it? She had two reasons: one was, that both she -and her sisters were most anxious to learn everything -that they could learn at this school; and in -the next place, they had been so accustomed to -keep all their childish troubles to themselves, although -their hearts were nearly breaking, that I -don’t suppose they once imagined, if they thought -of it, that it would do any good to complain. So -they shivered in the cold, and tried to swallow -the bad food that was given them, when they -grew so hungry they could not do without it, until -poor little Maria grew so very bad, that her -father had to be sent for. God pitied the poor -child, and took her to heaven, to be with her -mother. She died a few days after reaching -home. Charlotte and Emily, the two remaining -sisters, did not long stay in the school after their -sister’s death. I think their father at last woke -up to the thought, that <i>they</i> might die too, and -nobody might be left at the old, gloomy parsonage, -to send up his meals, or wait upon him, or -read to him, or mend his clothes. So he brought -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>them home too. I believe all children are fond -of being in the kitchen. They are active, and -like to see what is going on; they like to watch -the cooking, and ask questions about it—often, -much better than the cook likes to answer. The -little Brontë girls’ cook was named Tabby, and a -funny old woman she was. She was very kind to -them, but she would have her own way, and made -them do as she said; still, I have no doubt, from -what I know of her, that she put by many a nice -little bit for their hungry mouths, and told them a -great many fairy stories, as they cuddled round -the old kitchen fire, when her work was done; but -I think they had to be very careful not to meddle -with anything without leave, or get in her way, -when she was hurried or busy; and that was all -right enough, for the poor old thing must have -elbow-room, you know; besides, it is a good thing -for a child to be taught that it may not order -about a good, faithful servant, old enough to be -its mother, merely because she is a servant.</p> - -<p class='c009'>About this time the little girls began to amuse -themselves writing little plays, poetry, and “compositions” -for their own amusement. They had a -little “make believe” newspaper, too, for which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>they and their brother Patrick used to write, and -old Tabby had to speak pretty sharp, sometimes, -to make them go to bed, when they were busy -with these things. I suppose they did not care to -go to bed early, for they did not sleep as healthy, -happy children do, the moment their heads touch -the pillow, until a mother’s soft kiss wakes them -to a new day of joy; but no doubt they turned -and tossed, and wished it were daylight, and all -their sorrows grew larger and more intolerable -to bear in the silent, dreary night. They who -have been in great trouble know this; when the -faintest leaf-whisper, from one tree to another, -seems like spirit voices, torturing one with a language -which you try, but <i>cannot</i> understand; -when the dear ones who are dead seem so very -near, and yet so very far away; when their faces -seem to look out from the darkness, like a star -suddenly appearing from a black cloud, and then -again wrapped in its dusky folds. No wonder the -nervous, lonely little Brontës begged Tabby not -to send them to bed.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Charlotte did not stay long at home; her -father resolved to send her away to school again, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>and her little sister and brother were forced to -do without her.</p> - -<p class='c009'>When persons interest us very much, it is natural -to wish to know how they look.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, then, Charlotte Brontë, at the time she -went to this school, was a very homely little girl. -One of her schoolmates draws for us this picture -of her, at that time: “I first saw her coming out -of a covered cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, -looking very cold, and very miserable. When -she afterward appeared in the schoolroom, her -dress was changed, but just as old-fashioned. She -looked like a little old woman, so short-sighted -that she always appeared to be seeking something, -and moving her head from side to side to catch -sight of it. She was very shy and nervous, and -spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book -was given her, she dropped her head over it, till -her nose nearly touched it, and when she was told -to hold her head up, up went the book after it, so -that it was not possible to help laughing.” Another -schoolmate says, that the first time she saw -Charlotte, she was standing by the schoolroom -window, looking out on the snowy landscape and -crying, while all the rest of the girls were at play. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>Poor child! no doubt she felt desolate enough. -Fortunately for Charlotte, her teacher, Miss -Woolen, was a lady of intelligent mind and kind -heart. She understood the odd-looking, timid, -wise little being before her. She knew that there -was a gem, all but the setting. So she did not -overlook the knowledge stowed away in that little -busy brain, because grammar and geography -had found no place there. Then came the question, -how to manage this little sensitive pupil, -without keeping back the other girls in the class, -who already understood these branches, though, -perhaps, they were far behind her in others. At -first she thought she <i>must</i> put her in the second -class, till, as school girls say, she had “caught -up” with the other girls. But the moment she -mentioned it, Charlotte’s mortification and distress -were such, that, like a wise teacher, she saw -that if she only saved her this pain, by allowing -her to go into the <i>first</i> class, she immediately -would make up by private study wherein she was -deficient; and so it proved.</p> - -<p class='c009'>One feels as glad at this kindness, as though -she were one’s own little sister. We find her, at -this time, not playing with the other romping -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>girls, but standing in the playground with a book, -or looking dreamily at the scenery. When urged -to join them in their sports, she said No—always -pleasantly. Playing ball, and such healthful -games, she probably disliked, as much, perhaps, -for lack of bodily strength, as from any other -cause; though that would have come by degrees, -had she only allowed herself to try; it was a -great pity she did not. However, she was always -so good-natured and amiable, that she was a favorite -with the girls, although she wouldn’t play with -them. Sometimes, with the natural freedom of -their age, they would tell her that she was “awkward,” -or ugly; but this never displeased her, -though, I have no doubt, she felt sorry that they -thought so. In the portraits of that fine face of -hers, which I have seen, the term “ugly” seems -to be sadly misapplied. Those might think so, -who fancy a pink and white doll-face; but neither -could such see the <i>moral</i> beauty of her daily life, -over that thorny road, every meek, patient step -of which was as the Saviour’s at Gethsemane.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Charlotte remained a year at this school, -studying very hard. This was well, had she also -remembered that her fragile body needed equal -<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>care with her mind; for of what use is knowledge -if there is no bodily strength by which we can -make it useful to those about us? Charlotte had -no watchful mother, to impress this upon her as a -religious duty; to remind her that she was as -responsible for the care of her body, as for the improvement -of her mind. And so her mind kept -on expanding, and threatening to shatter its feeble -prison house in pieces. It was a great pity; but -it seems even in England, where so much more -attention is paid than here to “raising” perfect, -robust specimens of men and women, such things -do happen. At Miss Woolen’s school, Charlotte -formed an agreeable intimacy with two schoolmates—young -ladies of her own age. This was a -great benefit to her, because she had been made so -prematurely old in her feelings, by loneliness and -sorrow. One cannot help catching animation and -hope from a bright, joyous, fresh-hearted, breezy -companion, though one is ever so apt to look on -the gloomy side of things. And so it is quite -cheering to know that, upon leaving Miss Woolen’s -school, and going back to her father’s dull -house, these young girls exchanged letters and -visits with one another. And now, perhaps, you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>suppose, that when Charlotte reached home, she -sat down and folded her hands in utter hopelessness, -saying, “How awful dull it is here! there is -no use in trying to live in such a desolate old cage -of a place; it is really too bad for a young creature -like me to be shut up here. It is too bad -for any girl so fond of reading, writing, and drawing, -to be a mere drudge in this lonesome place!” -Perhaps you think that, as she was a “genius,” -she said or thought all this. Not at all; and I’ll -tell you why; because her genius was <i>genuine</i>, -not sham. It is only make believe geniuses who -think the every-day duties of life beneath their intellects. -I want you to remember that Charlotte -Brontë did not shrink from one of them. She -swept, and she dusted, and she made beds, and -she made bread (good, light, wholesome bread, -too), and pared potatoes, and watched the pot -boil, and kept everything in as nice order as if -she had no taste for anything but housekeeping. -Perhaps you think then that she folded her hands, -and said, “I should think I had done enough -now!” There you are wrong again. She looked -from her window into the little churchyard, where -her mother was lying, and said, “Now I must be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>a mother to my brothers and sisters!” and she -repaired their clothes, and she taught them; for -she had <i>thoroughly</i> learned her own lessons and -all those things she had studied at school. There’s -a girl for you! and all this, when she was so very -fond of reading and writing, which stood to her -lonely heart in place of loving friends, for whom -she longed.</p> - -<p class='c009'>At length, on account of want of money, it became -necessary for some one of the family to go -out into the world to earn it. Who should it be? -One would have naturally supposed the brother, -as being a sturdy, healthy fellow, better able to -fight his way than his delicate sisters, who shrank -timidly from the sight of strange faces and -strange voices. It seemed not the thing for <i>them</i> -to go out into the wilderness, to make the path -easy for <i>his</i> feet? If so, <i>which</i> of the sisters -should do this? Emily? Anne? or Charlotte? -Emily grew homesick to that degree when away, -that her life was in danger, and was obliged to be -recalled for that reason. So, whoever was sent, -<i>she</i> must not go; for were there not two sisters -already in the churchyard? Anne was too young. -<i>Charlotte</i>, then, was, as usual, to buckle on the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>armor of duty over her brave heart, and stagger -forth with what strength she might, to face the -world. She was to be a <i>governess</i>! Imagine, if -you can, the most torturing situation in which to -place such a nature as hers; and the daily trial -of it, could not come up to that included to her in -the little word “governess.” Fortunately, her -<i>first</i> experiment was with Miss Woolen, her old -teacher—her scholars being younger sisters of her -own playmates. Whatever she did, she did with -her might; therefore, so zealous was she to make -herself useful in her new situation, and so conscientious -in the discharge of duties which a less -noble girl would have dodged, or evaded sufficiently, -at least, to make the position bearable, -that we soon hear of the breaking down of her -feeble body, so that she almost became crazy.</p> - -<p class='c009'>She had frightful thoughts and gloomy ideas -about religious things; anxiety about her sister -Emily, who, resolving not to burden her father -with her support, had concluded to go forth likewise. -Then she was troubled, too, about the -home affairs, which, as the elder sister, she could -not, even at a distance, shake off; and thus, leaving -childhood, which had been but childhood in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>name to her, we find Charlotte a woman, brave -yet fearful; timid but courageous; the lion’s -heart in the humming bird’s body. I meant only -to have told you about her childhood; and yet -you may ask me, was Charlotte never again comfortable, -light-hearted, and happy? Did nobody -but her sisters ever love her very dearly? Did -nobody else find out what a good, intelligent, -gifted girl she was? Oh yes, at last! At last -came fame and honor to the little, quiet Charlotte. -Great men and great women wanted to know her, -because she wrote so beautifully, or, as they said, -was “a genius;” and she had plenty of complimentary -letters and invitations to visit, and all the -publishers wanted to publish her books; and she -earned money enough to put a great many pretty -things in the little dull parlor at home, so that she -hardly knew it to be the same room; but, dear -me! by that time all her sisters lay in the little -churchyard with her mother; and poor Charlotte -looked about at all these pretty things, and great -tears came into her eyes, as she thought, Oh, <i>why</i> -didn’t all my money and my friends come while -<i>they</i> were alive, and could have been made comfortable -and happy by them, so that we could all -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>have lived at home together, and not been separated, -to go away and teach school? <i>Why?</i> Poor -Charlotte could not find out that <i>why</i>, as she sat -in that little parlor, looking, with tearful eyes, at -all the pretty things her money had bought. -Perhaps you ask what her father said now to his -good, gifted daughter. Oh, he sat up alone in his -room, and was very proud of her; but that didn’t -warm <i>her</i> heart any, you know. By and by a -gentleman came along and asked her to be his -wife. And after a while she said, Yes, I will. I -suppose she thought, I want to be loved, more -than anything in this world. It is very well, -perhaps, to be “a genius,” and to be admired; -but my heart aches all the same. Yes, I will be -loved; and then I shall be happy; for, after all, -the brightest world is cold and chilly, without -love to warm it. I am glad she was married; -because her husband was good and kind to her, -and she began to smile, and look so bright you -would not have known her. She was happier -than she had ever been in all her life. But one -day, not long after she was married, she caught a -very bad cold, and everybody saw that she was -going to die; she had suffered very much in her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>life, and she was not strong enough to struggle -any more. Now, don’t say, “What a pity!” -when I tell you that she really died. It is never a -pity, when the loving and the tender-hearted go -where there is no more grieving.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE KIND WORD.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Not many years since, a poor blind man was -feeling his way through some of the public -roads to a small town in England, in search of -employment, having only about him a small sum -of money, contributed by some friends of the same -trade as himself. Though he could see nothing, -he yet felt the blessed, warm sunshine, and the -soft southwest breeze that lifted his locks so gently, -and bore to him the perfume of the early flowers. -This was a joy. On his way a young woman, -a foot traveler like himself, inquired of him if he -could tell her whether she was on the right way -to a certain town she wished to reach. Her voice -was tremulous. The kind-hearted blind man said -at once to himself, the poor young thing is desolate -and troubled. I will help her. His kindness -gave her confidence, and she told him, as well as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>she could for her tears, that she was turned out of -her own father’s house by the unkindness of a -mother-in-law, and was then looking out for a situation -as house maid in some respectable family. -The blind man was older than she; he knew well -the danger to which her youth exposed her. He -immediately found the young girl a safe place to -lodge, and the next day gave himself no rest, till -he had groped his way through the streets of the -town, and found a kind family, who agreed to -take her under the shelter of their roof. Afterward -he learned from her, that this act of kindness -had saved her from throwing herself into the -river, when the poor creature was nearly crazy -with misery. I tell you this little bit of a story, -to show you that there is nobody in this world so -poor or so miserable, that he cannot help somebody -else. Because <i>kind words</i>, you know, cost -nothing; and one can certainly always give <i>them</i> -to the unfortunate. <i>Of what use is a kind word?</i> -Oh, surely you never were in trouble, or you -could not ask <i>that</i>! I believe heaven is full of -those whom a kind word has helped there; and -our jails and prison houses here are full of poor -creatures who have gone there for <i>want</i> of a kind -<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>word when they were tempted to do wrong—for -want of somebody to say, <i>Don’t</i> do it! for if nobody -else cares for you, God cares for you; and -you must care for yourself, because you are to live -forever.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>In the lovely island of Martinique, a little girl -was born. With her soft, dark eyes, lithe -form, and fairy step, she was beautiful enough to -have been its fairy queen. The livelong day she -sang and danced among the flowers, the soft -breeze lifting her locks, and tinting her cheeks -with rose. The servants who had charge of her, -as she floated past them in her light tissue robes, -exclaimed, How beautiful she is! She was good -as well as beautiful; she did not abuse her power -over them; therefore they loved as well as admired -her. Pity she ever left that pretty island -home, with its birds and flowers! Pity that diamonds -should lie heavily on the brow that looked -so fair from under its wild-rose wreath. But in -another island—rugged, rocky, with bandit-infested -mountains—a little boy was born.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>His majestic, strong-hearted mother stepped -like a Roman matron. One day this Corsican -mother was bending over the little Napoleon as -he lay upon her lap, when an old man came in. -Looking at the child’s uncovered back, he called -Madame Letitia’s attention to a mark upon it, -which he said was that of a tree, feeble in its -roots, but whose branches should reach to the -heavens. “This child,” said the gray-haired old -prophet, “will one day rule the world.” The -beautiful young mother smiled incredulously, as -she looked around their simple room, where little -Napoleon’s brothers and sisters played and studied -from day to day, under her own eye, their hours -for refreshment, sleep, and lessons marked out by -her, and never departed from, any more than if -it were a convent, and she its stately but loving -lady abbess. “<i>Rule the world!</i>” She looked into -the baby’s calm blue eyes, and thought no more -of it. Were they not happy enough? It was a -loving mother’s thought, but none the less heaven-born -for that. Rule the world! She took the -white, dimpled baby hand in hers, but never -dreamed of “Marengo” or Austerlitz, and alas!—least -of all—St. Helena!</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>By and by this little boy grew out of his -mother’s lap, and began to cry for a little cannon. -When he got it, he collected around him a company -of little Corsican boys, himself the commander—even -his baby head never dreamed of -taking any place but the highest—and began to -drill them to fight a battle with another boy company -in the town. You may be sure they all had -to step to <i>his</i> tune, even his elder brothers; and -as time went on, it was very soon understood in -the family, that what Master Napoleon said, was -pretty likely to be done. His father looked on -and thought very deeply, and, like a wise man, -carried his son to a military school, where his -wishes could be gratified, under proper restraints—where -he learned that he who wishes to command -must first learn how to submit. Here, being in -his element, he was happy, quiet, and diligent. -Only once his fiery spirit broke out. His quartermaster, -one day, for some fault, condemned him -to eat his dinner on his knees, in the woolen dress -of disgrace, at the door of the refectory. Napoleon’s -“sense of honor” was so deeply wounded by -this, that he fell upon the floor in a fit. When the -headmaster heard of it, he became very angry, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>said, “What! <i>punish so severely my best mathematician</i>!” -It was a good, wholesome lesson for -him, though, for all that. He didn’t die of it! -On the contrary, when he went home to Ajaccio, -his native place, to pay a visit in vacation, he gave -his orders about the education of his brothers and -sisters as if he were the father of the family, instead -of the second son. We must do him the -justice to say, however, that his advice on these -subjects was sensible, and well timed. Perhaps -his mother began to think there was something in -the prophecy of the old man about her son, more -than she had dreamed of. We can imagine her -watching the young soldier, as he sat, for hours, -under an old oak tree near the house, dreaming -about a future with which he had already begun -to grapple, although about it he could know so -little. But dreaming did not content him. He -formed clubs among the young men, delivered -speeches, and, all unconsciously to himself, was -working out the destiny, step by step, foretold on -his baby back by the old Corsican herdsman. His -eye had a strange fire in it, his voice a trumpet -tone; and they who listened, bowed to its -strange, wild music, they could scarce tell why. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>Even then he was no mere ranter; he had -studied hard, studied ceaselessly; the more difficulties -he encountered in any branch of knowledge, -the more eager he grew to master them. -It is said that at school he never spent an idle moment; -and when he came among his young companions, -they felt this. They knew, when Napoleon -opened his mouth, that he had something to -say. It is all very fine for boys to dodge school -duties, and school tasks. Ah! how many of -them, in after life, would give worlds to recall -those wasted hours in some great crisis, when -strong, powerful, well-chosen words, from him -who knows how to use them, would place in their -hands so mighty a sceptre for the defense of human -rights! Not that this power is never perverted; -but we are not to speak of this now. -The habits of intense study, industry, and close -application of the young Napoleon were the solid -foundation upon which the superstructure of his -future greatness rested. This concentration of -mind it was that enabled him, in after years, with -the rapidity of lightning, to despatch business over -which other military men would have droned till -the precious moment in which action would have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>been available, had flown past. Remember this -of Napoleon: he was a hard student in his youth. -Whatever he undertook he did <i>thoroughly</i>. <i>He -knew what he knew.</i></p> - -<p class='c009'>Meantime the lovely young girl of whom we -have spoken, all unknown to the young soldier, -was dancing and singing the hours away. One -day her young friends said to her, “Josephine, -come with us to Euphemia, the old mulatto -woman, and have your fortune told.” Josephine -was not superstitious, but still she held out her -pretty hand to the old witch, who examined it -with great care, and, it is said, told her exactly -what really happened to her in after life. The -gay Josephine only laughed and tossed her bright -head, saying, “Who promises so much, only creates -distrust,” and went back to her cottage home, -quite unmoved at the prospect of “becoming the -wife of a man who would one day rule the -world.” If you ask me how the old Corsican -herdsman, or how the old mulatto woman in Martinique, -knew what should befall Josephine and -Napoleon, I answer, “More than likely, the -prophecies, like all rumors, grew by repetition, -and were mainly filled out after these things had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>actually happened; because no sensible person -ever believes that a human hand is allowed to -draw aside the curtain behind which God has -wisely hidden mysteries so great.” Josephine was -young and happy; why should she wish to be -“great”? The old mulatto woman might chatter -all day; she did not chirp one sweet note the less. -Unlike Napoleon, she disliked study. Her mother, -Madame Tascher, used to threaten her with a -convent if she did not skip less and study more. -“My good and pretty child,” she would say to -her, “your <i>heart</i> is excellent, but your <i>head</i>—ah, -what a head! I must send you away from home -to France, among companions who, knowing more -than yourself, will show you how ignorant you -are.” All this, Madame said very seriously and -coldly, for she saw that it was high time something -was done. Then she left her daughter to -think it over.</p> - -<p class='c009'>To be found fault with, and threatened! -That, indeed, was something new to the petted -child. She began crying in good earnest, so that -her servant women came running, to see what was -the matter. Not being able, as usual, to comfort -her, they cried too, till the noise reached the ears -<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>of her father, who was very fond of her. Now I -am about to tell you a secret. The truth was, it -was not the idea of hard study which frightened -this pretty young lady, when her mother spoke of -sending her to France; but the idea of separation -from a little boy-lover about <i>ten</i> years old, named -William K. I don’t wonder you laugh; the idea -<i>is</i> funny; but you must remember that a little -Creole girl and boy, are as old at ten, as a boy -and girl of sixteen in our cold climate. Well, this -is all about it. Listen: William’s parents had -come to Martinique to live, in consequence of the -misfortunes of the unhappy Prince Edward, whose -banner they followed. Arriving at Martinique, a -friendship had sprung up between the two families, -and there Josephine and William had been promised -by their parents to each other, when they -should be old enough. <i>Now</i> you know why the -little girl-wife that was to be, cried so hard at -the idea of being sent away from Martinique. -Well, the very first chance my little lady had, she -told her dear William what her mother had threatened -to do. Then William ran, crying, to <i>his</i> -mother, about Josephine’s being sent away to -France, and teased her to go to Josephine’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>mother, and beg her not to afflict her dear boy -William so cruelly; and that the child had actually -fallen sick of a fever in consequence, raving -continually for “Josephine,” and begging his -mother to hide her from every eye, lest he should -“lose his little promised wife.” After a while, -what with his mother’s comforting words, he -grew better, and William’s teacher being chosen -for Josephine’s teacher, that young lady suddenly -took to study with a vigor which astonished -everybody, except William himself, who had his -own reasons for not being surprised. Suffice it to -say, she drew well, learned to play both the harp -and piano, and was making great progress in the -English language. For a time all went on happily -and well. But one evil day for Josephine, William’s -father found it necessary to leave Martinique -for England, with his family, to claim -some property which had been left him. Now, it -was true that he had to leave on business; but it -was also true, that both the parents of the children -had changed their minds about the marriage -of the little lovers. Now, I agree with you that -this was very cruel, after promising them to each -other; but the fact was, in plain black and white, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>that each loved money and position, better than -the happiness of these young people; however, -they did not want a fuss, so they kept quiet, and -said nothing to the children about all that; they -merely separated them; and each was to suppose, -after many anxious days and months, spent in -waiting for letters, that the other was forgotten. -It was too bad—I am quite angry about it myself; -a promise is a promise, and just as binding when -made to a child, as to a grown person; and more, -too, because children are so trusting, that it is a -greater shame to deceive them. So William went -to England with his father, and Josephine wandered -round the beautiful island, carving his name -on the trees, and saying to herself each day, <i>now</i>, -to-day, I shall <i>certainly</i> hear from him! Surely, -to-morrow, I <i>shall</i> have a letter! Meantime the -beautiful Maria Tascher, Josephine’s elder sister, -was taken very sick. All that love and skill could -do for her, was of no avail. She died. After -this, poor Josephine grew more sad than ever. -She never smiled now, or put roses in her hair, or -danced with her young companions; but sighed—oh, -such <i>deep</i> sighs for such a young thing—and -grew almost as pale as the dead Maria.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>It is very strange, but Josephine could talk -much more freely with her father than she could -with her mother. So, when he questioned her one -day as to her unhappiness, she told him all. Now, -Monsieur Tascher loved his daughter after a fashion, -but, as I told you, he loved money better; -and what do you think was his answer to the poor -girl, who was so broken-hearted about her lover, -and so sad without the company of her dear, -dead sister? Why, he told her, that now that -her sister was dead, she (Josephine) must marry -the gentleman whom her sister was engaged to -marry, had she lived. Monsieur Beauharnais was -his name. Then the little Creole cried till her -eyes were half blind. In vain she told him that -she had promised William to marry none but him. -Her father replied, that in marrying M. Beauharnais, -she would make the best match in Martinique, -but, as to William, he would never be a -rich man. Josephine still kept on crying. At -last he told her a wicked fib: that since William -had gone to England, he had quite forgotten her. -He did <i>not</i> tell her, though, that Josephine’s mother -had in her possession twenty letters, which he -had written to his dear little wife, and which they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>had purposely kept from her. Well, Josephine -was spirited as well as loving, and when her -father told her that William had forgotten her, -she said to herself, It is very true; he has never -written me one line. Then she shook the tears -from her beautiful eyes, as the rough wind shakes -the dew-drops from the rose, and holding up her -flushed face to the bright sunlight, said, proudly, -“Marry me to whom you like; I will obey.” For -all that, she walked more than ever under the -trees where they used to sit, and never once did -she carve the name of M. Beauharnais on her favorite -trees.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Now, Josephine had an aunt in Paris named -Madame Renardin, who was constantly writing to -Madame Tascher to come to Paris with Josephine, -that the marriage might more easily be brought -about. But Madame Tascher was very fond of her -own beautiful island, and replied to Madame -Renardin, Ah, it is very easy to make Paris look -fine, when I am two thousand leagues away from -it; no, no! I will not come to Paris; but Monsieur -Tascher and I will send Josephine there to be -married. This they did not tell Josephine, however. -There was no need. She knew what was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>going on. She was too keen-sighted not to understand -what all the long talks meant, between her -father and mother. In an agony of grief at the -idea of leaving the place where she and William -had been so happy, to go among strangers and -marry a man whom she had never even seen, she -threw herself at her mother’s feet, and using the -only argument which she thought would avail her, -cried, “Oh, mamma, save me! save <i>Maria’s sister</i>!” -At the mention of her lost and <i>favorite</i> -daughter, Josephine’s mother fainted. Josephine’s -father turned upon his daughter, and frowning -as he pointed to her insensible mother, said, -“Has, then, <i>her</i> precious life ceased to be dear to -you?” Poor Josephine said no more. From -that moment she resigned herself to her fate.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Short work was made of the preparations for -the voyage to France; Josephine, meantime, -walking for the last time under the trees, each one -of which had some happy story to tell—each one -of which seemed to her like a dear friend, from -whom it were almost impossible to part. Now, -the day came when the ship was to set sail. A -large number of islanders had gathered upon the -beach to wave hands and see her off. She had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>taken leave of her father and mother, and stepped -on board the ship. Suddenly, a luminous meteor -appeared in the heavens overhead, and by the aid -of a telescope which the captain handed her, Josephine -examined it. Then the captain told her, -in great triumph, that “<i>she</i> was the cause of it! -she—the future empress of France!” Then Josephine, -for the first time, remembered the prophecy -of the old mulatto woman, who had told the -captain of it, and this was why the old sea-dog -was in such glee at his good fortune in having the -illustrious little empress that was to be, on board -<i>his</i> ship. This phosphoric flame, called “St. Elmo’s -fire,” was considered a good omen, and, at -the time of their leaving, seemed to form a sort -of wreath around the ship. But everybody -seemed more interested in it than the poor, -homesick Josephine, who could think only of the -home she was leaving, and the unknown home to -which she was going. The voyage proved very -rough, and once they were in great danger; but -the mulatto woman had promised them a “through -ticket,” and, of course, they <i>went</i> through, right -side up! A young Creole named Lucy accompanied -Josephine, who was at this time only fifteen -<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>years old. You will laugh when I tell you that -the future empress carried her doll with her, and -that both she and Lucy used to play with them on -the voyage. But you will stop laughing when I -tell you that when Lucy turned her back, poor -little Josephine used to talk to her doll about -“William.” Poor child! When her foot touched -the coast of France, her woman’s life began. The -web was woven round her, and struggling was of -no avail.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Madame Renardin bore away her beautiful -niece in triumph to her own house, to show her -to the rich husband they had selected for her. -No more doll-playing for her; no more rose -wreaths; but, instead, diamonds, and fashion, and -frivolity, and an aching heart. Did “William” -never come? Ah, yes; he came to Paris, spite of -them all, to see his Josephine. He called at her -Aunt Renardin’s, but of this they never told her. -He continued, however, to write her a letter, in -which he begged her to tell him why she had neglected -him, which was conveyed to her by a servant, -who was immediately dismissed for giving -it to her. Then, for the first time, Josephine knew -that William had been true to her, that he loved -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>her still! But she had given her promise to her -parents, and resolutely refused to see him. Poor -Josephine! In her sixteenth year, she married, to -please her friends, her dead sister’s lover, Monsieur -Beauharnais. The marriage proved an unhappy -one, through no fault of little Josephine’s, -who most carefully endeavored to please the husband -thus forced upon her.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Meanwhile the young Bonaparte was making -rapid strides toward the fulfillment of the old -Corsican herdsman’s prediction. On the death of -Josephine’s husband, she really became, as you all -know, the wife of the future emperor of France. -How devotedly she performed her wifely duties -to the great conqueror, you all know, and how -cruelly the ambitious emperor set this noble -woman aside, for the insipid little German princess -who was the mother of his much-coveted -child, the Duc de Reichstadt. In St. Helena, Bonaparte -had plenty of time to think of his injustice -toward the good, brave Josephine, who, forgetting -all the misery he had caused her, would even then -have lightened, by her presence, the dreary exile -from which his baby-faced German wife had fled -affrighted, back to the luxury of her father’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>court. But death stepped in, and snatched from -the selfish Bonaparte this great consolation of his -last dreary hours. With <i>his</i> name on her lips, -and her eyes fixed on his picture, which hung opposite -her couch, she left all France weeping over -her grave. You ask, what of the child—the little -duke, whose birth this noble woman unselfishly -rejoiced over, because <i>it made Napoleon so happy</i>? -Ah! it is of him I would now tell you. This little -duke, the child of so many hopes, did he, after all, -sit upon the throne of France? God is just. We -shall see.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The Emperor of Austria was the little duke’s -maternal grandfather. It was to his palace the -little, pale child was taken. It was the wish of -this grandfather, who, notwithstanding all the -stories told to the contrary, dearly loved the boy, -to make a German prince of him. If it should -prove that, as he grew up, he had a fondness for -military life, he should follow it; still, he was to -be kept away from agitating Frenchmen as much -as possible, for reasons you will very well understand. -The child was delicate, as I told you, and -his grandfather petted him, and had the doctor to -him, and, between you and me, I dare say that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>last might have been the reason he did not grow -stronger. But, notwithstanding the pink spot on -his pale cheek, he had the fiery spirit of his father, -the great Napoleon. Oh! how he hated to be -physicked, and how he pined to grow strong, that -he might dash over the ground on a fiery horse, -with staring eyes, big nostrils, and pawing hoofs, -who would go straight through a cannon if he -bade him, and come out at the other end, without -losing a hair of his tail. But the more the poor -fellow wanted to make a soldier of himself, the -feebler he seemed to grow, till he could hardly sit -upright on the horse, at the side of which might -always be found his kind old grandfather, when -not called away by his duties, saying kind things -to his grandson, and trying to keep up his spirits. -You ask, Where was his mother, Maria Louisa? -Ah! you may well ask <i>that</i>. She was anywhere -but where she ought to be; she could not be a -good woman, even for the sake of her sick boy, in -whose face she might have seen death written, -had she stopped flirting long enough to take one -good look at him. She was a miserable, bad -woman, and if the little duke had any good qualities, -she took no pains to encourage them. It -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>was well he had a good, kind grandfather to love -him, poor, fatherless child! The French people -did not relish having Napoleon’s son at an Austrian -court. Not they. They disliked Maria -Louisa, the young duke’s mother, who never said -such gracious, graceful things, as did the kind, -whole-souled Josephine, who brought them all at -her feet with one of her beautiful, sunny smiles. -Maria Louisa was quite another thing, with her -skim-milk face, as rigid when they saluted her, as -if they hadn’t a drop of generous blood in their -bodies. They needn’t have fretted lest the little -duke should grow up like his mother, if he grew -up at all; for I can tell you that all Austria could -not get the Napoleonic fire out of his veins, nor, -alas! poor fellow! disease either. All his thoughts -were about his father. He knew not only every -detail of his battles and campaigns, but all the -peculiarities of his marshals and generals. “Oh!” -said he, speaking of Waterloo, “I have often -wondered my father did not follow my uncle, and -perish at the head of his guards; what a magnificent -close would that have been to his brilliant -life. Ah! those perfidious English! why could -they not have treated him as I know he would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>have treated their great Wellington, had the fortune -of war thrown him into my father’s hands.” -He was passionately fond of reading everything -he could lay his hands on, pertaining to his father. -He had, somehow or other, accumulated a perfect -library of biographies concerning him. To Prince -Metternich he once said, “The object of my life -should be, to make myself worthy of my distinguished -father; I hope to reach this point, and -appropriate to myself his high qualities; taking -care, however,” added he, with great good sense, -“<i>to avoid the rocks upon which he split</i>.” Afterward -he said, “How I hate this miserable, sickly -body, which thus sinks under my will!” As -he said this, there was a gleam of the eye, and -compression of the lip, truly Napoleonic.</p> - -<p class='c009'>On the eighteenth of June, 1831, he was appointed -lieutenant-colonel, and took command of -the Hungarian regiment when in garrison at Vienna. -An immense crowd gathered to witness the -spectacle; but alas! every eye saw with what -difficulty the poor young duke—fighting disease—sat -upon his horse. So evident was his great -weakness, spite of his unquenchable determination, -that Dr. Margate, his physician, said to him, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>after he had gone through his drill with the soldiers, -“Monseigneur, I desire you to remember -that you have a will of iron in a body of glass; if -you persist in this exercise, it will kill you.” The -next day, the doctor considered it his duty to tell -his grandfather the same thing. The frightened -old emperor, turning to his beloved grandson, -said, “You have heard what the doctor says; you -must do this no more, but go directly to my summer -palace at Schönbrunn, and take care of your -health.” The disappointed duke bowed respectfully -to his grandfather; but as he raised his -head, he glanced angrily at the doctor, saying, -“It is <i>you</i>, then, sir, who have put me under arrest!” -A few weeks after this he was attacked -with quick consumption. He grew weaker and -weaker, as he was wheeled about the beautiful -gardens of Schönbrunn, and he knew himself that -he must soon die; his chief anxiety seemed now -to be, <i>whether he should be able to know his father -in the other world</i>. Poor Napoleon! how he had -coveted the love of this son! How eagerly that -unhappy exile at St. Helena had looked forward -to it, and yet he was never to enjoy it; was not -the unhappy Josephine avenged? And not only -<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>in that! <i>Her</i> grandson now sits upon the -throne, to obtain an heir to which, the unhappy -woman was thrust aside, for the foolish, weak -daughter of the house of Hapsburg; while -<i>her</i> child, of whom I have been telling you, has -long since lain in his bronze coffin, under the -church of the Capuchins, among the buried majesties -of Austria.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span> - <h2 class='c005'>TWO QUARRELSOME OLD MEN.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I saw such an unpleasing sight to-day! Two -old, gray-headed men, their lips white with -passion, clenching their fists in each other’s faces, -and calling each other all the disagreeable names -they could think of; while the bystanders looked -on, laughed, took sides, and encouraged them to -fight, for their own amusement. I could not -laugh. I felt more like crying. These old men, -with one foot in the grave, who seemed to have -outlived everything but their own bad passions—it -was a pitiable spectacle! Ah! said I, to -myself, as I walked away, I am afraid there are -two mothers somewhere (may be they are not -alive now), who have been sadly to blame; or -those respectable-looking old men would not be -here, degrading themselves by a brawling street -fight. I think, when they were little boys, that “I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>will!” and “I won’t!” must have been intimate -friends of theirs (and very bad company they are, -too). I think these fighting old gentlemen were -allowed, when they were boys, to come and go -when and where they liked, and to lie abed till -ten o’clock in the morning, till breakfast was all -cold, and then stamp and kick till they got a hot -one. I think, when they neglected to get their -lessons, and were, very properly, reproved for it, -at school, that their mamma thought it was dreadful -bad treatment, and took them away; and I -think that, when she sent them to another school, -they often played truant; and then told the teacher -that they had been sick. I think they were -stuffed with pies, and cake, and candy, and I think -they called upon poor, tired servant girls to brush -and black their shoes, when they should have -learned to do it themselves. I think, when their -sisters asked them to go of any little errand, they -roughly replied, “Do it yourself!” I think, -when their mothers said, “John (or Thomas) go -to the grocer’s for me, that’s a good boy!” that -they replied, “How much’ll you give me if I -go?” and then, I think, when their mother gave -them a three-cent piece, that they pouted, and said -<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>that they wouldn’t go, without they could have -sixpence. That is the way such gray-haired old -men as I saw fighting in the street to-day, are -made.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE LITTLE PRINCES.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>“As happy as a king—as happy as a queen!” -Ah! what thoughtless words are these! -The tall pine rocks to and fro, and struggles with -the fierce winds and storms; one by one, its beautiful -green branches are torn off, and in an unexpected -moment comes the terrible lightning flash, -scorching its very heart, and leaving it but a -blackened cinder. All the time the little flower at -its feet sleeps, secure in its sweetness, its very -lowliness its surest safeguard and protection. -Do you never think of this when you envy the -rich and the great? Perhaps you are poor, and -meanly clad, and poorly fed; and it seems to you -that God is not good and just, to make such a -difference between you and another child of your -own age, who seems to be born only to have -everything it wants, and to rule over others? -<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>Have you never, when walking in the field, spied -upon some rocky height, a gaudy flower, which -you imagined to be sweet-scented and beautiful? -Have you never torn your clothes, and sprained -your limbs, and nearly put your eyes out with -briers, to get it, only to find it, when obtained, -nauseous, and full of thorns? Have you never -chased the brilliant butterfly over the meadows, -till your breath gave out, only to hold in your rash -hand, after the eager, weary chase, but a handful -of glittering dust?</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, just like this is human greatness, seen at -a distance—just so unsatisfactory its possession. -Now, I suppose, you sometimes sit down and -dream with your eyes open, what you would like -to be when you grow up. I know I did, when I -was a child. I don’t remember that I ever wished -to be great or celebrated; I never cared for that, -and I care for it now less than ever; but I wanted -to be loved, oh! so much—so much! I forgot -that they whom I loved might die, or change, and -so, you see, my house, built upon the sand, was as -likely to tumble over as they who desire greatness. -But I used to hear my little companions say, Oh, -if I were a prince or a princess! and I suppose -<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>children now-a-days wish the same wishes as then; -for childhood is childhood, while it lasts, all the -world over, with its blue skies, and rosy clouds, -and angel dreams—never seeing the dark cloud in -the distance; never hearing the low, muttered -thunder, or seeing the brief lightning flash. And -oh! it is well that it is so, else the little bud -would not dare to unfold its bright leaves; but -would close them tightly round its little, fragrant -heart, and shrivel up in its green inclosure, and -drop from the stem, before the world had praised -God for the gift of its sweetness.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Perhaps you think princes and princesses are -happy? Let me tell you the story of two little -princes.</p> - -<p class='c009'>They had lived in a great deal of splendor in a -beautiful palace—had plenty of rich clothes, plenty -of toys, plenty of little ponies in the stable to -ride, plenty of servants to wait on them, and to -do whatever they wished; and I suppose the poor -little things thought it would always be so. But -kings have enemies as well as friends, and so had -their father; and these enemies grew more numerous, -and wished that the father of these little -princes were dead; and after a while they succeeded -<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>in having things their own way, and the -king was sentenced to have his head cut off. Ah! -it was not well to be a little prince then! for little -princes, if they live long enough, will one day be -kings, you know, unless they are put out of the -way; and so these bad men thought. Therefore, -when their father was led out to be beheaded, -these cruel wretches forced the little princes to -see it done, and then took their father’s blood, -and sprinkled it upon their bright, fair locks, and -upon their little garments. And then they took -them, although they had committed no crime, unless -it was a crime to be the children of this king -whom they hated, and put them in prison. This -was bad enough; but they did worse than that. -They shut them each up in a separate cage, made -very broad at the top, but narrowed down to a -point at the bottom, so that the little prisoners -could neither stand straight, nor sit, nor lie down; -and then they fastened them in. The elder of -these little boys was but eight years old, and the -other only six. Just fancy it! The only comfort -they had, was to put their arms through the bars -of their cages, and hold each other by the hand.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“We cannot live this way long,” said little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>Frank, the younger, as the tears rolled down his -cheeks.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Would papa like to see you cry?” asked -Henri. “Do you not see,” said the courageous -child, “that they treat us like men of whom they -are afraid; let us not, then, act like babies.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>So little Frank dried his tears, as his brother -bade him; and they talked about the beautiful -palace they used to live in, and the fountains, and -the groves, and the gardens; and tried to imagine -themselves back there, and so to forget their -troubles; but, after all, it was dreary work.</p> - -<p class='c009'>One day, a little mouse peeped out of its hole -in the lonely dungeon. I dare say you have often -run away from a mouse, or else wanted to have it -killed, or taken away; but then you were never -shut up in a dungeon, with nobody to care for -you, else you would feel as these little prisoners -did, and have been glad to see even a friendly -mouse. At first the mouse was afraid, and ran -back to its hole at sight of the little princes. -They called and called, and coaxed it to come -back, for they were very weary of their cages, -and of having nothing to do, day after day. Besides, -their cramped limbs ached badly, and it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>was hard work to bear pain of body as well as -pain of mind, and have no one to say, I am sorry -for you, dear child. At last the little children -thought of throwing out a few crumbs of their -prison bread. The little hungry mouse understood -that, and ventured out, and by and by, after -a few days, he would climb up into their cages, -and eat from their hands.</p> - -<p class='c009'>When the wicked wretches who put them -there heard of this, and found out how patiently -and sweetly these dear children bore their trials, -and that their little innocent heads drooped every -night in peaceful slumber, they were very angry; -so they resolved to try other means of tormenting -them. So they called the executioner, and ordered -him to go to their dungeon once a week, -and draw out one tooth from each of them. Just -think of that! You have had a tooth taken out, I -dare say, but your mother, or father, or sister was -by your side, and holding your hand, and pitying -you with all their might, and wishing they could -bear the pain for you, and that gave you courage. -And then it was soon over, and only for once; -and the bad toothache from which it delivered -you was, after all, worse to bear. But the little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>princes had no toothache; they had a bad heartache, -but trusting in God, they were trying to be -patient, and love even a little mouse, since they -were denied everything else. Oh! how mean and -cowardly that great, big, strong man—that executioner—must -have felt, when he went in to torment -two such little angels!</p> - -<p class='c009'>When he told them what he had come for, the -youngest boy commenced crying, and the elder -brother said to the executioner, “I beg you not to -draw out a tooth from Frank; you see how weak -he is, and how ill!”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then the executioner, hard as he was, shed -tears; still he knew that he must carry back two -teeth, or have his own head cut off; and so told -the boys.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Well, then,” said the elder brother, the brave -Henri, “take out two from my mouth, instead -of one from my brother’s; I am strong, but the -slightest pain will kill him.” For a long time the -two boys struggled which should suffer for the -other, until a messenger was sent, to know why -the executioner did not return—why he delayed. -Then he advanced to the cage, and drew a tooth -from Henri, and was going toward Francis, when -<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>Henri cried out, “No, no; take the other from -my mouth; don’t touch Francis!” and the executioner -carried back two teeth; but they were both -from the mouth of the brave Henri. Every week -he went back to the dungeon, and every week did -this heroic boy lose two teeth, one for himself one -for his brother; but alas! his bodily strength began -to fail, though his little lion heart was strong -as ever. His limbs no longer sustained him; he -doubled up in the bottom of the cage, and tried to -put out his hand to his little brother.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Frank,” said he, “I am dying; but perhaps, -some time, you may get out; if you should, and -you should find our mother, oh, tell her how I -love her, just as I am about to die. Good by, -Frank! give some crumbs every day to our little -mouse for me, won’t you, Frank?” and the next -moment, before Frank could answer him—so -stupefied was the child with grief—the brave -Henri was dead, and nobody was in the dungeon -but Frank and the little mouse.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Nobody, did I say? Ah! God was there. -Why he permitted all this suffering, neither you -nor I know; but I hope we shall know one of -these days. The angels are always learning such -<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>things in heaven. It puzzles me often now, -when I think about them, and sometimes I get -impatient, and wish God would tell me right off -why he permits this, when he could so easily prevent -it; and then I think of the many, many -times, in which I have shed impatient tears at my -own troubles, and then time has passed on, and I -have seen, even in this world, with my dim, earthly -eyes, how much better it was that those very -things should have happened which grieved me -so. But with our bright, heavenly eyes, in the -broad, clear light of eternity, how easily, dear -children, shall we untwist these tangled threads -of life, which seem to mock our efforts here. We -can wait, for, just as sure as that God reigns, it is -all right.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Dear me! I suppose you are very impatient to -know what became of poor Frank, when he was -left alone? Well, soon after Henri died, the -wretches who imprisoned the two innocent children -died also; and then Frank was taken from -his dungeon, and set at liberty. Oh! how glad -he must have been to see the blue sky, and the -green fields, and the sweet flowers, and, better -than all, to find his dear mother.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>What a sorrowful story he had to tell her! -and how many times they wept, to think of poor -Henri, and how the mother wept at night, over -little Frank, while he was sleeping, whose dungeon -tortures had made him a cripple for life. -Ah! it is not well to be a little prince.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Let me tell you another story, of a child who -was born of a noble family in France. His father -and grandfather were both great generals; they -had been in many battles, and were considered -very brave men; but war is such a terrible, terrible -thing, is it not? husbands, fathers, and -brothers falling to the ground, like grass before -the mower’s scythe; but in those days war was -not spoken of in this way. Dead men were -thought no more of than dead sheep; unless, indeed, -it might be some great commander or general. -As if a soul wasn’t a soul, no matter whether -it lodged in the body of a common soldier or his -officer. As if a common soldier’s relatives would -not grieve at his loss as much as the relatives of -his commanding officer for him. As if sorrow did -not sit down in the hovel, as well as in the hall. -As if an orphan were not an orphan, and a widow -a widow, in every rank of life. But, as I tell you, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>people did not think this way when this lad lived, -of whom I am about to tell you. It was all glory -and epaulettes. Little Paul had guns and swords, -and flags and drums, put into his hands almost as -soon as he was born, by his father and grandfather, -who wished to train him up for a great -hero. When he was a <i>very</i> good boy, his reward -was to play battle with his grandfather, with a set -of pasteboard soldiers, to teach him how to manage -the enemy in difficult positions; and all this -boy’s dreams, by day and night, were of such -things. When he was only ten years old, his -father was commanded to join the army, for there -was to be a great battle, a <i>real</i> battle. So he told -his wife, who cried very much, that he was going -to leave her, perhaps for ever; and then he took -his little boy in his arms, to bid him good by. -Paul did not cry, but he looked his father in the -face very steadily, and said, “Papa, I must go -too. I must fight by your side in that battle!” -This pleased his father and grandfather very -much; and his mother began to be frightened, for -fear that they would really consent to the child’s -going; and sure enough they did, and little Paul -was half beside himself with joy, that he was to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>take part, with real swords and real men, in a -real battle. Perhaps you say, Oh, of course, his -father took care that he should not be in any danger, -and made everything easy for him. Not at -all, as you shall hear; for little Paul insisted, as -soon as he joined the army, that no favor should be -shown him because he was so young, and because -he had been born of a noble family, and brought -up tenderly; he insisted upon sharing all the fatigue -and danger, and felt quite insulted, if any of -the old men in the army seemed to fear for him, -or not think him capable of his duty. He wanted -to do just as the common soldiers did; sleep on -the bare ground, and eat of their common food. -A week after he had joined the army, he had -proved himself so brave, that they made him ensign, -and gave him the colors to carry. Perhaps -you say, Of course, his father did that! No; the -whole regiment were quite proud of him, and said -that the little fellow deserved it. You must not -think that he forgot his mother, who was so anxious -about her boy. He wrote her a little letter, -which was a funny mixture of childishness and -manliness, telling her that he had a wound in his -right arm from the enemy, who wished to seize -<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>his pretty flag. “That would have been fine, indeed!” -wrote little Paul, “when I had just had it -given me to defend!” Then he tells her, that his -new hat was spoilt, but that he can get another, -and that once he fell off his horse, when the enemy -rushed at them, but soon was up again, firing -his pistols after them. Three months the child -was there, in the army, and often suffered much -from cold and other causes; but he never complained; -and when not engaged in fighting, used -to laugh as merrily as any other child of ten years -old, and at as trifling things.</p> - -<p class='c009'>But at last came a day, which was to decide -the battle, one way or another. On the morning -of that day, Paul’s father took him in his arms, -and said, “Give me a kiss, Paul; for we may -never meet again.” Paul gave him two—one for -his mother—and then they separated. Little Paul -was stationed away from his father, at a post -which he was not to leave without permission -from a superior officer.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The battle went on; the dead and dying -strewed the ground. Little Paul saw his brave -companions falling all around him. Still the child -stood at his post, until a ball fractured his leg; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>then, in his agony, he said, what all children say -in their pain, “Mother!” fainting as he said it. -Some time after, a soldier flying from the field, -saw a child lying beneath his horse. All the army -knew Paul, and loved him; so the soldier forgot -all about his own danger, and stopped to pick up -poor little Paul from the dead soldiers around -him, and put him on his shoulders, to carry him -to the camp. Several times the enemy stopped -him; but he had only to point to the wounded -child—for everybody had heard of “Little Paul,”—and -they let him pass.</p> - -<p class='c009'>When he got to the camp, little Paul came to -his senses; and then they told him that it would -be necessary to cut off his leg.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Better that, than my head!” said Paul; -“but stop!” said he, as a thought struck him; -“it may kill me, may it not?” The doctor -bowed his head; he could not say yes, he felt so -sorry for him.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Give me, then, half an hour first, and let me -write to my mother!” said Paul; and with great -agony he wrote tremblingly a few lines to her -whose thoughts were always of her boy.</p> - -<p class='c009'>After this he said, “Now I am ready!” His -<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>father stood by, holding his little hand, and whispering, -“Courage, my child! courage!”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Little Paul smiled and answered, “Oh, I have -plenty—more than any of you!” but as he said it, -the smile faded, and a deadly pallor overspread his -face.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Oh, papa, I am dying!” said Paul.</p> - -<p class='c009'>You have seen a cloud-shadow flit over a sunny -meadow.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Oh, papa, I am dying!”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Little Paul never spoke again, and the smile -faded from his face, and the small hand grew cold -in the father’s grasp. Ah! poor little brave Paul! -He did not think of this when he and his grandfather -played battle, with wooden soldiers, evening -after evening, on the study table, in their -pleasant chateau in France. I think it was a -great shame ever to take little Paul from there; -don’t you?</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span> - <h2 class='c005'>OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON,</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>The man who wrote the big dictionary. It -makes my head ache to think of it; but Dr. -Johnson’s head and mine are about as much -alike as a pea and a pumpkin, so there’s no use in -talking about that. He lived through it, and -made himself famous by it, as well as by many -other things he said and did. It always comforts -me to think that these literary giants, after all, -had to begin life as we all did—in a cradle; -the doctor was a baby once, like the rest of us; -ate candy, I suppose, and cried for his mammy, -although he grew up into such a shaggy lion, that -his roar frightened timid folks half out of their -wits. But, like other big animals, who sniff gently -when little bits of creatures run past, as much -as to say, I <i>could</i> munch you up, were you worth -the trouble, so the doctor, in his solemn grandeur, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>let ladies frisk round him unharmed; and liked -it, too! But I am outrunning my story; let us -go back to his cradle.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The first thing we hear of him is, his being -perched on his father’s shoulder, at church, when -he was only three years old, <i>looking</i> earnestly—for -he couldn’t have understood what was said—at a -famous minister who preached in those days. -Somebody asked his father, why he brought such -a little baby into such a crowd? His answer was, -that he could not keep him at home, and that he -would have stayed forever in church, contentedly, -looking at the minister. He was not the first little -Samuel who went early to the temple, as you -know, if you have read your Bible. It would be -worth something to know what kept him so bewitched -there, on his father’s shoulder, and what -the little creature was really thinking about. Perhaps -the clergyman had a very loving look in his -face; and a baby’s eyes are quick to see that. -Or, perhaps he had a sweet, lullaby voice, which -charmed that little ear, like sweet music. Or, perhaps, -being tired of seeing the same things over -and over again at home, that sea of faces, in the -crowded church, had a strange fascination for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>him; but we might go on perhaps-ing forever, -since nobody can tell us the truth about it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>By and by, getting down from his father’s -shoulder, he went to school. One day, the servant -sent to bring him home, not arriving in time, -he started to return by himself, although he was -so very near-sighted that he was obliged to get -down on his hands and knees, and take a view of -the crossing, before venturing over. His good, -careful schoolmistress, fearing that he might miss -his way, or fall, or be run over, followed him at a -distance, to see that no harm came to him. Master -Samuel, happening to turn round, saw this, to -his great displeasure. Immediately he commenced -beating her, in a furious rage, as fast as his little -hands could fly, for what he considered an insult -to his future beard. Imagine the little, insane, -red-faced pigmy, and the placid schoolma’am! I -wonder, did he ever think of it, when he grew -up; when he made war with that sharp tongue -of his, instead of his fists. I do not consider this -an improvement on his juvenile style of warfare; -inasmuch as bruised flesh heals quicker than a -bruised spirit, and there are words that hurt worse -than the most stunning blow. However, there -<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>was this excuse for his life-long irritability, in the -fact that, from childhood, he was a victim to that -dreadful disease, the scrofula, which disfigured -his face, and nearly destroyed the sight of one -eye. His <i>heart</i> was good and kind, as you will -see.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Samuel was quite remarkable for his wonderful -memory. When he was a little fellow in petticoats, -and had learned to read, his mother, one -morning, placed the prayer book in his hands, and -pointing to the “collect” for the day, said, “Sam, -you must get this by heart!” Leaving him to -study it, she shut the door, and went up stairs. -By the time she had reached the second floor, she -heard him following her. “What’s the matter?” -asked she. “I can say it,” Sam replied. His -mother did not believe him; still, she took the -book, and bade him begin; and, sure enough, he -said it off like a minister, although he could not -possibly have had time to read it over more than -twice. They tell another story of him: that -when three years old, he happened to tread on a -little duckling, the eleventh of a brood, and -killed it, whereupon he wrote the following -epitaph:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c012'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>“Here lies good Master Duck,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;</div> - <div class='line'>If it had lived, it had been good luck,</div> - <div class='line in2'>For then we’d had an odd one.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c009'>Pretty well, for three years old. Sam, however, -declared, when he grew older, that his -<i>father</i> wrote it, and tried to pass it off for his. -That amiable fib, if it <i>was</i> such, was hardly worth -while, as there needed no proof of the child’s -cleverness.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I told you how much he was troubled with -scrofula. There was a superstition in those -days, that if any one afflicted by this disease -could be touched by the royal hand of a king, a -cure would speedily follow. Many persons, who -had a great reputation for wisdom, were foolish -enough to believe this. Sam’s mother, therefore, -may be excused, for what, in other circumstances, -would have been called “a woman’s whim.” At -any rate, up to London she went with little Sam. -Queen Anne was king then, if you’ll pardon an -Irish-ism; and Sam’s childish recollection of her -was a solemn lady in diamonds, with a long, black -hood. Did she cure him? Of course not; -though his kind mother, I’ve no doubt, always -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>felt better satisfied with herself for having tried -it. Sam still continued to go to school, however, -and one old lady to whom he went, had such an -affection for him, that, years after, when he was a -young man, just about to enter college, she came -to bid him good by, bringing with her a big, -motherly piece of gingerbread, as a token of her -affection, adding that “he was the best scholar -she ever had.” Sam didn’t make fun of it behind -her back, as would many young men; he had -sense enough to understand the great compliment -conveyed in that piece of cake.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The Latin and other masters who succeeded -the old lady, did not admire young Sam as much -as she did; instead of “gingerbread,” he got tremendous -whippings, one of the masters saying, -benevolently, while he “laid it on,” “And this I -do, to save you from the gallows.” I myself have -more faith in the gingerbread than in the whipping -system, which, I believe, has as often -driven boys <i>to</i> the gallows, as “from” it. But -it seems Samuel owed them no grudge; for being -asked, later in life, how he came to have such an -accurate knowledge of Latin, replied, “My master -whipt me very well;” and all his life long, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>he <i>in</i>sisted and <i>per</i>sisted, that <i>only by the rod</i> -was learning ever introduced into a boy’s head. -Still, to my eye, “birches” look best in the -woods. I can’t help thinking that the gentle -sway of the old lady would have carried him safe -through his Latin too, had she but known enough -to teach it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>In all schools, the boy who knows the most, -rules the rest. So it was with Sam; who, if he -helped them into difficulty with his roguish -pranks, helped them also with their lessons, -when they came to a standstill for want of his -quick comprehension. They all looked up to him -with great deference, and so far did this carry -them, that they carried him! actually and really. -Three boys used to call at his lodgings every -morning, as humble attendants, to bear him to -school. One, in the middle, stooped, while he sat -on his back; while one on each side supported -him; and thus the great, lazy Sam was borne -along in triumph!</p> - -<p class='c009'>There is one thing which I believe to be true -of the childhood and youth of all persons distinguished -for true knowledge. It is this: they never -rest satisfied with ignorance on any point, which, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>by any possibility, can be explained or made clear. -It was so with Samuel; also, he never forgot -what he thus heard, or had read. I know well -that a young person who is “inquisitive” is much -more troublesome than one who never thinks, and -only rests satisfied with just what is put into the -ear, and desires no more; and parents and teachers, -too, are too apt to silence the inquisitive mind -with “don’t ask questions!” or “don’t be so -troublesome!” or, if they answer, do it in a careless, -lazy way, that only surrounds the questioner -with new difficulty, instead of helping him out of -it; never reflecting that it is by this <i>self-educating -process</i> that the child arrives at the <i>best half</i> of -what he will ever know. Don’t misunderstand -me; don’t think I mean that a child, or a young -person, is impertinently to interrupt the conversation -of his elders, and clamor for an immediate -answer. I don’t mean so, any more than I think -it right to snub him back into ignorance with -that harrowing “little pitcher” proverb, which -used to make me tear my hair out, at being forced -to “be seen,” while I was not allowed “to be -heard.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>It is my private belief, spite of my admiration -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>of the great Sam, that he was physically—lazy. -Riding boy-back to school gave me the first glimmering -of it. Afterward, the fact that his favorite, -indeed, only diversion in winter was, being -drawn on the ice by a barefooted boy, who pulled -him along by a garter fixed around him—no easy -job for the shivering barefooter, as Sam was not -only “great” intellectually, but physically. His -defective sight prevented him from enjoying the -common sports of boys, if this is any excuse for -what would seem to be a piece of selfishness on -his part. Perhaps to his inability for active sports, -we may ascribe his appetite for romances in his -leisure hours—a practice which he afterward deeply -regretted, because, as he declared, it unsettled -his mind, and stood very much in the way of his -decision upon any profession in life.</p> - -<p class='c009'>At the age of twenty, Samuel’s disease took -the form of an overpowering melancholy, which, I -am sorry to say, never wholly left him during his -life. In every possible way the poor fellow struggled -against it, by study, by reading, by going -into company, by sitting up late at night, till he -was sure of losing himself in sleep. This melancholy -took the form of great fear of death. He -<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>could not bear to hear the word “death” mentioned -in his presence. I think, however, it was -“<i>dying</i>” he feared, <i>not</i> “<i>death</i>.” I think he -feared physical pain and suffering, not another -state of existence; for all his ideas of <i>that</i> were -pleasant and happy, like those of a child going -home to its parent, whom, though he may have -sinned against, he tenderly loves, and constantly -implores forgiveness from. A more kind-hearted -man than Samuel Johnson never lived, with all his -bluntness, which, after all, is much preferable to -the smooth tongue which rolls deceit, like a sweet -morsel, in honeyed words. He had also this noble -trait: he was quick to ask forgiveness where -his blunt words had wounded. He did not think -either his dignity or his manliness compromised -by confessing himself in the wrong. I want you -to notice this particularly; because small, narrow -minds think it “mean and poor-spirited” to do -this, even when convinced that they are wrong. -This blunt, rough, ordinary-looking, ill-dressed old -man (for he lived, after all, to be an old man), -had a kingly heart. I could tell you many instances -of his kindness to the poor and unfortunate; -of his devoted love for his wife, who died -<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>many years before him, and whose memory he -sacredly and lovingly cherished. He numbered -among his friends many great and talented people, -who were attracted to him by the good qualities -I have named, as, also, by his brilliant and -intellectual conversation. Royalty, too, paid him -special honor; and in his latter days, when money -was not so plenty as it should have been in the -pocket of a man to whom the world owes so -much, the highest people in the land most assiduously -endeavored to make his descent to the grave -easy, by travel, change of scene, and more comfortable -accommodations than he could otherwise -have had. Rough as Dr. Johnson was reputed to -be, he was a great favorite with ladies. No dandy -could outdo him in a neat, graceful compliment -to them, and no insect could sting sharper than -he either, if they disgusted him with their nonsense -and folly. Nice, honest, sham-hating old -man! I am glad that the Saviour he loved, -smiled so lovingly on him at the last, that he fearlessly -crossed the dark waves he had dreaded, to -lay that weary head upon His bosom.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE LITTLE LORD.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Everybody has heard of Lord Byron. The -world says, he had a very bad temper; and the -world says his mother had a very bad temper, -too. For once the world was right; but when I -tell you that Byron’s mother, when a pretty, -warm-hearted girl, married a man she dearly -loved, and found out, after marriage, that it was -her money, not herself, that he loved, and that, -while spending this extravagantly, he was at the -same time mean enough to ill-treat and abuse her, -I think we should inquire how sweet-tempered -we could have been under such circumstances, before -we call <i>her</i> hard names. I believe this is the -way God judges us, and that he always takes into -account, as man does not, the circumstances by -which we have been surrounded for good or evil. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>It is easy for anybody to be amiable, when there -is nothing to thwart or annoy.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, as I have said, poor Mrs. Byron had -a weary life of it; and little George, hearing -his mother say violent words, when her misery -pressed hard upon her, learned to say them, too; -and set his handsome lips together, till he looked -like a little fiend; and tore his frocks to tatters -when things did not suit him; and later, when he -was too old for this, he used to turn so deadly -pale with speechless rage, that one would almost -rather have encountered the violent words of his -childhood.</p> - -<p class='c009'>A mother who cannot, or does not, control herself, -cannot, of course, control her child; so that -there was presented at their home that most pitiable -of all sights, mother and child always contending -for the mastery.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I should tell you that this handsome boy was -born with a deformed foot, which prevented him -from exercising, like other children; and that he -suffered not only from this restraint, but from the -painful, and, as it proved, useless remedies, that -were resorted to for his cure. An active, restless, -lame boy! Cannot you see that this must have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>been hard to bear? But when I add that his -own mother, in her angry fits, used to taunt him -with his lameness, till the mere mention of his -twisted foot, or even a glance at it, nearly drove -him crazy, I am sure you cannot but pity him. -And so this personal defect, which she might have -soothed and loved him into feeling it a happiness -to bear, because it should naturally have called -out the fullness of a mother’s pitying heart, became -to him, through her mismanagement, like a -nest of scorpions, to lash into fury his worst passions. -This was very dreadful. <i>I</i> try to remember -it, and <i>you</i> must, when you read the bitter, -bad words of his manhood, which stand over -against his name, and, alas! will always stand; -for the hand is cold and powerless now, which -should have dashed them out; the eyes are closed -now, from which the tear of repentance should fall -to wash them away; the voice is forever hushed, -which should say, beware! to the young feet, -which he would lure with flowers, only to be bitten -by serpents.</p> - -<p class='c009'>And yet, it is beautiful to know, that his unhappy -childhood, which, like a blighting mildew, -overspread all his future life, had not power <i>quite</i> -<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>to extinguish the angel in him. Thus we hear -that, when sent away to an English school, he interfered, -notwithstanding his lameness, between a -big boy and a little one, whom the former was -severely punishing. Unable to fight in defence of -the poor little fellow, upon whom the torturing -blows were descending, Byron stood boldly up -before his persecutor, and begged, with crimson -cheeks and tearful eyes, that he might, at least, -“take half the blows that were intended for the -little boy.” I think you will agree with me that -this was very brave and magnanimous. I have -another little anecdote of the same kind to tell -you. Not long after this, a little boy came to the -school, who had just recovered from a severe illness, -which had left him very lame. Byron, seeing -a bigger boy threatening him, took him one -side, and said, “Don’t be troubled; if he abuses -you, tell me, and I’ll thrash him if I can,” and he -afterward did it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Unfortunately for Byron, he became a lord, -while he was yet a schoolboy. I say unfortunately, -because, had he been a poor boy, I think it -might have made a man of him. His mother, delighted -at his being a lord, took every opportunity -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>to make him as proud as a little peacock, by telling -him of how much consequence it would make him -in the eyes of the world; as if being a lord was -of any account if he did nothing but strut about -to parade his title, and enjoy the mean pleasure -of forcing those who were “beneath him” (by so -much as that they lacked a coat of arms) to make -gracious way for him. Imagine this little schoolboy, -so puffed up with that idea of his mother, -that the first time he was called by his title in -school, he actually burst into tears—from sheer -delight! One can’t smile at it, for it was the -sowing of a poisonous seed, which should spring -up into a “tree,” under whose shadows should -die the sweet flowers of kindness and generosity -which, I have already told you, were springing up -in the child’s heart. Such grand airs did “my -lord” put on, that the boys used to nickname him -“<i>the baron</i>.” You will not be surprised to hear, -that this foolish pride of rank grew with his youth, -and strengthened with his strength, so that, when -he became a man (could he be said to be one, -when under the dominion of such a childish feeling?) -he would have his coat of arms put on his -bed-curtains, and everywhere else where it could -<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>possibly be placed; and upon one occasion, when -his title was omitted, he flew into the most absurd -paroxysm of rage. Petty and pitiful, was it not?</p> - -<p class='c009'>It is a dreadful thing when a child is unable to -respect and reverence a parent. There are such -cases; this was one. Byron’s mother sometimes -came to school to see him. On one occasion, being -displeased with something she met there, she -burst into a furious passion with the teacher. -When one of Byron’s schoolmates, with more -simplicity than politeness, said to him, “George, -your mother is a fool,” “I know it!” was the -boy’s gloomy reply. This seems to me the saddest -thing that ever fell from a child’s lip. Still, -it is due to him to say, that with this knowledge -bitterly burned in upon his soul, he never failed in -<i>outward</i> attention to her wishes, or in letters during -his absence, informing her carefully of all that -most nearly concerned him; although for the -sweet, holy name of “mother,” he substituted -“Madam,” or “Dear Madam.” Unhappy mother! -unhappy son! So much that was naturally kind -in both, each loving the other, and yet, in each, -the active elements of perpetual discord. Each -yearning for affection with the intensity of strong -<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>natures, and yet perpetually a great gulf between -them, over which their outstretched hands might -never meet!</p> - -<p class='c009'>I wish I could tell you that this unhappy child -grew up a happy, and, what is better, a good man. -But neither was true. His fine poetical talent was -not used to bless, or soothe, or instruct his fellow -beings. His powers of pleasing were exerted for -unworthy purposes, and wasted upon unworthy -objects—and the miseries which his unbridled -temper and extravagance brought upon him in -after years, he neither accepted as his just punishment, -nor strove, in a manly way, to atone for, -and retrieve. Lord Byron has been called “a -great man.” I do not think him such. The -“greatness” which lacks moral courage to meet -the ills of life, which only makes them an excuse -for wallowing in wickedness, must of necessity be -a spurious greatness. It is put to shame by the -quiet heroism of thousands of women, many of -whom can neither read, write, nor spell, who toil -on by thousands all over our land, facing misery, -poverty, wretchedness in every form, with trust in -God unwavering to the last moment of life. That’s -what I call “greatness.” One would think, that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>the more a man knew, the better should he be -able to hold the fiery horses of his passions with -a master hand—to keep them subservient by a -strong bit and bridle. Else, of what use is his -intellect? He might as well be a mere animal; -better, too, by far, because for the animal there -is no remorseful future. He is but a pitiable -specimen of manhood, who has resolution enough -in a land of plenty to endure the keen pangs of -hunger day by day, lest eating should spoil the -outline of his handsome face and form, and yet is -powerless to control passions which, scorpion-like, -will sting him, long after his perishable body has -crumbled into dust.</p> -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_164.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>THE POLICEMAN.—Page <a href='#Page_165'>165</a>.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE POLICEMAN.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I heard a little boy say, the other day, -“When I grow up, I mean to be a policeman!” -He liked the bright star on the policeman’s -breast, and the big club in his hand. He -thought it would be “fun” to sound his whistle, -when he spied a fellow getting a ride for nothing -on the steps of an omnibus, and to see him running -off as fast as he could, for fear of a crack -from the driver’s long whip. He thought it -would be nice to walk up and down, and scare -the little beggar girls, who were teasing for “one -penny, please,” from the ladies on the sunshiny -side of the street, as they came out of the shops. -But he <i>didn’t</i> think, how many policemen have -kissed their little boys and girls, when they left at -night, and been killed before these little ones -woke in the morning, by some robber, or murderer, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>whom they had to catch in the night. He -didn’t think how many wretched, drunken men -and women they have to drag through the streets, -to the station houses, every day, and how many -shocking fights they have to see and take part in. -He didn’t think how forlorn it must be to pace up -and down of a cold, dismal night, that other people -might lie snug and safe in their warm beds, -till morning. He didn’t think how sick a policeman -might get of misery, and poverty, and wretchedness, -and how glad he was sometimes to walk into -a nice, clean neighborhood, where people had -enough to eat, and drink, and wear, and live clean -and comfortable. You see, Johnny was only nine -years old, and didn’t know about all these things. -It was his birthday, that very day that he said, -“I want to be a policeman,” and he had beautiful -presents, and a little sugared plumcake, made on -purpose for him by his grandmother; and he was -to have a little party in the evening, and ice -cream and cake to eat; and they were to play -blind man’s buff, and all go to the circus in the -evening, to see the horses, who flew round so fast -that you could hardly tell what color they were. -Well, that very day the policeman he was looking -<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>at, and envying, had seen a dreadful sight. As -he was going round on his “beat,” through one -of the narrow streets in New York, he heard a little -girl, who was just nine years old that very -day like Johnny, crying piteously. He went into -the room where the noise came from, and saw, -not a birthday party, of warmly-dressed little children, -and a bright fire, and pretty pictures on the -walls, and such beautiful roses on the pretty carpet, -that one almost hated to step on them. No, indeed! -The floor was bare, and so were the walls; -there was no bed in the room, no chairs, no tables; -but on the floor lay a dead woman, and over -her stood her own little girl, named Katy, only -nine years old that very day, crying, as I told you, -as if her little heart would break. In her hand -was a basket of cold victuals, that her mother had -sent her out alone to beg; and there lay her -mother, <i>dead!</i> and now little Katy was all alone -in the great city, with no friend to whom she -could tell her troubles, and no money even to buy -a coffin for her dead mother. No wonder she -cried. The policeman asked the little girl how -long her mother had been dead; and when she -could stop sobbing, she told him, that her mother -<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>told Katy, in the morning, to go beg some food, -and that she had to be gone a long while, before -she could get any; and when she came back, she -found her mother lying so still on the floor; and -that she called “Mother!” and she didn’t speak; -and that, when she touched her, she was so cold, -she knew she must be dead; and then poor little -Katy trembled, because she didn’t know what -was to become of her, or whether the policeman -would take her away from her mother; for, while -her body lay there on the floor with her, the poor -little girl felt as though her mother was still with -her. But the policeman didn’t speak, for he was -looking round the room, and presently he found a -bottle; there was nothing in it <i>now</i>, but there -<i>had</i> been some rum in it; and now you know -why it was the room had no fire and no furniture, -and how a mother could stay at home, and send -her poor little girl out alone in a great city to beg. -Katy didn’t say a word. I suppose she, too, knew -that her mother used to get drunk; but she didn’t -want to talk about it. She only knew that her -mother was all the friend she had, bad or good, -and that she lay there <i>dead</i>, and would never say -“Katy” any more; and so she began to cry -<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>again, as if her heart would break. Well, the -policeman had a little girl of his own, and he felt -very sorry for her; so he didn’t take her to the -“station house,” where all sorts of drunken people -are carried, but he took her to his own home, -and asked his kind-hearted wife, to whom he told -Katy’s story, to give her some warm breakfast, -and keep her till he came back again. At first -Katy didn’t want to stay there, warm and pleasant -as it was. She would rather have sat on the -bare floor, beside her dead mother; but the sorrows -of most little children are soon forgotten -by them; and when little Katy looked round -again at the clean, bright, warm room, and had -eaten a nice little bit of beefsteak, and some -bread, and drank a cup of warm milk, she began -to feel a great deal better. Nanny, the policeman’s -little girl, had a beautiful doll, which she -let Katy hold in her own hands. This pleased -Katy very much; she had often seen dolls in the -shop windows, but she never thought to have -one in her own hand all her life. Well, little -Nanny gave her leave to take off the dolly’s dress, -and put it to bed; and Katy was so bright and -happy, when the policeman came back, that he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>hardly knew she was the same little Katy; but at -the sight of him, tears came into her eyes, she -gave the dolly back to Nanny, and sobbed out, “I -want to see my mother.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then the policeman’s wife wiped her eyes -with the corner of her apron, and turned away to -the window; for she thought, Oh, how dreadful it -would be, if <i>my</i> little, curly-headed Nanny were -as friendless as this poor little girl. And then she -and the policeman whispered together at the window -a long while, and Katy heard the policeman -say, “But it will be so much trouble for you, -Mary, and, you know, I can hardly earn enough -now to eat and to wear for you and me and Nanny!” -but his wife only cried the more, and said, -“Poor little thing! suppose it were our own little -Nanny, John!” and then they whispered together -again; and then the policeman patted his wife on -the shoulder, and took up his hat and his big club, -and went out; and then his wife got some warm -water, and some soap, and washed Katy’s face, -and hands, and neck, and combed her bright, -brown hair smooth and nice, and put on one of -Nanny’s little dresses, and told her, while she was -doing it, that she was going to be Nanny’s little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>sister now, and always live there with them, and -have plenty to eat, and never go shivering out in -the streets, to beg cold victuals any more; but -still little Katy sobbed out, every now and then, -“I want to see my mother.” Poor little girl! she -forgot that her mother was very unkind to her -sometimes; that she used to drink rum, and beat -her when she came home, if she did not beg cold -victuals enough, or bring some pennies; she forgot -all this; and every time she thought of her, it -was only as lying on the floor, cold and <i>dead</i>; -and the great big lump came up again in her -throat, and she wanted to go back to the old, -dreadful room, and look at her dear, dead mother -once more. But Katy’s mother was not there, -though she did not know it; they had carried her -away and buried her out of sight; but they didn’t -tell Katy that, till she became used to living with -them, for fear it would make her little heart ache -so bad; but by and by, when her little thin cheeks -had grown round and rosy, like Nanny’s, and -when she began to run about the house and play -“Puss in the Corner” with Nanny, then they told -her. And, do you know, after a while, it seemed -to little Katy that she had <i>always</i> lived with the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>good policeman and his wife, and that the dreadful, -desolate room, and the cold victuals, and the -ragged clothes, were only a bad dream, and not -real at all. It just seemed to her as though Nanny -were <i>really</i> her little <i>own</i> sister, when they -slept in the same bed at night, and laid their rosy -cheeks on the same pillow. By and by the policeman’s -wife was taken very sick, and then she -found out what a good heart the little beggar girl -had; for Katy ran up stairs and down for her, -and gave her the doctor’s medicine; and sat by -her bed, and bathed her hot forehead, and repaid -her for all her care; and, after many years, when -the policeman’s wife died, and Katy was married, -and had a home of her own, she took poor, motherless -Nanny there, and gave her a nice little room -all by herself, and a table to put her dear mother’s -workbox on, and very pretty pictures on the wall; -and when Nanny said, with wet eyes, “How good -you are to me, Katy!” she said, “Ah! I haven’t -forgotten who took me in when <i>I</i> had no mother, -and fed and clothed me!”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span> - <h2 class='c005'>LITTLE ADRIAN.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I wonder if you like pictures as well as I -do? I dare say your father may have hung -some on his parlor, or study, or chamber walls, -and perhaps you have often sat alone in those -rooms, looking at them and thinking. They were -pleasant company for you—you liked the shapely -trees and contented cattle, the beautiful clouds, -and the grass that you could almost see waving, -as the fragrant breeze swept by. You thought, -perhaps, how well the artist must have studied nature, -and with what a loving eye, thus successfully -to create it; and you imagined, perhaps, that his -heart was as tranquil and unruffled, while at his -work, as the clear lake you saw in his picture. -I remember thinking so, when I was a child, and -wishing I, too, were an artist, that, when the -storm raged without, and the chill rain came -<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>slanting down, I could still create sunny skies, and -blooming, fadeless flowers. I did not know then, -what I know now, how painfully many artists -struggle up to notice from poverty and obscurity; -what a sad history those pictures, could they only -speak, might tell of sleepless nights and hungry -days, and fireless hearths (for it is adversity that -brings out the strength of our natures). I did -not think of the wealth and fame which come so -often only to the filming eye and palsied hand of -age, and then to be left at the grave’s brink. I did -not know, what I know now, that they who have -genius in any department of art, stand upon a dizzy -pinnacle, what with those who, unable to reach -the same elevation themselves, and who would -fain throw or pull them down, and what with the -danger that they themselves should lose sight of -the thorny path by which they reached it, and, satisfied -with human applause, never think that upon -every gift, every talent, should be written “Holiness -to the Lord.” I did not reflect that by so -much as talent increases influence, by so much -it places in the hands of its possessor the means -of improving and benefiting, as well as amusing -and delighting, those for whom this short life is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>but the porch to the temple whose splendors they -whose garments are washed white, alone shall -surely see. And how beautiful, how fitting it -is, that at His feet who bestowed the gift of genius, -its fruit should be laid.</p> - -<p class='c009'>No; these thoughts came with after years, -when I went out into the world; but now, I -never look at a beautiful picture or statue, or read -an interesting book, that I do not think of these -things; and when I read of an artist who, with -great powers, paints pictures which harm the -looker on, and influence him to evil—for pictures, -though tongueless, have eloquent voices; when I -read of a great artist, who can command any -price, how large soever, for anything he may -choose to paint, yet often wanting a meal of victuals, -not because he gave it to the poor, but because -he swallowed it all in the wine cup, and -only rouses himself to work when he wants -more, oh! then I feel sorrier than I can tell you; -for genius is not an every-day gift, and life is -short enough to learn our lessons for eternity, -without pulling the minute hands of time forward.</p> - -<p class='c009'>It is pleasant to see artists and men of talent -honored by kings and princes. I once heard a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>story of the Emperor Maximilian and the painter -Albert Durer, which pleased me very much. -Durer was painting on a wall of the palace one -day, in presence of the emperor and his courtiers. -He was a small man, and being unable to reach -sufficiently high to complete the upper part of one -of the figures he was painting, he looked around -for something to raise him higher. The emperor, -noticing this, ordered one of the gentlemen present -to hand him a stool. The courtier was very -angry at this; he considered the artist beneath -him, and so he handed it to him in a very ungracious -manner, muttering as he did so.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The emperor heard him, and turning sharply -round, made him this proper and noble answer: -“Sir, I can make a noble out of a peasant any -day, but I cannot form an ignoramus into a man -of genius like Durer.” I think the pompous -courtier must have blushed a little at this, or, if he -did not, so much the worse for him.</p> - -<p class='c009'>There was once a little boy, named Adrian. -His mother was a poor peasant, and little Adrian -used to sit on the floor with a pencil and paper in -his hand, to keep him out of mischief. By and -by his mother, seeing him very busy with his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>drawing, peeped over his shoulder, and lo! there, -upon the paper, were beautiful birds and flowers, -and all sorts of pretty things, which the little -rogue had drawn; for he did not know, any more -than his mother, that he was an artist. Still, his -mother thought them very pretty—what mother -wouldn’t, had they been ever so ugly?—and it -occurred to her that she could copy in needlework -those pretty pictures, on the caps and neckerchiefs -she was in the habit of embroidering, to -sell to the peasant women who came to market. -One day, while little Adrian sat in the shop where -his mother sold her needlework, an artist happened -to pass, and, stopping at the window, -watched through the glass the little Adrian as he -drew the patterns. After a while he went in, and -asked the boy if he would not like to become an -artist. “Oh, yes!” he almost screamed out; -“better than anything in this world, if my mother -is only willing!” The poor woman was glad -enough of the offer, and little Adrian went home -with his master as happy—not “as a king,” for -that’s a lying phrase—but as happy as a little -robin of a bright spring morning.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Oh, how diligently he worked, and how fast -<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>he learned what was taught him! His master -had no need to rap him over the knuckles with -“Come, come, what are you thinking about?” -not at all; he scarcely lifted his eyes from his -work, so eager was he. His master had other pupils, -but he took Adrian away from them, and -shut him up in a little attic in the top of the -house, to draw. The other scholars didn’t like -this, for Adrian was very good company, and they -all liked him; besides, they did not see the reason -why he should be shut up there, and they felt curious -to find it out. So one day, when the master -was out, they stole softly up to the attic, and -peeping through a window, saw the poor little -prisoner painting very beautiful pictures for his -jailer, who used to sell them, and pocket the -money for himself.</p> - -<p class='c009'>It was very lucky that they found him, for he -had become very thin and emaciated, what with -hard work and poor food. The boys told Adrian -that he was a great artist, though he did not -know it, and that he might earn a great deal of -money; and they offered, if he could draw some -pictures slily, to sell them for him when his master -did not know it, and get him some pocket -<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>money, for his own use. The hungry little boy -artist was delighted at this, and soon found means -to do it; but his cruel master and his wife soon -found it out, and put a stop to it, by watching -him so closely that it was quite impossible. Then -the poor child grew thinner and thinner, until one -of the boys contrived a plan for him to escape; -in the daytime he wandered in the back streets, -and at night he curled himself up in the organ loft -of one of the churches, and all the time he was -turning over plans in his bewildered head for the -future. One day, while he was thus situated, he -met a person who had once seen him at his master’s -house. “Why,” said he to Adrian, looking -pityingly at his thin figure, “have you left your -master’s roof?” The child began to cry, for he -was quite worn out, and besides, was overcome by -the kind manner of his questioner, so different -from that of his old master. So he very honestly -told him the truth, and why he had run away. -His pale face, his sobs, and his wretched clothes -were so many proofs of the truth of his story, and -the gentleman said, “If you will agree to return -to your master, I will talk to him, and see that he -treats you better in future.” While all this was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>going on, his old master Hals had hunted everywhere -for him, for he could ill afford to part with -so valuable a pupil. One would suppose that this -thought, if no better one, would have made Hals -treat him better; but, after all, avarice is very -short-sighted, though it is said to be so keen.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, of course, he was overjoyed to get -Adrian back, caressed him, and gave him a new -suit of clothes, and all that, so that the innocent, -trusting child really believed all that he said was -gospel truth, and commenced painting again, with -so much industry and so well, that his master got -larger prices than ever for his little drawings. -Still, the miserly Hals never gave Adrian any of -it, and so Adrian made up his mind that, as fair -promises would neither feed nor clothe him, he -would run away again. This time he planned -better, for he ran so far his master couldn’t find -him—way off into another city, and took refuge -with an innkeeper, who liked artists, because his -own son was one, though, like many other children, -nobody thought him famous but his own -father. He soon grew cheerful, and fat, and merry, -under kind treatment; it is a blessed thing, is -it not? that youth is so elastic—that it is always -<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>ready, after a disappointment, to begin again with -fresh courage. For a while, Adrian kept steadily -at his work, and to his delight and astonishment, -they brought him higher prices than ever, though -no one knew who the artist was. One day he -came panting home to his friend the innkeeper in -a great state of excitement. His pockets were -full of gold—he could scarcely believe it was not -all a dream. He emptied it all out on the bed, -and then jumped into the middle of it, that he -might, as he said, know how it felt for once “to -roll in wealth.” Well, we can pardon him that. -None but they who have been kicked and cuffed -round the world, and had a crust of bread thrown -grudgingly at them, can understand the full deliciousness -of independence, especially when that -independence is the result of their own honest -labor. Adrian had a right to wave his hat in the -air; and, had I been there, I would have helped -him hurra! and when we had finished, I would -have said, “Now you have felt how uncomfortable -a thing poverty is—don’t squander that money -foolishly, because it was quickly earned; put -it away safely, where it may do you and others -good, and keep on working.” But, I am sorry to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>tell you that Adrian did neither. He gathered up -all his money, left the house, and did not return for -more than a week. On his return, his friend the -innkeeper asked him what he had done with his -money. “All gone!” said the foolish fellow; -“I’ve not a bit left.” And that is the way he -went on—first a fit of work, then a fit of wasteful -dissipation. He earned a great deal, and spent -more than he earned; so that he who might have -been so free and independent, was constantly -obliged to be running away from those to whom -he owed money. Was it not a pity? On one of -these occasions, he forgot to provide himself with -what is called a passport, <i>i. e.</i>, permission from -the government to pass from one city to another; -and because he had not this permission, they supposed -him to be a spy, and threw him into prison. -Confined in the same prison was a certain duke, to -whom he told his pitiful story, assuring him that -he was no spy, but only an artist who had come -to that city to follow his profession. Of course, -the duke did not know whether he was fibbing or -not; he had only the artist’s own word for it. -Adrian saw this, so he said, “Bring me painting -materials, and I’ll soon prove to you that what I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>say is true.” The duke, having a friend in the city -who was a great artist, had a mind to try him. -So he got his friend to procure Adrian, the suspected -spy, the materials he desired. Just below -the windows of his cell, a group of soldiers were -assembled, playing cards. This scene Adrian -painted, and so well, that every man’s figure was -a complete portrait in itself. The duke was delighted, -and sent for his friend the artist, to see -what his opinion might be. The moment he saw -it, he exclaimed, “It must be Adrian Brauwer’s; -no other artist could paint with such force and -beauty!” and immediately offered a high price for -it. But the duke would not part with it. It was -painted under singular circumstances, and was, -besides, a very beautiful picture. He immediately -interested himself with the governor to get -Adrian out of prison, which he succeeded in doing, -and then, being liberated himself, he took Adrian -home to his own house, gave him new suits of -clothes, and tried to keep him from wasting his talents -and time, and throwing himself away on bad -companions. You will be sorry to know that it -was quite useless; sorry to know that his bad -passions had become, from indulgence, his tyrants, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>so that he was no longer his own master, but -theirs; sorry to know that he ran away from -the house of his benefactor, sold the very clothes -he gave him, mixed with all sorts of bad people in -loathsome places, till finally, destitute and diseased, -he was carried to one of the public hospitals, -where, unknown by any who had admired -his talents, and pitied his follies, he died -miserably, at the early age of thirty-two, and was -buried in a cemetery among the paupers. When -the duke, his benefactor, heard of this, he shed -tears at the melancholy end of a life which might -have been so useful, so honored, and so honorable. -He ordered the corpse to be taken up from its -pauper grave, gave it a funeral in a church, and -designed a monument for the erring man, which -last, however, was never accomplished, as he died -himself soon after.</p> - -<p class='c009'>It is pleasant to turn from so sad a story to -that of other artists, who labored on, though -steeped to the very lips in poverty, for loving -wives and children, who, in turn, did all in their -power to lighten the artists’ toil. Living lives -full of love, and without reproach, creating beauty -<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>when everything around them was miserably -shabby and forlorn—everything but the love and -patient endurance which can make out of the -dreariest earthly home a heaven.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE PEDDLER’S SON.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I am only a poor boy, what can I do? what can -I ever be, but just what I am? ignorant, uneducated, -insignificant? Stop, no creature of God -is insignificant; that is impossible, because you -are to live forever. Fettered and cramped in this -life you may be; but this life is not all, nor is it -impossible even here for you to take your place -with the wise and the honorable of this world. -You look about you, and shake your head doubtfully. -Your father and mother are good and kind -to you, as far as they can be. But they never -read; they know nothing, care for nothing, -save that they are to work day by day till they -die, merely to get bread enough to keep them -alive. But your <i>mind</i> is hungry; you want something -for <i>that</i>. Bread and meat for your body -don’t suffice you; you know there is something -<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>better. How shall you find it? who will help -you to it? And you look about and around you, -and reach out your arms, as if to implore some -invisible power to come to your aid. Do you -know how many whose names are loved, honored, -and cherished by thousands, began life just so? -Do you know what might there is in the little -words “I will”?</p> - -<p class='c009'>Let me tell you a story.</p> - -<p class='c009'>In a poor hut in Germany lived a lad. This -hut had only one room, with a fireplace in it, and -no stairs. Instead, a ladder in it went up to the -roof. Besides the lad of whom I have spoken, -there was the usual supply of a poor man’s children.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The principal support of the family was a cow, -and the principal employment of Komer, the name -of my hero, was to collect, in the spring, the -sedges which had been thrown up by the waters, -to make litter for the cow. After the meadows -had become green, he passed the long summer -days in watching her, sometimes alone, and sometimes -in company with other boys. He also -brought dry wood to burn, and helped glean in -harvest time; and when the autumn winds shook -<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>the trees roughly, he gathered acorns, and sold -them to those who kept geese. When he grew -larger, he helped his father, who was a peddler, to -carry his bundles from hut to hut. There was a -small school, too, where Komer learned to read -and write, but that was all he learned there.</p> - -<p class='c009'>One evening (Komer never forgot that evening) -he was sitting at a table with his parents. A -small lamp was burning upon it, and his father, -who had just come home with his peddler’s pack, -was talking to his mother about his business. -The old peddler loved smoking, and had brought -home with him a packet of tobacco, the wrapper -of which lay upon the table. On it was the picture -of a horse.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Little Komer idly took up the picture. This -is very good, thought he; I wonder if I could -draw one like it, if I should try? Who knows -but I might? Little Komer looked at his father; -he was very busy talking; so he took pen, ink, -and a piece of paper, and shyly began. When he -had finished, he looked at it; it seemed to him -very perfect, and his little heart swelled with a -new, strange delight. Then Komer showed it to -his parents—one can’t be happy alone—and they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>praised and admired it, more because Komer did -it, than anything else. By and by Komer went to -bed; it was dark, but still he saw his horse—he -couldn’t sleep for thinking of it; he tossed and -turned, and longed for daylight, that he might -<i>really</i> see it with his bodily eyes again; for he -was not quite sure, after all, but that he was -dreaming. Morning came; it was no dream—there -was the horse; but Komer was never again -the same Komer. All that day he was excited, -restless, and the next, and the next; how was he -to become a <i>real</i> painter? Near his father’s hut -lived a potter, who had some outlines, as models -for painting his plates and dishes. Little Komer -went to him, and begged the loan of these outlines -for a little while. Then he made a blank book, -and very carefully copied them into it with pen -and ink. The people in the huts round thought it -quite wonderful, and they were handed about, till, -at last, they came to a man who was a sort of -“mayor” of the place where Komer lived. He -was so pleased and astonished, that he sent for -the boy, made him presents, praised his drawings, -and asked him if he would like to be a painter.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Like it? of course, Komer nearly jumped out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>of his skin for joy. Like to go to a great city to -a master painter, and learn how to be one himself? -Of course, he could not find his tongue to -tell all the joy that filled his heart. There was no -need—his glowing face was enough. The gentleman -said he would talk of it to his parents. -Now, his parents never heard of any kind of -painting, save doors and houses; therefore, when -the gentleman asked them, they answered that it -was a very dangerous trade; for houses in cities -were sometimes seven stories high, and Komer -might break his legs or neck. And so Komer did -not go to the city, but kept on watching the old -cow.</p> - -<p class='c009'>But for all that, this gentleman, and others to -whom he showed Komer’s drawing, did not forget -him or them, but kept on talking about the -wonderful child; and, what was more to their -credit, tried to help him. They sent for him to -take lessons with <i>their</i> children in French, Latin, -and music. That he need not be ashamed to come -among them, they gave him better clothing, and -the gentleman who first saw him brought him to -eat with his family, at his own table.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Little Komer did not think—as you do—that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>it was a hardship to study; not he. He flew at -his books with a will; and till he was sixteen, -never spent an idle moment in lesson hours. After -this, he did some copying for a gentleman, besides -other writing, in order to earn money. Then, for -the first time, he went to a great city, and gazed -on splendid paintings, till he was nearly beside -himself with rapture. Now, indeed, nothing -could stop him. He made the acquaintance of a -young artist, and commenced immediately; weeping, -that he was not permitted to do so, when he -first had the offer; so hard did he work—so absorbed -was he with this one idea—that he grew -sick; his hands began to tremble, like those of a -palsied old man, and he could no longer hold a -pencil. Now, indeed, he must rest, if he would -not die; but he was too active to lie upon the -shelf and be quite idle; if he could not draw, he -would read. He took up a volume of poems. -Why could not <i>he</i> write? He, <i>Komer</i>? Why -not? He seized his pen; he wrote poem after -poem; they were copied, praised, and set to -music!</p> - -<p class='c009'>Now Komer turned his attention to writing -books. Gifted men were proud of his friendship; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>he could talk with them on any subject. His four -and twentieth year found him famous. The old -cow, were she living, which was doubtful, must -take care of herself; he had “browsing” of his -own to do. I hope he kept that horse he copied -from the tobacco paper. I hope he made a drawing -of the old hut where he was born; and the -peddler, with his pipe, and his pack, and the -green meadows where he used to dream away the -lonely summer days, while old Brindle switched -the flies, and winked lazily at the patches of blue -sky, as she lay under the broad tree shadows. I -hope he did not forget his old mother, if she was -ignorant; because she knew enough to love him, -and perhaps, had she not praised that horse, because her little Komer drew it, he might have -tended cows all his life; who knows?</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span> - <h2 class='c005'>JEMMY LAWTON.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>School was out! “Hurra!” screamed all the -boys, and up went their caps in the air, as they -all commenced trying the strength of their limbs -and trowsers, some by climbing up trees, some -over fences, some by leap-frog, some by bat and -ball; and thus they all separated, and went their -different ways home, and Jemmy Lawton went -his, too. It was not with so light a step as his -schoolfellows; and when the last boy was out of -sight, he drew a deep sigh, and crowding his cap -down over his eyes, and looking carefully about -him in every direction, as if to reassure himself -that not one boy lingered to keep him company, -moved on. He was an honest boy; he had no -thought of stealing anything on the way—it was -not that; he was not afraid of “the master,” for -he was always at the head of his class, and seemed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>more anxious to understand his lessons than any -boy in school. He was not afraid any big boy -would thrash him, nor was he lying in wait for -any smaller boy to thrash. No, Jemmy was no -such coward. On he moved, with leaden feet, -past the old, familiar spots; past the grocer’s, -with his peanuts, and oranges, and cocoanuts, and -nicely potted flowers, that he hoped would attract -the housewives who came to buy his sugar and -tea; past the baker’s, with his tempting pies and -tarts, and piles of sugared cakes, and heaps of -candy; past the toy shop, and the tinman’s, and -the shoe store: he had read all their signs till -they were as familiar to him as his own name, -and now he had turned the last corner of the -street in which was his own house. <i>Now</i> it was -that the child turned pale, and set his white teeth -together, and drew his breath hard. His house -was a very pretty one, with a nice little garden -spot in front, in which were fragrant flowers, for -his mother was very fond of them—almost as fond -as she was of Jemmy.</p> - -<p class='c009'>He had a kind mother, then? Yes; but do -you see that crowd of boys, like a little black -swarm, round the pretty white gate before his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>house? You cannot see what they are looking at -so earnestly inside the fence, but you can hear -their shouts and laughter, and so, alas! does Jemmy. -His face is not white now—it is as red as -the daisies in his mother’s garden, and his eyes -flash like the raindrops on the daisies’ bosoms, -that the bright sun is now shining upon. Alas! -when will there be sunshine in Jemmy’s house?</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Ah, there’s Jim now,” said a rude boy, loud -enough for Jemmy to hear. “Here’s your drunken -father, Jim.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Stand away! go home! off with you all!” -shouted Jemmy, in a harsh, fierce voice, that contrasted -strangely with his slight figure, and sweet, -infantile face; “off with you!” and he walked -into the centre of the group, where, crouched -upon the ground, was a man, vainly trying, on his -hands and knees—for he could not stand—to -reach the door to get in; his nice broadcloth coat -was covered with dirt; his hat was crushed in; -bits of straw and grass were sticking in his thick, -black hair; his eyes were red, and he did not -even see his own little boy, who was crimson with -shame as he stood over him, and vainly tried to -help him to his feet. “Off with you!” shouted -<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>Jemmy again to the boys, who laughed as his -father fell against him, almost knocking him over; -“off with you, I say!” bringing his little foot to -the ground with a stamp that made them all start; -then, rushing up to the door, he rang the bell violently, -and turned his head away, to conceal the -tears that would no longer be kept back. A -woman came to the door—it was Jemmy’s mother, -and together they helped in the drunken husband -and father.</p> - -<p class='c009'>No wonder Jemmy dreaded going home from -school! It was not the first time, nor the second, -nor the third, that he had helped his father in at -the area door when he was too drunk to find his -way up the front steps to his own house; and -sometimes Jemmy, only that he thought of his -mother, would have wished himself dead. It was -so terrible—the brutal laugh and jests of those -cruel boys. Oh! I hope you never do such mean -things. I have known children who taunted their -playmates and schoolfellows with such troubles -when they were angry with them, or sometimes, -as in this case, for mere sport. It is a sign of a -base, mean, cruel nature, and the boy or girl who -would remind any child of their acquaintance of a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>disagreeable thing of this kind, which is hard -enough to hear at best, and twit and taunt them -with it, or pain them by noticing it in any way, is -a boy or a girl to be shunned and avoided. Nero, -the tyrant, who roasted people for his amusement, -must have been such a boy. I am sorry to say I -have known little girls equally malicious and -wicked—bad women they will surely grow up, if -not broken of such mean cruelty before they are -women.</p> - -<p class='c009'>A drunkard is a drunkard all the same, whether -he gets drunk on bad rum or champagne; -whether he takes his senses away at the club -house, or low, corner grocery: he comes to the -gutter just as surely in the end. It made no -difference to little Jemmy that his father got -drunk on rich old wine, and sipped it from cut -glasses in a handsome apartment; his mother was -just as heart-broken, and her children just as miserable -as they could be. Dollar after dollar the -man was swallowing; and Jemmy might well -study hard, and be at the head of his class, for he -would need all he could earn to coin into bread -and butter, by the time he got old enough to keep -his mother and little brothers and sisters. And -<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>Jemmy’s father <i>used</i> to be so kind—that memory -came often to the child, to make him patient -under his trouble, to help him to excuse him for -the wrong he was doing both himself and them. -“He was so kind <i>once</i>!” Jemmy would sob out -in his little bed at night. “I remember——,” and -then he would beguile himself by remembering -the walks and rides he used to take with him—the -Christmas presents—how pleased father was -to hear his lessons well recited—and now! Oh, -nobody who has not dropped from such a height -of happiness down to that dreadful “now” can -tell how bruised the poor heart may be by the -fall! God help little Jemmy and all like him, who -have sorrows all the greater that they must bear -the burden alone; that they are <i>unspeakable</i> sorrows, -save to Him who will never taunt us with -their heavy burden, or turn to us a careless ear.</p> - -<p class='c009'>You may be sure that when Jemmy grew up -he never drank. Long before the beard grew on -his soft, white chin, his father’s bloated face was -hidden under a tombstone; and when, in after -years, young men of his own age locked arms, or -clapping each other on the shoulder, as they passed -some gilded saloon, said to one another and to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>him, “Come in and take a drink,” you may be -sure that the smile died away on Jemmy’s face, -and he saw—not the bright lights in the saloon -window, nor the gay, laughing throng inside—but -instead, a form crouching like a beast at his -feet, dirt-besmeared, with bloodshot eyes—creeping, -crawling, like a loathsome reptile, who has no -soul to save—for whom there is no Heaven, no -glorious future after death—nothing but annihilation. -Ah, no; Jemmy could not “take a drink”—his -very soul sickened when they asked him.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span> - <h2 class='c005'>HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON.</h2> -</div> -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>A CHAPTER FOR BOYS.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Did you ever hear of Lord Chesterfield? I -dare say you have; if not, you very likely -will, before you are much older. He wrote some -letters to a son of his, which have become famous, -telling how to eat, and drink, and walk, and talk -politely; how to dress, how to carve, how to -dance, how to write letters; how to enter a room, -how to go out of it; how to smile at people whom -he disliked; what books to read, what sort of people -to visit, and to choose for his friends. Every -now and then I used to hear of this book, and -hear some person say, in speaking of another person, -“He has very fine manners—he is quite Chesterfieldian;” -which seemed to mean very great -praise. Now, I have no boys—more’s the pity; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>but still, I thought, I will read this Lord Chesterfield’s -book, and see how <i>he</i> thinks a boy should -be brought up, because I have my own notions on -that subject, as well as his lordship, although I -have had no occasion to practice them; and I -think good manners are by no means to be despised, -though they are not at all the most important -part of a boy’s education.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, there was just the mistake <i>I</i> think this -gentleman made about his son, whom he drilled in -these things like a little soldier; it was the outside -only that he was most careful about polishing -and adorning. It was to get a high place in this -short-lived world that he was to make his best -bow, wear his hat and coat gracefully, and study -Latin, and talk French and Italian. It was to secure -the notice of great, and powerful, and fashionable -people, that he was to cultivate his taste -and talents, and improve his person; not to do -good, not to benefit in any way his fellow creatures -by the great influence all this would give him to -do good, but <i>solely to benefit himself</i>, and to hear -it said that he was a perfect gentleman, which, by -the way, would have been untrue, had he done all -this and done no more, because no man acting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>from such selfish motives <i>can</i> be a perfect gentleman, -though, to careless eyes, he may appear so. -Then this Lord Chesterfield told his son never to -get angry with anybody, not because anger was -wrong, and debased the soul of him who indulged -it, but because it was not good policy to make an -enemy even of the meanest person, who might -some day be able either to help or to injure one. -Then he advised him to speak very respectfully of -God and religious things, because it was considered -“decorous” to do so, and because it gave -a man influence, not because it is base and ungrateful -to receive all the good things God showers -down upon us at every moment, while we little -Lilliputians are, practically, at least, denying His -very existence, and doing all we can to blot and -deface and mar His image in our souls, and helping -others to do the same; not because He who -loves and pities us so tenderly waits month after -month, year after year, with patience unspeakable, -to see us turn to Him with a loving, penitent -“Our Father;” not for this, but because it was -“respectable” to be religious. It is quite pitiful -to read this gentleman’s letters to his son, and see, -while he appeared to love him so fondly, how -<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>entirely he was educating him for this world, with -not a thought beyond, for those ages upon ages -which that immortal spirit must travel through in -joy or pain, just as he prepared for it here. It is -pitiful that he never said one word to the boy about -using his talents and influence for lightening the -burdens which were so heavily weighing down his -less favored fellow mortals, but everything was to -begin and end in himself; that <i>he</i> was to shine in -public and private; that <i>he</i> was to be admired, -not for his goodness of heart, but, like the peacock, -for his fine plumage—like the bird, for his -sweet voice.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, the boy was to travel and see the world, -and everything in it worth seeing, but by no -means to associate with any but “fashionable -people;” as if he <i>could</i> see all that was -“worth seeing,” in such an artificial atmosphere; -as if fashionable people were “the world;” as if -God’s purest, and brightest, and best, did not -shine out like diamonds from dirt-heaps; as if -<i>that</i> was the way to read human nature, which -the boy was told to study so perfectly that he -could play upon the chords of human feeling and -human passion, as does a skillful musician upon -his favorite instrument. No; as well might he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>judge of a book by looking at its gilt binding. -He was to talk to women, who, his father told -him, “were only grown up children.” I wonder -had he a mother? I wonder had she whispered a -prayer over his cradle? I wonder had she never -gone without sleep and rest, that his little head -might be pillowed softly? I always ask these -questions when men speak disrespectfully of -women; well, he was to talk to women, and be -good friends with, and flatter them, because, foolish -and silly as they were, they had, after all, influence -in the world, and might “make or mar his -fortune;” there you see it is again <i>the everlasting -I</i>, at the top and bottom of everything.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Now, you will naturally inquire how this paragon -turned out, when he became a man; whether -this boy, educated with so much care, and at so -much expense, repaid it all;—you will naturally -suppose, that with such advantages of education -and society, he overtopped all his fellows. His -father’s ambition was to see him in Parliament, -which answers in England, you know, to our -American Congress—except that there is no head-breaking -allowed in that honorable body. Our -hero had now grown to man’s stature; he wore a -coat any tailor might be proud of; made a bow -<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>equal to a dancing master; and could tell fibs so -politely that even his father was delighted. So -far, so good. Now he was to put the crown on it -all, by making his first speech in Parliament; he -who had the dictionary at his tongue’s end, and -the rules of etiquette at his finger ends; who had -been drilled in rhetoric, and oratory, and diplomacy, -and in all the steps considered necessary by -his father to make a great public man. Well—he -got up—and stuttered—and stammered—and -hemmed—and ha-ha-d—and made a most disgraceful -failure. Do you suppose he would have -done it, had his whole soul been on fire with some -grand, God-like project for helping his fellow -creatures? <i>Never!</i> But his whole thoughts -were centered in himself; what sort of figure he -cut—what impression he should make; what this—that—and -the other great person was thinking -of him. Of course he came down like a collapsed -balloon, as all men do who have no higher standard -than the approbation of human beings.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Oh, I tell you what it is; you may cram a -man’s <i>head</i> as full as you please, if you neglect his -<i>heart</i>, he will be, after all, like a Dead Sea apple—and -yield you only—<i>ashes</i>.</p> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_207.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.—Page <a href='#Page_206'>206</a></p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.</h2> -</div> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span></div> -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'> -A weakly child sent to his grandfather’s, for -change of air! Nothing extraordinary in -that. It has happened to many children, of whom -the world never even heard that they were born. -Grandfather’s house! It is the child’s paradise. -He has only to cry for what he wants, to obtain it. -Grandpa quite forgets the wholesome authority he -exercised with the <i>parents</i> of his little grandchild, -and how well they were made “to mind;” and -he will always find some excuse, when they say to -him while he is spoiling their boy, “Grandpa, you -never allowed <i>us</i> to do thus, and so.” He only -shakes his silver head, and kisses the noisy rogue. -He is old, and it may seem to him the least -troublesome way to manage; or, being so near -the grave, <i>love</i> may seem to the poor old man the -most precious thing while he stays here; and he -will long have slept his last sleep, before that -pretty but willful boy will know enough to love -him better for restraining him. And so old -grandpa, wanting all the love he can get, from -everybody, before his heart grows cold forever, -<i>won’t see</i> the child’s little tricks, or, if he does, -but says, “Ah, well, he’s only a child!” or, “He -don’t feel well to-day!” or, “We must not be -too hard upon him, till he gets older and wiser.” -Then it is really very difficult for grandpa, or anybody -else, to manage a <i>sick</i> child. One cannot -tell what is obstinacy and what disease. One -fears to be harsh and cruel to a little crippled -thing; the pale face appeals so irresistibly to a -kind heart; and “What if he should die?” is apt -to decide all doubts in the child’s favor. And -then, a child almost unbearably irritable, the first -years of its life, grows sweet-tempered, docile, and -affectionate, with returning health. But I have -rambled a long way from my story—of lame little -Walter Scott, who was sent to his grandfather, to -“Sandy Knowe,” for change of air, in charge of -his nurse. Now, this nursemaid had a lover, -whom she had been obliged to leave behind when -she went with the sick child. This made her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>cross; from that she began to hate the poor sick -boy; and from that, to entertain thoughts of -killing him with a pair of scissors, that she might -get back again to her lover. Luckily, this was -discovered, and she was sent off; Grandpa Scott, -of course, pitying the boy all the more on account -of the danger he had been in. Of course, he -asked everybody what was good for his grandson’s -complaint. One person recommended that a -sheep should be killed, and the child immediately -wrapped in its warm skin. This was done; and -behold little Walter lying on the floor, in his -woolly covering, and Grandpa Scott sitting there -coaxing him to crawl round, and exercise his little -lame leg. There was his Grandma Scott, too, in -her elbow chair, looking on. Now and then a visitor -would drop in—some old military man, to see -grandpa; and the two would sit and talk about -“the American Revolution,” then going on. -These stories made little Walter’s eyes shine, -for under the lamb’s woolly skin there beat a little -lion heart; and then this little three-year-old boy -crawled nearer and nearer the chairs where the old -men were sitting, and devoured every word they -said. All children like stories that are wonderful -<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>and marvelous, but perhaps little Walter would -never have been such a beautiful story writer -when he grew up, had he not lain there in his lamb -skin, in the little parlor at Sandy Knowe, listening -to those old men’s stories. People don’t think of -these things when they talk before children, who -look so unconscious of what is going on.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Besides his good grandparents, Walter had a -very kind aunt, by the name of Janet, who liked -children, and was fond of telling Walter stories, -and teaching him to repeat little ballads. Of one -of these in particular, he was very fond; and -when he lay sprawling on the floor, he used to say -it over to himself. It seems that among his grandpa’s -friends was one of those persons who have -no love for, and, of course, no patience with, -children. This person had a very long face, very -thin legs, and a very narrow chest; so I suppose -we must forgive him. Did you ever know a fat, -broad-chested man or woman to hate children? I -never did. Well, when little Walter lay there -under foot, amusing himself with his favorite -ballad, this long-legged man would frown, and -turning to his grandpa, say, “One may as well -speak in the mouth of a cannon as where that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>child is!” It is so unnatural a thing to dislike -children, that I prefer to believe, when persons do -so, that it is because they are sick and nervous. -However, little Walter did not bear this gentleman -any ill-will for it; because, long afterward, -when he heard that he was sick and dying, he -went to see him, and they took a kind farewell of -each other.</p> - -<p class='c009'>It seems that Walter’s sickness did not sour -his disposition; an old woman by the name of -Tibby, at Sandy Knowe, says that “he was a -sweet-tempered little bairn, and a darling with all -the house.” The shepherds delighted to carry him -on their backs among the crags, and he soon -learned to know every sheep and lamb in the flock, -by the mark put on their heads. Best of all, he -liked an old man, who had the superintendence of -all the flocks, who was called “the cow-bailie;” -when Walter saw him in the morning, he never -would be satisfied until he had been put astride -his shoulder and carried to the crags, to keep him -company while he watched his flocks. After a -while, he became weary of this, as children will; -then the nice old man blew a particular note on -his whistle, to let the maid servant know that she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>was to come up and carry him down the crags to -his grandpa, in the little cozy parlor. Many—many—many -years after this, when Walter was -an old man, he went back to see those crags, and -this is what he said: “Oh, how I used to love the -sheep and lambs when I rolled round here upon -the grass; I have never forgotten the feeling—no, -not till this day!”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Once, when little Walter was up on the crags, -the people in the house where he lived forgot him. -A thunder storm came up. Suddenly his Aunt -Janet remembered that he was there, and ran up, -much frightened, to bring him home. There she -found him, lying comfortably on his back, the -sharp, forked lightning playing overhead, and little -Walter clapping his hands and crying, “Bonny! -bonny!” at every flash. Walter’s grandpa, -finding that he was fond of riding on the old cow-bailie’s -shoulder, bought him a cunning little Shetland -pony, hardly as large as a Newfoundland -dog; in fact, he was so small that he used to walk -into the parlor like a dog, and feed from the -child’s hand. He did not think then that one day -he should have a little grandchild lame like himself, -and that he should buy <i>him</i> just such a little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>pony, and name it like that—“Marion;”—but so -it was.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Walter was a great reader. He read to his -aunt, read to himself, and read to his mother. -One day he was reading to his mother an account -of a shipwreck, and became very much excited; -lifting his hands and eyes, and saying, “There’s -the mast gone! crash! now they’ll all perish!” -While he was reading, a lady had come in to see -his mother. After he had recovered a little from -his agitation, he turned to the lady-visitor with a -politeness quite remarkable in a child of only six -years, and said, “This is too melancholy! had I -not better read you something more amusing?” -The lady thought, as well she might, that if she -wanted to be “amused” she had better make him -talk; so she said, knowing he had been reading -Milton, “How did you like Milton, Walter?” -“I think,” said he, “that it is very strange that -Adam, who had just come newly into the world, -should know everything. I suppose, though, it -must be only the poet’s fancy.” “You forget,” -said the lady, “that God created Adam quite perfect.” -Walter reflected a moment, seemed satisfied, -and yielded the point. When his Aunt Janet -<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>took him up to bed that night, he said, “Auntie, -I like that lady; I think she is a virtuoso like myself.” -“Dear Walter!” exclaimed Aunt Jenny, -opening wide her eyes, “what <i>is</i> a virtuoso?” -“Why, aunt, it is one who wishes, and <i>will</i> know, -everything.” Of course, you may believe that his -Aunt Jenny tucked him up that night in the full -belief that he would never live to grow up. Luckily -for us all, she was mistaken.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Are you tired hearing stories about him? Because -I have another one I want to tell you, -though I dare say, if you are reading this book of -mine aloud to your mother, she has said to herself -fifty times (and I like her fifty times better -for saying it), “Pooh! our Ben, or our Sam, or -our Harry, said a great many wonderful things, -quite as wonderful as these, as I could show, if ‘a -mother’ ever had a minute’s time to write and tell -the world of it.” I’ve no doubt of it, my dear -madam; I shall certainly die in the belief that -children say about all there is worth listening to -in this world; but to proceed with my story. -One day, when Walter was sitting at the gate -with an attendant, a woe-begone old beggar came -up, and asked for charity. After he had received -<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>it, the attendant said, “Walter, how thankful -should you be, that you are not obliged to beg -your bread in that way.” Walter looked up wistfully, -as if he did not comprehend; then replied, -“Homer was a beggar.” “How do you know?” -asked the attendant. “Why, don’t you remember?</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c012'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“‘Seven Roman cities strove for Homer dead,</div> - <div class='line'>Through which the living Homer begged his bread.’”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c009'>How lucky that Walter was not kept in the -city! I think nothing could have made him well -but taking him just where he was taken; out on -the crags, where the fresh wind blew, and the -grass was so sweet, and everything about him -tempted him to crawl on a <i>little</i> farther, and then -a <i>little</i> farther; a tuft of moss, or a curious stone, -or some little thing which he wished to take in his -own hand, and examine more closely. Oh, I am -quite sure he must have died in the city; his poor -lame leg would have shrunk more and more, for -want of exercise; for a carpet ever so soft, can -never be like that which God has spread for the -bare feet of the poorest country child. But you -must not suppose, all this while, that he learned -<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>nothing save that which the sky, and the crags, -and the sheep taught him. Aunt Janet used to -give him lessons when he was well enough, and -as he could bear them. Ah! it is well that there -are some good women who never marry. Else, -what would so many sick children do, for patient, -careful, good, loving nurses? How many of -them have been coaxed by such round the most -dangerous point of childhood, where medicine was -nothing, and good nursing <i>everything</i>, to the astonishment -of all who prophesied an early death. -Such women have their reward, for these little -ones become almost as dear to them as if in name—as -well as in self-forgetting love—they were mothers. -God bless them all! as the silver threads -gleam amid their tresses. They will not be lonely -in Heaven.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Children are full of funny whims; though I -think, if we follow them but carefully, we shall, -oftener than not, find good reason for them. -Walter had a dislike almost amounting to terror -of a <i>statue</i>. Very likely, he might first have seen -one by a dim light, which, to his startled vision, -gave it a ghostly look. It might have been so, -though I don’t know that it was. When his Uncle -<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>Robert, who was very fond of him, found this -out, he did not laugh at him, or scold him, but he -took him, whenever it was possible, to see fine -statues; and he soon learned, not only to conquer -his dislike, but to admire their beauty exceedingly.</p> - -<p class='c009'>By and by his friends thought it was time he -went to school, he was growing so much stronger, -though not well of his lameness; in fact, I believe -that all his after life he walked with a stick. So -to school he went, I dare say, with many misgivings; -I dare say he wondered whether the -boys would make fun of his lameness. I dare say -he wondered what he should do with himself -while they were running, and leaping, and playing -all sorts of rough-and-tumble plays out of doors, -and out of school hours. I dare say he dreaded, -as do all children, the first day at a new school. I -dare say he wondered whether the education he -had picked up by bits, as his lame leg would let -him, would pass muster at a big boys’ school; or -whether he would be called “a dunce,” as well as -“lame.” I don’t know that he thought any of -these thoughts, but I shouldn’t wonder if he had. -I suppose his grandpa, and his Uncle Robert, and -his Aunt Janet all felt anxious, too; but, as it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>turned out, there was no great occasion for it, for -he seemed quite well able, after he got there, to -manage his own little affairs. In the first place, -knowing that he couldn’t “rough it” much in the -playground, and not liking, of course, to be left in -a corner alone, he commenced telling such wonderful -tales and stories, that the boys were glad -to crowd round him and listen; and they were -worth listening to; else the boys wouldn’t have -staid, I can tell you. How they <i>would</i> have -stared, had they then been told that this lame -fellow was destined to set the whole world by the -ears by the stories he should write. Ah! you -don’t know, you boys, what famous men you may -be sharing your apples and cake with in the playground. -You don’t know what a big man you -may become <i>yourself</i>, only by being <i>his</i> boyhood’s -friend. How his future biographer will hunt you -out, and catechise you about the color of his eyes, -and hair, and the shape of his finger nails, and -what he said, and did, and ate, and drank, and -what he did like, and what he didn’t like; and it -is very well you don’t know all this, because it -would spoil your present fun and freedom; and it -is very well “the master” don’t know “a genius” -<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>when he is boxing his ears, because they might -<i>grow very long</i> for the need of such discipline!</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, like other boys, Master Walter was -sometimes at the top, and sometimes at the bottom -of his class. On one occasion he made a sudden -leap to the top. The master asked the boys -“Is <i>with</i> ever a substantive?” All were silent, -until the question reached Walter, nearly at the -bottom of the class, who instantly replied by -quoting from the book of Judges, “And Sampson -said unto Delilah, ‘If they bind me with seven -green <i>withs</i> that were never dried, then shall I -be weak, and as another man.’” Pretty keen! -wasn’t it? The other boys twiddled their -thumbs, and looked foolish, and he went to the -top. I don’t believe his mother thought, when -she read him the Bible, of his laying that text on -the shelf of his memory, to be brought forth in -that queer way. But a smart answer does not -stand a boy in the place of hard study, as you -may have found out if you ever tried it; so Master -Walter found himself at the bottom of the -class again one fine day. This didn’t suit the -young man, and what suited him less was the -fact that the boy who was at the head seemed to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>mean to stay there, too. Day after day passed, -and nobody could get his place. Walter pondered -deeply how he should manage. He looked -sharply at him, to see if he could not accomplish -by stratagem what he could not gain fairly. At -length he observed that when a question was -asked this—<i>at-the-top boy</i>—he always fumbled -with his fingers at a particular button on the -lower part of his waistcoat. <i>If Walter could -only succeed in cutting off that button!</i> He -watched his chance—knife in hand. When that -top boy was again questioned, he felt, as usual, -for the friendly button. It was gone! He looked -down for it; it was no more to be seen than to be -felt. He stuttered—he stammered—he missed his -lesson; and that wretched, roguish Walter took -his place. But I can tell you he didn’t feel happy -about it; for he says he never passed him but -his heart smote him for it, though the top boy -never knew who stole his <i>lesson button</i>. Scott -says he often promised himself to make some -amends for the boyish injury he did him; but he -never did. Scott also says that when this boy -grew a young man, he became a drunkard, and -died early. That was a pity, though I don’t -<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>think it was on account of that button; do you? -Still, Scott always wished all the more that he -had not been unkind to the poor, unfortunate -fellow.</p> - -<p class='c009'>You will be glad to know that Walter continued -to grow stronger and stronger, so that his -limb, though it disfigured, did not disable him. -He had not been taunted with it in his childhood, -like poor Byron, till he imagined everybody who -looked at him thought of nothing else. He had -been very, very kindly cared for, and tenderly -nursed. Pity Byron was not, though I think he -<i>never</i> would have been half the man Scott was; -but then, I’m “<i>only a woman</i>,” and you needn’t -mind what <i>I</i> say. Well, when Walter grew to -be a fine young man, he was very fond of strolling -off to see beautiful scenery, and when he once began -these journeys, he never knew how fast time -was passing, how far he had gone, and when and -where to stop. Not knowing how to draw pictures -of the places he visited with his pencil (he -did not know then how beautifully his pen would -do it some day), he resolved to cut a branch of a -tree from every place which particularly pleased -him, and label it with the name of the spot where -<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>it grew, and afterward have a set of chess men -made out of the wood, as he was then very fond -of this game, which, by the way, with a courtesy -to Paul Morphy, I think a very stupid game; -though perhaps this is because I never could sit -still long enough to learn how to play it. This -idea of Walter’s was a very pretty one, though he -never carried it into execution. He never played -chess after boyhood—saying that it was a sad -“waste of brains;” and he might have added, a -sad waste of backbone; at least for “Young -America,” who has few enough outdoor sports -now, to keep his breastbone and his backbone -from clinging together.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Walter’s mother was very anxious he should -learn music; but he declares he had neither voice -nor ear for it. He says that, when the attempt -was made to instruct him, and the music teacher -came to give him lessons, a lady who lived in their -neighborhood sent in “to beg that the children in -that house might not all be flogged at the same -hour, because, though, doubtless, they all deserved -it, the noise they made was really dreadful!”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Walter’s mother appears to have been a very -<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>intelligent, kind-hearted, well-educated woman. -Not educated according to our standard, exactly; -since, at the age of eighty, when sitting down, -she never touched the back of her chair any more -than if the eye of the schoolmistress was then -upon her, who used to force pupils “to sit upright.” -She died before Walter came to be the -“great unknown” whom everybody was wondering -about. But, after all, what matters it, so far -as she was concerned? since it is <i>love</i>, not greatness, -for which a mother’s heart hungers; and -Walter loved his mother.</p> - -<p class='c009'>After her death, among her papers was found -a weak, boyish scrawl, with penciled marks still -visible, of a translation in verse from Horace and -Virgil, by “her dear boy Walter.” I said, just -now, what mattered it to <i>her</i> that he was famous? -little, truly, so that he loved her; and yet, for -<i>him</i>, for any one, to whom the world’s praises -have come, ah, it is of the loved dead that they -<i>then</i> think?</p> - -<p class='c009'>With all his glory, with all his troop of -friends, seen and unseen, I doubt if he was ever -so happy as when lying at <i>her</i> feet, wrapped in -the warm sheepskin, in the little sunny parlor at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>Sandy Knowe. When you read his books—and -it is a great thing to say that children <i>may</i> read -them—you will remember all these little stories I -have been telling you about his childhood; and -that, when he came to die, full of age and honors, -<i>this</i> is what he said to his son, as he stood by his -bedside: “My dear, be a good man: be virtuous, -be religious—be a <i>good</i> man. <i>Nothing else will -give you any real comfort when you come to lie -here.</i>”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span> - <h2 class='c005'>AUNT MAGGIE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Maggie More—that was her name; people -who knew her well called her Aunt Maggie; -this did not displease her; she was a sociable little -body, quite willing to befriend anybody who -felt the need of an aunt, or whom the world had -used hardly. Maggie was not rich as we use the -word, but she was rich in good health, in good -temper, and a certain faculty of making the best -of everything that happened. The little shop she -kept would have made a Broadway storekeeper -laugh. Well, let him laugh; he could afford to -do it, if he never made a dishonest penny oftener -than Aunt Maggie. <i>She</i> never told a poor soul -who had scraped a few shillings together to buy a -calico dress, that “it would wash,” (meaning that -it would wash <i>out</i>.) <i>Her</i> yardstick never had a -way of slipping, so that six yards and a half measured, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>when you got it home, but six yards. She -never gave crossed sixpences and shillings to children -who were sent to buy tape and needles; and -so, as I told you, Aunt Maggie did not get rich as -fast as they who do such things; but Maggie had -read in a Book which the people I speak of seldom -open, because, when they do, it is sure to -prick their consciences—Aunt Maggie had read in -that book, that “they who make haste to be rich -shall not be innocent,” and she believed it. She -had not yet outgrown the Bible; it did not lie on -her little deal table merely to gather dust, or that -the minister might see it when he called once a -year. She did not think that, though the Bible -was well enough for those who lived at the time -it was written, it could teach her nothing at this -day; she did not think it a proof of courage or -of a superior understanding to make light of its -blessed teachings. No, no, Aunt Maggie knew -better; she had seen too many in her lifetime, -who had talked that way when everything went -well with them, sink down in despair when the -waves of trouble dashed over them, and she had -seen too many whom that blessed book had buoyed -up through billows of trouble that rolled mountain -<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>high, not to cling to the Bible. No, no; -Aunt Maggie was an old woman, but she was not -yet old enough to let go her Heavenly Father’s -hand, and try to walk alone. She knew how surely -she should stumble and fall if she did.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Nor did Aunt Maggie’s religion consist merely -in reading her Bible and going to church; when -she read on its pages, “Visit the fatherless and -widows in their affliction,” she did it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“What is the matter, Aunt Maggie?” asked a -bronzed sea captain, who had rolled into her little -shop to buy a new watch ribbon. “This is the -first time I ever saw you look as if there was a -squall ahead. Got any watch ribbons, Aunt Maggie?—none -of your flimsy things for an old sea-dog -like me. Give us something that will stand a -twitch or two—that’s it—take your pay—(throwing -her his purse)—and mind you take enough—there’s -nobody else wants it now”—and the old -captain drew a long sigh.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“The Lord does,” answered Aunt Maggie, -folding her arms on the counter, and looking earnestly -in the captain’s face.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“What do you mean by that, hey? Has some -Bible society run a-foul of you? Want a church -<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>built, to shut out everybody who don’t believe as -you do, eh, Aunt Maggie?” and the old captain -stowed away a bit of tobacco in his cheek, with a -knowing look.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“It’s just here,” said Aunt Maggie—“the -poor ye have always with you; that was said a -great many thousand years ago, but it is just as -true now.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“I don’t know who should know, Aunt, better -than you,” said the captain; “you who are always -helping them. Go on.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Well, there’s a poor young creature who lies -dead a stone’s throw from here, an English girl, -whose husband brought her to this country, and -then left her to take care of herself. I was -with her all last night, and this morning she laid -her little babe in my arms, and I promised to -care for it when she was gone. Poor thing! she -had her senses but a few minutes to tell me anything. -Her parents, it seems, disinherited her for -marrying her husband. She would not tell their -name. She had pawned, one by one, every article -in her possession, for money; and now, there’s -the babe. God helping me, she shall be taken -care of as I promised, but you know it’s little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>I have—and the mother must have decent -burial.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“English—did you say she was?” asked the -captain.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Aye—English,” said Aunt Maggie—“fair-haired -and blue-eyed—the pride of some home. -Oh! how little they, who must have loved her -once, think how cold and desolate she lies now. -It is well,” said Aunt Maggie, “that <i>God</i> can forgive—when -earthly parents turn away.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“You don’t know what it is, Aunt Maggie,” -said the captain, striding across the floor, “to -have the child you loved better than your heart’s -blood, leave your arms for a stranger’s, whom she -has known mayhap but a day.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“It must be bitter,” said Aunt Maggie, “and -yet, year after year, we turn our backs upon Him -who has done more for us than any earthly parent -can. If He still feeds us, cares for us, forgives -us, what are <i>we</i> to——”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“True—true!” said the old captain, dashing -his hand across his eyes; “this girl is English, you -say?”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Yes; and as you are English too, I thought -mayhap you’d like to help a countrywoman; I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>am going to see to the babe now,” said Aunt -Maggie; “mayhap you’d like to see it too?”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Aye—aye,” replied the captain.</p> - -<p class='c009'>On they went, to the end of the long street—past -grog shops, and pawn shops, and mock-auction -shops, and second-hand furniture shops, and -rickety old tenement houses, where ragged clothes -flapped, and broken windows were stuffed with -paper; where dogs barked and parrots screamed—for -many of these poor people, who can scarcely -keep themselves, keep these pets,—past young -girls, homeless and shameless, alas!—past young -men, old, not in years, but in sin—past little children, -who only knew God’s blessed name to blaspheme -it. At last Aunt Maggie turned down an -alley, dark, narrow, and dingy, and entering one -of the low doors, began to ascend the creaky -stairs, that seemed swarming with children, of all -sorts and sizes, dwarfed in the cradle by disease -and neglect. When Aunt Maggie reached the -top flight, she stopped before a door, through -which came the faint wailing of a little babe, and -the low lullaby of a woman’s voice. Upon the -bed, opposite the door, lay the dead woman, with -a sheet thrown over her face.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>“Would you like to see her?” asked Aunt -Maggie, turning to the captain. “’Tis a sweet -face.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Yes—no,” answered the captain, turning -away, and then advancing again toward the bed.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Mary! Mary!” he cried, as the pale upturned -face lay uncovered before him: “<i>my</i> -Mary <i>here</i>!” and he threw his arms around the -neck of the dead girl, and trembled like the strong -tree before the tempest blast.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“<i>His</i> Mary!” murmured Aunt Maggie, taking -the motherless babe from the old woman’s arms; -“<i>his</i> Mary—then this is his grandchild. Didn’t I -say that the Lord would provide for the helpless?”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Yes, “<i>his</i> Mary!” Death hides all faults. -We only remember the goodness of those upon -whose marble faces our tears fall fast; and so the -old captain took his little grandchild to his heart, -and Aunt Maggie left her little shop and became -its nurse. And not till many years after, when -the little babe had grown to be a tall girl, did -Aunt Maggie tell her the story that I have been -telling you.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span> - <h2 class='c005'>A FUNERAL I SAW.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I have been to a funeral to-day. It was in a -church;—I had to pass through a garden to -reach it;—the warm rain was dropping gently on -the shrubs and early flowers, and inside warm -tears were falling; for before the chancel lay a -coffin, and in it was a fair young wife and mother, -pale and sweet as the white flowers that lay upon -the coffin-lid. Near it was her husband, and beside -him were her aged parents, bowed down -with grief that she who they thought would close -their fading eyes, should fade first. In a house -opposite the church, were the dead mother’s -babe, only a few days old, and two other little -ones, just old enough to prattle unconsciously as -they went from room to room, “Mamma has gone -away.” I knew, though they did not, how day -after day would pass, and these little girls, who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>had always seen mamma <i>come back again</i>, after -she had “gone away,” would stand at the window, -looking this way and that, with their little -bright faces, and listening for her light footstep; -and my heart ached and my eyes filled as I -thought how every day, as they grew older, they -would need her care and feel her loss the more; -for it is only in part that a father, even the -kindest, can fill a watchful mother’s place;—he, -whose business must be out of doors and away; -how can he know how weary the little feet get -wandering up and down, with no mamma’s lap -to climb upon; how weary the little hands,—putting -down one thing, and taking up another, with -no mamma to nod smilingly and say, “I see”—or -“it is very pretty, dear;” how homesick the little -rifled heart feels, though it scarce knows why; -how tasteless the pretty cup of milk mamma used -to hold to the rosy lips; how empty parlor and -nursery, chamber and hall? How much less gentle -is nurse’s touch than hers; how much sooner she -wearies of answering little curious questions, and -getting bits of string and toys for restless fingers -to play with; how much longer seems the time -now, before papa comes home to dinner and tea,—poor papa—who, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>with an iron hand, crushes -down his own great sorrow and tries and fails -to speak to them in <i>her</i> soft, sweet, winning way; -and tries and fails to soothe their little insect -griefs, though he would die to save them a -heart-pang.</p> - -<p class='c009'>All this I thought of as I looked at these two -little curly-headed girls and their baby sister; -and I said to myself, I do not know why God -took away their young mother, whose work just -seemed begun, and left the aged grand parents -who were waiting to go. Why he made that -house desolate and silent, once so musical. Why -he turned those tender lambs out from that soft, -warm fold. With all my thinking I could not -find that out; but I am just as sure, as if I could, -that He did it in love, not in anger; I am just as -sure as if I were in Heaven this minute, that it -was best and right; though they, and you, and I, -must wait till we get there to know the how -and why.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span> - <h2 class='c005'>WATCHES.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Every urchin has had the little gilt toy-watch -that is always at half-past seven -o’clock. Who should attempt to convince its -happy possessor that it did not keep good time, -or it was not the exact counterpart “of father’s,” -would be trespassing upon the good old proverb, -that where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise. -Next to this comes the silver watch, which -“goes;” <i>really</i> goes; and which is susceptible -of being wound up by its short-jacketed owner, -on his way to school, to drive some non-watch-possessing -boy to the verge of distraction. The -manner in which this watch is alternately set forward -and allowed to run down at the caprice of -its owner, is known only to anxious parents, -whose entreaties in favor of a more systematic -mode of treatment, and whose threats of taking -<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>it away, go into one ear only to go out at the -other. Then there is the Ladies’ Lilliputian -watch; the dear little mite, perhaps set around -with diamonds. This dear little mite, so pretty to -look at, with its curious chatelaine of little trinkets, -dangling at the belt. Time would fail to tell how -often it is unnecessarily inspected in omnibuses, -cars, and ferry-boats; in shops, and places of -amusement, and on the public promenade; and -how dainty looks the jeweled forefinger of the -owner, as the obedient lid obeys the touch on -the spring. All this is interesting till it gets to -be an old story; till all its owner’s lady-friends -have commented approbatively or despairingly -upon it as the case may be. Then, it is occasionally -left on the sofa, or piano, or mantel, over night, -instead of nestling in its soft-cushioned box in the -drawer, as at first; or it is dropped on the hearth, -or it is left hanging for days in the watch-pocket -of some one of the many dresses in the closet, -until a speedy visit to the watchmaker’s seems -essential to its restoration to activity.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The watchmaker smiles as he examines it; he -has seen “ladies’ watches” many a time, and oft. -He understands without explanation why it don’t -<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>“keep as good time as my husband’s,” or “my -brother Tom’s watch;” he keeps his gravity -when he is asked if hanging it up, or wearing it, -is most conducive to its health, or if it can possibly -be that its galloping one time and standing -still at others is owing to a defect in the machinery. -He smiles blandly; advises leaving it on a -short visit; has the hands pointed right, and the -case polished up with chamois-skin and rouge; -and restores it to its dainty owner, always with -the proper charge for its board and lodging, -with a suppressed grin.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Next comes the “presentation watch,” which -is often seen on exhibition at the show-windows -of Topaz and Brothers; a massive showy -affair, bought by some public person, <i>to give -to himself</i>, or herself, through this flattering -medium. The uninitiated stand gaping, gazing, -wondering and coveting, through the glass -windows, as they read the laudatory inscription. -Bless ’em, they will be wiser, if they live long -enough.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then there is Papa’s watch, which was “never -known to go wrong,” no more than its owner; oh -no! Other clocks, other watches may point where -<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>and as they like; <i>his</i> is the only infallible. Biddy, -the cook, may quote the kitchen clock till she is -black in the face to bear her out in serving the -family meals at just such a moment; her retort -of, “and sure didn’t the masther set the kitchen clock -his own self,” avails her nothing, while <i>that</i> -oracular watch is five minutes ahead of it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then there is grandpa’s lumbering, great, old-fashioned, -silver watch; with a great big cornelian -seal hanging to the silver chain; grandpa laughs -to scorn all the flibbertigibbet inventions of -modern days; he tells how <i>that</i> watch was -worn by his brave grandsire at the battle of -Bunker Hill; yes, sir; and shows a place where -a bullet <i>should</i> have spoiled it, if it didn’t; so -narrow was the escape. Grandpa has left that -watch in his will to his favorite grandson; and -never dreams, poor old man, that he will very -likely use it to pay off some foolish debt, one of -these degenerate days.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Lastly, there is the matron’s solid, sensible, -gold watch; worn for use, not show, on a simple -black cord about the neck; unless when it -hangs over the toilet-table while she is changing -her dress. Examine it closely, and you will see -<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>numerous little indentations in the case. Not -for worlds would she have them removed, by -any jeweler who ever polished a diamond. Sometimes -she sits in her nursery, with that watch in -her hand, passing her finger slowly over those -indentations, while warm tears drop over them; -for little Johnny—whose little frocks lie folded -away, and may never more be worn—little Johnny -made those places, with the pained teeth which -caused at last the cruel death-spasms. How -many times she has sat with him on her knee, -holding that watch between his lips, and hearing -the grit of those two little front teeth upon it. -She remembers the very morning she first discovered -that those little pearly treasures had -found their way through the swollen flesh; and -she remembers how papa was called, and the -watch put between the coral lips, that he too -might hear the wonderful sound; and she remembers -how baby laughed; and how rosy his -cheeks were, that morning; and how they both -kissed him; and how——but dear, dear! the -tick of that watch is the only music in the -nursery now.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span> - <h2 class='c005'>OLD ZACHARIAH.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Did you ever see Zachariah Tubbs? No, of -course you haven’t; he was not a man you’d -be likely to notice; you, who take off your hat -so killingly to a dainty French bonnet; you who -make way for old Lorenzo Dives, the fat, wealthy -old whited sepulchre of a banker; of course you -never saw Tubbs. Tubbs didn’t belong to “your -set.” Tubbs was a hale old man who believed -carriages were for sick folks, and legs were to -walk with. Tubbs never ran away with another -man’s wife, nor got drunk, nor cheated his neighbor. -How should <i>you</i> know Tubbs?</p> - -<p class='c009'>Sunday after Sunday his shiny bald head came -into church, with its fringe of snow-white hair; -the ruddy hue of his cheek deepening and deepening -as he grew older. There he was in his place, -forenoon and afternoon, singing as only those sing, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>who have learned to say lovingly and filially “Our -Father;” he, and the children God had given -him,—a good round dozen—girls and boys,—half -and half—“not one too many,” as the old man -said every time a new name was registered in -the Family Bible; Sally’s and Mary’s and Jenny’s -and Helen’s; Tommy’s, Charley’s, Billy’s, and -Sammy’s; all of them free to chop up the piano -for kindling wood if they chose, and that perhaps -was the reason they <i>didn’t</i> choose. I don’t think -the old man ever thought of the phrase “family -government;” but for all that he had a way -of laying his hand on little heads, that was as -soothing as the “hop” pillows, which country -ladies use to hurry up their naps with. One -after another the girls grew up to maidenhood -and womanhood, and one after another married, -and left the old homestead for houses of their -own; throwing their arms round the neck of the -good old man as they went, but still, with a world -of love and pride in the tearful glance which -rested the next minute on the husband they -had chosen. Ah me—! one after another they -all came back, doubled and trebled, to lay their -heads again under the old roof-tree, where they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>could never know again the lightsome, care-free -dreams of girlhood.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Not a complaint, not a reproach for their misfortunes -(for such things <i>have</i> been) from the -silver-haired old patriarch. He, smiling, blessed -them all the same, rising up and sitting down, -going out and coming in—they and theirs; that -they were poor and desolate built up no separating -wall between him and them. A few more chairs -at the hearth—a few more loaves on the table—that -was all. There was enough and to spare in -that father’s house, for their tastes were simple, -and the morning and evening prayer went up on -as strong wings of faith as if no cloud had settled -on the fair, matronly faces about him.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The boys? oh, yes, the boys; well, they outgrew -jackets, and went into longtailed coats and -“stores.” Business fought shy of them. I suppose, -because they were too honest to cheat; but -the old man said, “Never mind; try again, boys; -there’s always a place for you here, when things -go awry.” And things did go awry; and one after -another the boys came home too, till they could -“turn round again.” Never a wrinkle more on -the smooth white forehead of Zachariah—never -<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>a smile less on his placid face; no frownings and -fidgetings and pshawings when little feet pattered -loudly in parlor and hall; some on his shoulders, -some on his knees, some at his feet; <i>still</i>, “not -one too many,” and each, as he said, worth a thousand -dollars apiece; and Heaven knows they cost -him that, first and last; but he was not a man to -remember it, as he sat in their midst, with his -spectacles on his nose and his Bible on his knee, -reading all the precious promises garnered there, -for just such as he. “It is all right,” he said at -the altar; “It is all right,” he said over the coffin; -“It is all right,” he said, when he folded his worse -than widowed daughters to his warm, fatherly -heart.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Ah! laugh at this good old man’s Bible if you -like; I know it is the fashion; it is considered -smart and knowing, and all that, to put out the -sun, and try to grope through the world by one’s -own little glimmering taper. Wait a bit—till -your feet stumble on the dark mountains; till the -great cry of your agony goes up to that God, -whom, loading you with blessings, you yet reject -and disown; like the willful son, who, in the lordly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>pride of new-fledged manhood, turns contemptuously -from the mother who will never cease to -love him; and yet—and yet—<i>his first great sorrow -finds him with his head on her breast</i>.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span> - <h2 class='c005'>LITTLE GERTRUDE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>And so you are “sorry it is Sunday.” That is -a pity. I would like to make Sunday the -pleasantest day of the whole week to you. I -should not require you to sit still with your hands -folded. I could not do that myself, so I am sure -I should not expect it of a restless little child. -I should not make you read all day, because I -should know you would get too weary to understand -what you were reading; I should be almost -sure, when my eye was off you, or my back turned, -that you would pull a string out of your pocket to -play with, or tie your handkerchief up in knots, or -fall asleep. I should expect if I did so that you -would say, “I am sorry Sunday has come.” I -know that a great many very good people think -very differently from me about these things; but -I can’t help thinking, when I hear their children -<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>say, “I am sorry Sunday has come,” that <i>I</i> am -more right than <i>they</i>. Let me tell you a story:</p> - -<p class='c009'>Gertrude’s father was dead. He loved Gertrude -better than anything in the world except -Gertrude’s mother. He was never weary of her—never -too tired with business to kiss her when -he came home. On Sunday he took her on his -knee, and told her how cunning little Moses -looked in his little cradle in the bulrushes, where -his mother had placed him, hoping that the king’s -daughter would take him for her own baby, and -so keep him from being killed like the other little -Hebrew babies; and then Gertrude would ask him -all sorts of questions about it, and clap her little -hands when the king’s daughter did take him and -chose his own dear mother (though she did not -know her to be his mother) to be his nurse. And -then Gertrude would wonder how this nurse could -possibly keep from telling little Moses, when he -got big enough to understand her, that she <i>was</i> -his own mother; and then she would say, “Oh, -papa, I know they <i>did</i> have nice times when nobody -was by to see the poor Hebrew mother kiss -her own baby.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well—when they had done talking about that, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>Gertrude’s father would tell her of the Syrian -maid who cured the sick prophet; and the story -of Daniel, and the story of the ravens who fed -Elijah; and then by and by the bells would ring -for church, and Gertrude would take hold of her -father’s hand and walk along with him past the -beautiful fields, where the tall grass waved, and -the little ground-bird built her nest, and down -the winding grassy road, under the shady oaks, -and elms, and maples, round whose trunks the -sweet brier and wild grape climbed, and then -Gertrude would stop to pick the wild roses; and -her Papa did not tell her it was “wicked” or -wrong to gather flowers on Sunday, but he would -tell her to bring him a clover blossom, or a daisy, -or a rose, and show her how different they were -one from the other in shape, color and perfume, -and yet how beautiful was each; and then he -would show her the dew-drops strung upon the -blades of grass glistening in the sunlight; and -the contented cattle, their tired necks relieved -from the heavy yoke, lying in the shade, thanking -God for Sunday <i>by enjoying it</i>, teaching us a -dumb lesson, which we should do well to learn, -always keeping in mind that we have souls, while -<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>they have not. Well—then Gertrude and her -Papa went into church. Gertrude liked the singing -very much; her Papa sung beside her, and -sometimes after looking cautiously round, for she -was a timid little thing, she would sing softly -too, her little finger moving along the line of the -hymn they were singing. Gertrude did not -understand all the sermon, her Papa did not -expect that she would, but he always took her -to church half a day, because the minister never -forgot that little children had souls, and always -had something to say to them in every sermon. -After church, when Gertrude skipped along home -like a little kid, by his side, her father did not -think it a sin, or say “sh—sh”—when she gave -a merry little laugh because God had made the -world so fair and given her so much love and -happiness that she could not possibly keep it all -pent up in her little heart; not he—he patted her -pure uplifted forehead, and the world seemed -very fair to him too, and Sunday very blessed.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Gertrude’s father has blessed Sabbaths still—but -not on earth; and little Gertrude, with her -warm trusting heart, has passed from his pleasant -smile, and sheltering arms, over the threshold of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>a strange, cold home. Sunday comes and goes to -little Gertrude, but oh how wearily! They who -have the care of her think that God is pleased -with long faces, and so Gertrude is placed in a -chair after breakfast Sunday morning, and forbidden -to stir till the bell rings for church; she -may not step out on the piazza to see God smile -on the green earth; she may not enjoy the blue -sky, or bright flowers, which he has spread out -to make the Sabbath “a delight;” she must fix -her eyes on a book, and read—read—read—till -her brain reels, and then she goes to church morning—afternoon—evening—till -at last <i>she</i> too has -learned to say, “I am so sorry ’tis Sunday.”</p> -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_248.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p>THE FAITHFUL DOG.—Page <a href='#Page_249'>249</a>.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE FAITHFUL DOG.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>We all know that animals have no souls, and -yet it is sometimes hard to believe it, when -they give, as they often do, such proofs of intelligence. -I am very sure that I have been as -much attached to a dog or a horse, which has -been my constant companion, as I have to human -beings. And, after all, who more human than -they? what beautiful examples they have set us -of constancy, of patience, and of kindness to those -who have injured them.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Listen, while I tell you a story of a dog belonging -to an English nobleman. The farmers -in the neighborhood of this gentleman complained -to him that the dog frightened their -flocks; and one of them finding a dead lamb, -one day, brought it in his arms to the nobleman, -accusing the dog of the murder. The nobleman -<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>had no proof that his dog killed the lamb; but, -as he was just about starting upon a long journey, -and not wishing either to take the dog with him, -or leave him behind to the angry farmers, he -said to his servant, pointing to the dog, who lay -upon the carpet, “Take that dog, after I have gone, -and give him away to somebody at a distance, -that these farmers may not be finding fault with -him, and troubling me when I come back.” He -then left the room. The dog, who understood, -at least, the tones of his master’s voice, and the -glance of his eye, if nothing else, waited till he -heard his footsteps die away, and then immediately -took leave of the house, and all it contained, -and started off by himself. In the evening, the -nobleman, not seeing the dog about as usual, asked -his servant if he had disposed of him. The servant -said he had not, and spent an hour to no -purpose, in searching for him. All the servants -were questioned, but none knew anything of the -dog; and they, together with the nobleman, came -to the conclusion, that the angry farmer who had -imagined that he had killed his lamb, had killed -him out of revenge.</p> - -<p class='c009'>About a year after this, the nobleman, who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>was journeying with his servant in Scotland, -being overtaken by a storm, took shelter in a -very poor inn, quite away from the main road. -As the storm kept increasing, he concluded to stay -all night. The landlord and his wife looked -strangely at each other, when he told them this, -and the maid servant who spread the cloth for -his supper seemed quite disconcerted. “She is -evidently not accustomed to wait upon lords,” -said the nobleman to his servant, “and is awkward -and embarrassed, you see, in consequence.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>He ate with a good appetite the plain fare -that she set before him, and was still seated at -the table, when the door was pushed open and -in came—a dog—<i>his</i> dog,—the very dog he -thought had been killed by the farmer. “Good -heavens!” he exclaimed to his servant, “my -dear old dog;” and he stretched out his hand to -pat him. But the dog, after looking long and -earnestly at his master, shrank away from him, -and took the first opportunity to go out of the -room; but still took his station on the outside, -as if watching for something. Of the dog’s history, -the nobleman learned from the hostler, that -he had followed some travelers there, and being -<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>very foot-sore and weary, remained there when -they went away, and had been there ever since; -“and,” added the hostler, “he is as harmless a dog -as ever lived.” By and by the nobleman went up -to his chamber; when he got to the top of the -stairs, the dog sprang before him, with a fierce -growl, and planted himself between his old master -and the door, as if to prevent his entrance. The -nobleman patted him, calling him by the kind -old names he used to like, and the dog licked his -hand, as if to say, “oh yes, I remember them all;” -but still he stood before the door to prevent his -master from going inside.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then the dog, still looking at his master, -moved in advance a few paces, would go down -one stair, then run back, and tug at his master’s -clothes with the greatest violence; then rub -his face fondly against his master’s side, and -whine and coax, trembling all the while with -agitation and excitement.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“One would suppose, by the behavior of my -dog, that there was something wrong about this -house,” said the nobleman to his servant.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The servant looked anxious, but only said, “I -wish we had not come here, your honor.”</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>“There is no help for it now,” said his master; -“the storm is perfectly furious, so I’ll make -the best of it and go to bed. We have pistols, if -there’s mischief brewing; you sleep, I suppose, in -the little room near mine.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>During this conversation, the dog seemed very -uneasy, and when the servant left the room he ran -to the door, looking back, as if hoping his master -would go too; and when he advanced a few steps, -he jumped up and down as if beside himself with -joy; but, upon finding that he only did it to close -the chamber door, he hung his head, and looked -as disconsolate as he had just before looked -delighted.</p> - -<p class='c009'>His master could not help observing all this, -but he felt determined not to give way to his fears. -The dog chose a particular part of the room to -lie down in, and no entreaties could get him away -from that spot. So the nobleman got into bed, -and after listening awhile, and hearing nothing -but the storm, and being wearied with his journey, -fell asleep.</p> - -<p class='c009'>He did not sleep long, for the dog kept pacing -about the chamber, sometimes coming close to -the bed-curtains, and sometimes whining piteously, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>and seeming not at all comforted even when his -master’s hand patted him so kindly. Again his -master fell asleep; but he was soon roused by his -faithful four-footed watchman, whom he heard -scratching violently at the closet-door, and gnashing -his teeth, and growling furiously. His master -jumped out of bed and listened; the storm had -ceased, so that he heard distinctly every noise. -The dog was still trying to force a passage into -the closet with his paws, and not being able to -do so, attempted with his strong teeth to gnaw -at it mouse-fashion.</p> - -<p class='c009'>There is no doubt the mischief, whatever it -may be, is in that closet, thought the nobleman; -yet it was impossible to open it, because, after -forcing the lock, it was found secured on the -inside.</p> - -<p class='c009'>A slight rapping was now heard at the chamber -door, and the servant whispered through the -key-hole—“For mercy’s sake, my lord, let me in.” -The nobleman, taking his pistols in his hand, went -to the door and opened it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“I have never closed my eyes,” said the servant; -“all seems quiet up stairs and down, but -why does that dog keep up such a furious -barking?”</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>“That’s just what I mean to know,” replied -his master, bursting in the closet door. The -moment the dog saw that, in he rushed with -his master and the servant; but unfortunately, -just then the candle went out, so that they could -see nothing, though they heard a rustling noise -at the farther end of the closet, and the nobleman -thought best to fire off one of his pistols, by way -of alarm; as he did so, the dog uttered a piercing -cry, and then a low groan.</p> - -<p class='c009'>“It is not possible I have killed my brave dog -my noble defender!” said the nobleman mournfully. -He started for a light, and met the landlord coming -with one in his hand, which he snatched from -him without answering any of his questions; the -landlord followed; and giving one glance at the -closet, exclaimed to his attendants, who were -behind him, “It is all over.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, without horrifying you with particulars, -the amount of the matter was, that a door led -from that closet out into the stable yard; that -through that door, up into the closet, and then -into the chamber, the bad landlord had entered, -and killed a traveler for his money, just before -the nobleman arrived. He had then hurriedly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>thrust the bloody body into a sack and thrown it -into that closet, intending when the nobleman -went to sleep to take it away, and then murder -him also. But the dog was too keen for him. -It made no difference to the dog, that the master, -whose life he wished to save, had once turned -him, a petted favorite, out of doors. The dog -remembered not that he had injured him, but -that he was still his master, and was once kind to -him, and by every sign, <i>except</i> speech, had he -entreated him not to sleep in that room.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The wounded dog, after the discovery, licked -his master’s hand, as if to say, “I have saved your -life, now I am willing to die.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>You can imagine the feelings of his master -as he afterward bound up his wounds, and when -the innkeeper and his accomplices were handed -over to justice, how tenderly he carried the dog -in his arms till he reached his home; how the -nobleman’s wife and children hugged and petted -him, and made a soft bed for his wounded limb; -and how the tears came into their eyes, whenever -they thought how generously he had taken his -revenge for being turned out of doors. Ah, it -will not do for us to call those “<i>brutes</i>” whose -daily lives put ours to shame!</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>One thing more, how surely the Eye that -never sleeps, brings hidden wickedness to justice! -and what humble agents, as in this case, are -sometimes employed to do it, and how often -those wretches who plan a murder or robbery -with such wonderful skill, yet after all, overlook -some little thread which they have left behind, -which the law seizes hold of, and winds round -their throats. Ah! it is only <i>in seeming</i> that sin -prospers.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span> - <h2 class='c005'>A QUESTION ANSWERED.</h2> -</div> -<p class='c013'>TO THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WRITES FOR MY INTERCESSION -IN HER FAVOR, “BECAUSE HER MOTHER -DOES EVERYTHING AS I SAY.”</p> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Does she? Then I must be very careful what -I say. I have had many letters from little -girls, whose bright eyes I never shall see, begging -me to say this, that, or the other thing, in print, -that their mammas may see it, and so grant them -the favors they desire. Now I don’t like to come -between a mother and her own little girl. I -should not allow any one to do that to me. I -think I know more about my little girl than any -one else can possibly know. I watch her closely, -I know all her faults and all her good points, and -I think I understand how to deal justly with both, -though I may be mistaken. I have never “forbidden -her to read tales or stories,” as you say -your mother has you, because I think children -<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>should be allowed to read them at proper times, -when they are good and innocent, no matter -how “startling” and “wonderful” they may -be. Studying is dry work, though necessary, -and most schools, as now conducted, inexpressibly -tedious to a restless, active child; and after -school hours are over, and a good dinner has been -eaten, and a brisk run has been taken out of doors -for exercise, I think it does a child good to read a -nice, bright story. I often bring storybooks to -my little girl, and when I find any interesting -anecdote in a big book I am reading, I turn down -the leaf, that she may read it too, and we often -talk it over, and sometimes she thinks very differently -from me about it, and then I like to get -at her reasons for doing so; and often she will -use a big word to express herself that I doubt she -knows the meaning of, although she has used it -quite correctly, and when I say, “Now, what -does that big word mean?” she says, “Oh, I -can’t tell you, <i>but I know it fits in there</i>;” and -so it does. Now I think this makes home pleasant -for her, and I always fancy she is more willing -to go back to her books and her lessons -after it.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>Now perhaps it is <i>your</i> fault that your mother -has denied you “tales and stories.” It may be -that you not only neglect your lessons altogether -for them, but your home duties also—for even -little girls can and ought to help their mothers -at home in a thousand ways. Suppose you try -getting your lessons, and doing whatever she -wishes at home and at school, and then see if -she is not willing you should read good, innocent -stories. I think she would be, for every mother -knows that <i>her</i> household duties go on much -more smoothly and pleasantly if she occasionally -takes a walk, or visits a friend, or reads a pleasant -book, and surely this must be true of a little girl, -after sitting many hours in a schoolroom, repeating -words which often convey no ideas to her -mind, sometimes because the teacher only makes -it more misty when he tries to explain it; mamma, -perhaps, thinking it is the teacher’s business, -and the teacher thinking it is mamma’s fault, when -the child complains to either; sometimes because -the little brain is so overtasked, that its owner -settles down into listless discouragement; sometimes -because the air of the schoolroom is so bad -as to stupefy both teacher and scholar. I often -<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>wish that when teachers see their pupils’ cheeks -flush, and their heads droop, they would stop -study, and read some interesting book aloud for -half an hour. I am very sure that their scholars -would study all the better after it. I don’t think a -good story at proper times hurts any girl or boy. -Childhood craves it, and, <i>I</i> think, should have -it, and I hope many good men and women will -continue to keep up the supply for them, and I -hope that no little child, because I say this, will be -so foolish as to think that eating cake <i>all</i> the time -is better than to live on bread, and eat cake <i>occasionally</i>, -for it is labor, after all, that sweetens -amusement, when we feel and know that we have -earned it. You know you can’t play all your -life. You can’t read storybooks always. One -of these days you must be an earnest woman, -take care of your own house, tend your own little -baby, who will look straight into your eyes and -believe everything <i>you</i> tell it, right or wrong, as -if God himself were speaking. This is very -sweet, but it is very solemn too; you must prepare -for this, and one way is <i>never to neglect -duty for pleasure</i>. Labor first—amusement afterward.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE NURSE’S DAY OUT.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>We all know that “nobody is to blame” when -a railroad accident occurs. The same is -true of waking up a baby. Mothers know -what delicate management is often required -to lull baby to sleep. How many tunes have -sometimes to be hummed, how many walkings -up and down the floor, how many trottings, -how many rockings, how many feedings, before -this desirable event comes off. At last the little -lids give promise of drooping, the little waxen -paws fall helpless, the little kicking toes are -quiescent, mamma draws a breath of relief, as she -pushes her hair off her heated face, and baby -looks as if nothing on earth could ever disturb -its serenity. Won’t there? Tramp, tramp, tramp, -comes the baby’s papa up stairs with a pair of -creaking boots. Mamma rushes to the nursery -<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>door, with warning forefinger on her lips and an -imploring “John, dear, the baby! it is the nurse’s -day out—pray don’t wake her up.” “John, dear,” -true to his sex, creaks on, and argues this wise, -“My dear, I’ve often noticed that it isn’t <i>that</i> -kind of noise that ever wakes baby.” Of course, -mamma is too much of a woman not to know that -a <i>man is never mistaken</i> even with regard to a -subject he knows nothing about; but it strikes -her that sometimes strategy is a good thing; so -the next day she places his slippers below stairs -in a very conspicuous and tempting position, -trusting that his tired feet may naturally seek -that relief. I say <i>naturally</i>, because she knows -that he would as soon thrust his feet into two -pots of boiling water as put them in those slippers, -if he thought the idea came from a <i>female</i> -mind, so naturally does the male creature hedge -about his godlike dignity. Well, the baby is -quieted and patted down again; when in comes -its aunty, and begins to brush the lint off her -dress with a stiff scraping sound. To a remonstrance -she replies, “Just as if <i>that</i> noise could -wake up baby;” and while she yet speaks, up go -the little fat hands in the air, and the eyelids -<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>struggle to unclose, and mamma begins humming -again “Yankee Doodle” or “Old Hundred,” saucy -or sacerdotal, no matter which, it is all the same -to Morpheus. This accomplished she creeps on -tiptoe away from the bed, congratulating herself -that <i>now</i> certainly she can get a breathing spell -and time to change her morning dress. Just then -“dear John” appears again, and wants something; -a bit of string, or a bottle, maybe, but -whatever it is, he is sure it is on the top shelf in -the closet of that room; and though he is not -going to use it immediately, he wants it <i>found</i> -immediately because—he <i>wants</i> it! and because, -though “impatient woman can never wait an -instant for anything,” man is very like her in -that respect, though he don’t see it. So the -search is instituted, and down tumbles one -thing and then another off the shelves, rattling -and rustling and bumping, and finally it is discovered -that “the pesky thing” isn’t there, but -is down in the kitchen cupboard; this piece of -information dear John conveys to his wife in a -shrill “sissing” whisper, “because a whisper,” -he says, how loud soever, “never yet woke up a -baby!”</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>Just then the large violet eyes unclose and -the little mouth dimples into a pretty smile of -recognition, and “dear John,” whose attention is -called to it, exclaims, peeping into the crib, “Well -now, who’d have thought it?” and creaks off down -stairs after his bottle or ball of string as calm as -a philosopher; and then asks his wife at dinner -“if she has mended that lining in his coat-sleeve -that he spoke about at breakfast time.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span> - <h2 class='c005'>SWEET SIXTEEN.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Poetically, it is very well. Practically, I -object to it. Has it ever “a decent dress,” -although the family seamstress works from morning -till night of every day in the year, taking in -and letting out, lengthening and shortening, -narrowing here and widening there? The very -first day a new dress is worn, don’t “sweet -sixteen” tear it, and that in a most conspicuous -place, and in the most zig-zag manner? <i>Could</i> -she “help it,” when there is always a protruding -nail or splinter lying in wait purposely for her, -which by no foresight of hers could be walked -round, or avoided? Don’t the clouds always -seem to know when she has on a new bonnet, -and the mud when she wears new gaiters? And -when she wants her umbrella at school, isn’t “the -nasty thing” always at home, and when she needs -it at home, is it not always perversely at school? -<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>Don’t “sweet sixteen,” when she takes a notion -to sit down and sew, always locate herself by the -side of the bed, which she sticks full of needles, -and going her way straightway forgetteth, till -roused by the shrieks of punctured sufferers? -Don’t “sweet sixteen” always leave the street -door open, and the gas in her room burning at -high pressure all night? Does she ever own a -boot-lacing, or a pin, or a collar, although purchases -of these articles are made for her continually, -if not oftener? Isn’t her elder sister always -your “favorite,” and was she ever known to like -her breakfast, dinner or supper, or prefer wholesome -food to sweet and dyspeptic messes? Is -she ever ready to go to bed of a night, or get -up of a morning? Don’t she always insist on -wearing high heels to her boots, which are constantly -putting her feet where her head should -be? Don’t she always, though consulted as to -the hues and make of her garments, fret at the -superior color and fit of those of Adelina Seraphina -Elgitha Smith’s? And finally, although -she has everything she wants, or thinks she wants, -isn’t everything, and everybody, “<i>real mean, -and so there!</i>”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span> - <h2 class='c005'>SITTING FOR MY PORTRAIT.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>The other day I was riding in an omnibus, -when it got too full by one little girl, whom -I offered to take on my lap, as the mother had -her arms full of parcels. She sat for a moment -on my knee with her finger in her mouth, and -head turned shyly away. Then she made up her -little mind to look round in my face, and see -whether or no she would continue to stay with -me. I declare that I awaited that scrutiny as -bashfully as ever a timid lover did his maiden’s -answer. I actually felt the blood rushing up to -my cheek, as the clear blue eyes looked searchingly -into mine, as if God himself were asking, “Lovest -thou me?”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then the little thing turned her head away -again, but not till she had given me a warm, -bright smile, by which I knew that her heart -<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>knew no fear of me. I did not speak, because -we understood each other; I waited as one waits -near a bush upon which a little humming bird -has alighted—fearful lest a breath should disturb -it. By and by she gave a careless glance out the -omnibus window, and says—by way of encouraging -me—“There’s horses out there.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Yes,” said I.</p> - -<p class='c009'>She waited a few minutes longer—then finding -me still apparently bashful—she says—</p> - -<p class='c009'>“There’s shops out there.”</p> - -<p class='c009'>“Yes,” said I again.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Then she waited another while—and then -turning her cunning little face full upon me as -if determined to <i>make</i> me speak, she says—</p> - -<p class='c009'>“<i>Ain’t</i> there many <i>peoples</i> out there?”</p> - -<p class='c009'>Now you may laugh—but that child’s favorable -verdict, after looking at me so intently, gave -me more pleasure than I know how to tell you; -had she jumped down off my lap—I shouldn’t -have dared to face my looking-glass that day, -lest some hateful passion, born of the world’s -strife, had written its satanic “Get thee behind -me,” on my face.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span> - <h2 class='c005'>ABOUT A JOURNEY I TOOK.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>When I was a little girl, I disliked traveling, -above all things; the very idea of going -away from the chimney-corner, gave me a homesick -feeling at once. I would rather have stayed -all alone in the house, than ridden off with the -merriest party that ever wore traveling dresses. -I had a kind of cat-liking for my corner, and as -I always had plenty to think about, I was never -troubled at being left alone. Now, that I have -girls of my own, I like “my corner” better than -ever, but I have changed about traveling, which -I like very much in pleasant company. By “traveling” -I don’t mean going round the country -with heaps of dresses in big trunks, and parading -up and down on the piazza of a hotel, to show -them off. Not at all. I mean that I like to take -as few changes of garments as I can possibly get -<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>along with, and putting on some very plain dress, -which it will not fret me to have trod on, and -rained on, and powdered with dust, with a nice -book or two in my trunk, in case of a rainy day, -start off to see what beautiful things nature -has hidden away for those of her children who -love to search them out. In this way, I started -last summer to make the trip of the Northern -lakes. That was something new for me. I had -seen Niagara, and the Catskills, and been to -Saratoga, Lake George, and all the places where -people usually go in the summer months; now I -wanted something entirely different. I found it in -Toronto; and the difference, I am sorry to say, did -not please me. The city wore to me a very dilapidated -and tumble-down air; the houses, with scarcely -an exception, looked streaked and shabby; pigs -ran loose about the streets, and over the plank sidewalks. -Now and then I saw a handsome private -carriage, or a large hotel-looking house; but the -high walls about the grounds looked forbidding, -gloomy and unsocial; not a peep was to be had -of the pretty flowers behind, if indeed there were -any. In that it seemed to me a very desolate -kind of place; and the mammoth hotel where we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>stayed, with its immensely high, wide halls, echoing -back the footsteps of the few travelers who -walked through them, to their large, dreary, -immense rooms, seemed to make me still gloomier. -For all that, the people whom I met in the street -had fine broad chests, and a healthy color in their -faces, and looked out of their clear bright eyes -as if life were a pleasant thing to them; as I -doubt not it is. Still, I would rather not live in -Toronto; and after spending two days in it, I -was very willing to get into the cars, and rush -through the backwoods country, on my way to -Detroit. Such splendid trees as I saw in those -backwoods! I could only think of the “cedars -of Lebanon,” tall, straight, green columns of -foliage, that looked as if they had grown, and -would continue to grow hundreds of years. -Nestled under them, were now and then rude -log huts. In the doorway stood the stately -mother with her bronzed face, and clinging -to her skirts, rosy little barefooted children, -rugged as the wild vine that twisted -its arms round the huge trees before their -door.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Near by, stood their father, the woodman, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>resting on his ax, to look at the cars, as the -shrieking whistle sent the cattle bounding through -the clearing, and the train disappeared, leaving -only a wreath of smoke behind. And so on, for -miles and miles through that bright day, we never -wearied of gazing till the sun went down. Once -I caught a glimpse of a tiny log hut, the low roof -festooned with morning glories—pink, blue, and -white. I cannot tell you what a look of refinement -it gave the little place, or how pretty a little, -curly, golden-haired girl, in a red frock, and milk-white -feet, looked, standing in the doorway. -Some gentle heart beat there, in the lone wilderness, -I knew by those morning glories. The -pretty picture has often come up before me; -and I have wished I were an artist, that I might -show you the lovely lights and shadows of that -leafy backwoods home. When we reached the -pretty city of Detroit, it was so dark we could only -dimly see it. We were very tired, too, having -ridden in the cars from early morning till nearly -nine in the evening. So we gazed sleepily out -the carriage windows, as we were being rattled -through the streets to the hotel, now and then -seeing a church-spire, now a garden, now a brilliantly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>lighted row of stores, now a large square, -and passing groups of men, women, and children, -of whom we knew no more than of the man in the -moon, and who had eaten their breakfasts, dinners -and suppers, and had been born, vaccinated, baptized, -and married, all the same as if they did not -know we were in existence. It is a strange -feeling, this coming into a strange place, and at -night, and wondering what daylight will have to -show to us the next morning, as we sleepily -close the bedroom shutters, and lie down in -that strange bed.</p> - -<p class='c009'>The familiar picture, your eyes have opened -upon so many mornings, does not hang on <i>that</i> -wall; it is hundreds of miles away. Joseph and -his brethren, or Henry Clay, or the Madonna, or -the Benicia Boy, may be there; but you don’t -feel acquainted with them, and feel a strange -delicacy about washing, and combing your hair, in -their company. Breakfast, however, above all -things! especially when you have not dared to eat -heartily the night before. So we got ready, and, -having satisfied ourselves, took a carriage to see -Detroit. I liked it very much; the people were -wide awake, and not content with tumble-down -<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>old institutions. New handsome buildings were -being put up, besides many that were already -finished. The streets were clean, and prettily -set off by little garden-patches, with flowers, trees -and vines about the houses. There was selling -and buying too, and a thorough go-ahead air, in -the place, as if this world was not yet finished by -any manner of means, as they seemed to think -in Toronto. Our coachman was very intelligent -and civil, so I catechized him to my heart’s content -as to who lived here, and who lived there, and -what this church steeple believed, and who -worshiped in the other; or why General Cass, -being such a big man, didn’t live in a bigger house, -and where all the nice peaches came from, about -the streets, and where I could find some nice -crackers to nibble, when I went off in the steamboat -that afternoon, and where were the bookstores, -and how much we were to pay for asking -so many questions!</p> - -<p class='c009'>Exchanging our carriage for a steamboat, or -“propeller” as they called it, we bade good by -to Detroit, and glided away up to Lake St. Clair; -to the head of Lake Superior. Eleven days we -were on the water, more than long enough to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>cross the ocean to Old England. I was very -fearful I should not prove a good sailor, particularly -as I was told, before starting, that the lakes -sometimes had a touch of old Ocean’s roughness. -My fear was lost in delight as our boat -plowed its way along so gently, day after day, -and I sat on deck, the fresh wind blowing over -my face, looking down upon the bright foam-track -of the vessel, or upon the pretty sea-gulls which -with untiring wing followed us hundreds of miles, -now and then dipping their snowy breasts in the -blue waves, or riding securely on their foaming -tops. Sometimes little tiny brown birds -flew upon the deck of the vessel, as if glad to -see human faces, in their trackless homes. Winter -begins very early up on these lakes; so while it -was still sweltering weather in New York, we -were not surprised to see the gay autumn leaves -hung out, like signal flags, here and there on the -shore, warning us not to stay too long, where the -cold winds lashed the waves so furiously, or without -a word of warning locked them up in icy -fetters without asking leave of any steamboat. -It was hard to believe it, even in sight of the -pretty autumn leaves, so soft was the wind, so -<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>blue was the sea and sky, so gently were we -rocked and cradled. Now and then an Indian, -a <i>real live Indian</i>, in a real Indian canoe, would -pass us with a blanket for a sail, shouting us a -rough welcome in his own way, as he passed. -Now and then a little speck, just on the edge of -the water where it seemed to meet the sky, would -gradually grow larger and larger till it turned -out to be another boat, and with a burst of music, -from the band on board, they too would pass -away, and leave us silent as before. Now, where -the lake grew narrow, we saw little huts, dotted -in and out along the line of shore. There life -and death with its solemn mysteries went on, -just as it does in your home or mine. Now and -then we stopped at what the captain called “a -landing,” for wood or coal or freight for the boat. -Then the people who lived there flocked down -to see us, and to buy melons of us, which were -a great treat, where nothing but pines and potatoes -would grow. Then we would leap over the -gangway to the wharf, and scamper up into the -town, to take the exercise we needed after being -lazy so long, and then “all hands on board!” and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>away we glided again; the strange friendly faces -on the pier smiling as we passed away.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Oh, it was lovely! I never wanted to leave -the boat; I wanted you, and every body else, -who enjoy such things, to come there and float on -those blue waters, with me forever.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Oh, had you only been there beside me on one -of many heavenly evenings, you would never, -never have forgotten it! The red sun sank -slowly into the blue waves, on one side of us, -while the moon rose majestically out of the -water, on the other; and before us the beautiful -island of “The Great Spirit” was set like an -emerald in the sapphire sea. Then, when all this -glory passed away into the darkness, and I sat -marveling if Heaven with “its golden streets and -gates of pearl,” <i>could</i> be fairer, up flashed “the -Aurora” in long quivering lines of light, rose-color -and silver, till earth and sea and sky were -all ablaze with glory!</p> - -<p class='c009'>My heart beat quick, I held my breath, as -though some great being were sweeping past, -whose glorious silken robe I would, but dare -not, bow my lips to press.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Now I must tell you, that I went into an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>Indian wigwam, where the door was a blanket; -where the bedstead was made of twigs and -branches; where a big brown woman was stirring -something, witch-fashion, in a boiling pot over -the fire; where copper-colored children, with diamond -eyes, and long, black, snaky locks, were -squatted in the sun, outside the wigwam, while the -square-cheeked men caught fish in the little canoes, -from the sparkling “rapids,” that seemed just going -to wash away their bird’s-nest looking huts. -As to the “romantic Indian maid” we read about, -I am sorry to tell you that she wears a hoop! for -I saw it with my own eyes. However, she seemed -so proud and well pleased with her first attempts -at the genteel, that I wouldn’t smile, as I felt like -doing.</p> - -<p class='c009'>I didn’t ask her how she managed to get in -and out of their little egg-shell boats with that -hoop, or through the small aperture that served -for a door to the wigwam. Perhaps she dropped it -off on the outside when she wanted to go into her -queer house—who knows? I might say I should -have liked her better without it, on that bright -morning, as she stood there by the blue Sault -River, with her glossy black hair blowing about -<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>her bright eyes. Eleven days in all we were on -these beautiful lakes; more than long enough to -go to Europe, which I hope some day to see. -<i>One night too long</i> we were on the water before -we reached Chicago. And what a night that was, -of fog and rain and thunder and lightning. So -vivid was the lightning that no one would have -been surprised at any moment had it struck the -vessel. Every peal of thunder seemed as if it -thumped us directly on the head. The steamer -tipped and rolled, and the rain beat into the cabin -windows and dripped on the bed, and deluged -the floor. The military company whom we took -on board a few hours before, hushed their songs -and jests, and watched with us for the daylight -that was to ensure the safety of all on board. It -came at last; and we breathed freely as we -stepped safely on shore. How little we thought, -as we shook hands with the merry captain, and -I promised “to take another trip on his nice boat -next summer,” that the very next night he would -be shipwrecked on those waters!</p> - -<p class='c009'>Ah! the poor captain! My eyes fill, my -heart aches, as if I had known him years, instead -of those few bright fairy days. Poor Captain -<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>Jack Wilson, with his handsome, sunshiny face, -cheery voice, and manly ways! How little I -thought there would be no “next summer” for -him, when he so kindly helped me up on the -“hurricane deck,” and into the cosy little “pilothouse” -to look about; who was always sending -me word to come “forward” or “aft,” because -he knew I so much enjoyed seeing all beautiful -things; who was all goodness, all kindness, and -yet, after we left him that morning, found a grave -in that cruel surf!</p> - -<p class='c009'>The afternoon of the day we said our last -good by to him on the Chicago pier, we had -taken a carriage to drive round the city, and -reined up at the draw, for a boat to pass through. -It was the “Lady Elgin” going forth to meet her -doom! We kissed our hands gaily to her, in the -bright sunshine, and that night as we slept safely -in our beds at the hotel, that brave heart, with a -little wailing babe pressed to it, had only a -treacherous raft between him and eternity. The -poor, poor captain! It was <i>so</i> hard to give him -up! As his strong arm sustained the helpless -in that fearful night, may God support his own -gentle ones in this their direst need.</p> - -<p class='c009'><span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>This was indeed a gloomy ending to our lovely -lake trip. We saw many things to interest us on -our return to New York through Cleveland and -Pittsburgh, but, as you may suppose, we were not -very gay; every now and then, when we saw anything -beautiful, we would say to each other, “The -<i>poor</i> captain!” You know there are some people -whom it is so hard to “make dead;” and he was -one of these. So strong, so sunshiny, so full of -life! How blessed to know all this bright intelligence -cannot be extinguished like a taper; else, -how sad, my dear children, would life be to us.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span> - <h2 class='c005'>WHEN I WAS YOUNG.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Not one girl in ten, now-a-days, knows how to -sew. “’Twas not so in my time,” as the old -ladies say, with an ominous shake of the head. -No; in my school-days proper attention was -given to rivers, bays, capes, islands, and cities -in the forenoon—interspersed with, “I love, thou -lovest, he, she, or it loves;” then, at the child’s -hungry hour—(twelve)—we were dismissed to -roast beef and apple dumplings. At three we -marched back with a comfortable dinner under -our aprons—with cool heads, rosy cheeks, and a -thimble in our pockets; and never a book did we -see all the blessed afternoon. I see her—the -schoolma’am (angels see her now), with her -benevolent face, and ample bosom—your flat-chested -woman never should keep school, she -has no room for the milk of human kindness; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>I see her sitting on that old cane-bottomed chair, -going through the useless ceremony of counting -noses, to see if there were any truants; and of -course there never were from choice, for our -teacher never forgot that she was once a child -herself. I see her calling one after another to -take from her hand a collar, or wristbands, or -shirt-bosom to stitch, or some button-holes to -make;—good old soul! and then, when we were -all seated, she drew from her pocket some interesting -book and read it aloud to us—not disdaining -to laugh at the funny places, and allowing -us to do the same—hearing, well pleased, all our -childish remarks, and answering patiently all our -questions concerning the story, or travels, or -poetry she was reading, while our willing fingers -grew still more nimble; and every child uttered -an involuntary “Oh!” when the sun slanted into -the west window, telling us that afternoon school -was over.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Ah, those were the days!</p> - -<p class='c009'>I bless that schoolmistress every time I darn -a stocking or make or mend a garment; and I -am glad for her own sake that she is not alive -now, to see the ologies and isms that are thumped -<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>into children’s heads, to the exclusion of things -better suited to their age, and which all the -French and Italian that ever was mispronounced -by fashion, can never take the place of in practical -life. Yes—girls <i>then</i> knew how to sew. -Where will you find a schoolgirl who does it -neatly, now? who does not hate a needle, and -most clumsily wields it when compelled to? and -not by her own fault, poor thing! though her -future husband may not be as ready as I to shield -her with this excuse. Modern mothers never -seem to think of this. Male teachers, with buttonless -shirts on their own backs, seem to ignore -it. No place for the needle <i>in</i> school, and no -time, on account of long lessons, out. Where is -a modern girl to learn this all-important branch -of education, I want to know? A fig for your -worsted work, your distorted cats, and rabbits, -and cows! Give me the girl who can put a shirt -together, or the feminine of a shirt either—which, -by the way, I could never see the impropriety of -mentioning, any more than its male, though I am -not going to make any old maid scream by saying -“chemise”—of course not!</p> - -<p class='c009'>I am concerned for the rising generation; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>spinally in the first place, stitch-ically in the -second. All the stitches they know of now are -in their sides, poor things! I should like every -schoolhouse to have a playground, where the -pupils could stay when they were not in school—which -should be almost never, until ventilation, -recesses, and school hours are better regulated—in -fact, till the whole system is tipped over, and -buried fathoms under ground, and only spoken of -as the tortures of the Inquisition are spoken of—with -shuddering horror—as remnants of darkness -and barbarism. I don’t want children to be -burned up, but I don’t care how many badly -conducted schoolhouses burn down. I consider -every instance a special interposition of Providence; -and even if some of the children <i>are</i> -burned—horrible as that is—is it not a quicker -mode of death than that they are daily put -through, poor, tortured things?</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span> - <h2 class='c005'>A NURSERY THOUGHT.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Do you ever think how much work a little child -does in a day? How from sunrise to sunset, -the little feet patter round—to us—so aimlessly. -Climbing up here, kneeling down there, running to -another place, but never <i>still</i>. Twisting and turning, -and rolling and reaching, and doubling, as if -testing every bone and muscle for their future uses. -It is very curious to watch it. One who does so -may well understand the deep breathing of the -rosy little sleeper, as with one arm tossed over its -curly head, it prepares for the next day’s gymnastics. -Tireless through the day, till that time -comes, as the maternal love which so patiently -accommodates itself hour after hour to its thousand -wants and caprices, real or fancied.</p> - -<p class='c009'>A busy creature is a little child. To be looked -upon with awe as well as delight, as its clear eye -<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>looks trustingly into faces that to God and man -have essayed to wear a mask. As it sits down in -its little chair to ponder precociously over the white -lie you thought it “funny” to tell it. As, rising -and leaning on your knee, it says, thoughtfully, in -a tone which should provoke a tear, not a smile—“I -don’t believe it.” A lovely and yet a fearful -thing is that little child.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE USE OF GRANDMOTHERS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>A little boy, who had spilled a pitcher of milk, -stood crying, in view of a whipping, over -the wreck. A little playmate stepped up to him -and said, condolingly:—Why, Bobby, haven’t you -got a <i>grandmother</i>?</p> - -<p class='c009'>Who of us cannot remember this family mediator, -always ready with an excuse for broken china, -or torn clothes, or tardy lessons, or little white fibs? -Who was it had always on hand the convenient -stomach-ache, or headache, or toothache, to work -on parental tenderness? Whose consoling stick -of candy, or paper of sugar plums, or seed-cake, -never gave out; and who always kept strings to -play horse with, and could improvise riding whips -and tiny kites, and dress rag-babies, and tell stories -between daylight and dark to an indefinable -<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>amount to ward off the dreaded go-to-bed -hour?</p> - -<p class='c009'>Who staid at home, none so happy, with the -children while papa and mamma “went pleasuring?” -Who straightened out the little waxen -limbs for the coffin when papa and mamma were -blind with tears? Who gathered up the little -useless robes and shoes and toys, and hid them -away from torturing sight till heaven’s own balm -was poured into those aching hearts? “Haven’t -you got a grandmother?” Alas! if only our -grown up follies and faults might always find as -merciful judgment, how many whom harshness -and severity have driven to despair and crime, -were now to be found useful and happy members -of society!</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span> - <h2 class='c005'>THE INVENTOR OF THE LOCOMOTIVE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Did you ever ride in an old-fashioned stage -coach? cramped in your back, cramped in -your legs, with a “crick” in your neck, while -you were packed in, and strapped in so closely that -it was next to impossible to move a toe or a -finger? Was the day hot and dusty, and had the -tired horses hill after hill to crawl and climb up? -Was some fellow-passenger’s knee boring a hole -in your back, and did you bump, and thump, and -bob about, hour after hour, unable to sleep, and -too weary almost to live, till, when you drew up at -last to some little country tavern, before which -Lafayette or Washington hung creaking on a -sign, with John Smith’s Hotel underneath, you -didn’t care whether you ever got out or not; -whether you ever ate, or drank, or laughed again; -whether your trunk was safe, or lost on the road, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>miles back? Well, if you have not experienced -all this, perhaps your father or mother, or uncle, -or aunt have; and they will tell you that is one -of the slow methods in which people used to travel -before railroads and cars were invented. Ah, but, -you say, stages were safer than railroad cars! -Were they? They never tipped over, I suppose, -or rolled over a precipice of a dark night, or had -defective wheels, or drunken drivers, or balky -horses, or any thing of that sort. And if anybody -was very sick, or dying, at a distance, they -might not have been buried weeks, I suppose, -before one could reach them.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Well, people after a while thought they might -travel faster than this, and quite as safely, too.</p> - -<p class='c009'>George Stephenson, the great Railway Engineer, -was one of the first who thought this, -and worked hard, and long, to make it possible. -I want to tell you about him, because it seems -to me quite beautiful that a poor, uneducated -boy, as he was, should have brought so great -a thing to pass. I rejoice in it, because I love -to think that in our country our most useful and -best men have, many of them, been very poor -and humble when young; and because I want -<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>every boy who reads this to feel encouraged to -try what <i>he</i> too can do, instead of folding his -hands and saying, “oh, what’s the use? I was -born poor, and I shall die poor; I’m ignorant, -and I shall die ignorant. Who cares what becomes -of <i>me</i>?” I tell you <i>I</i> care for one, and if -nobody cared, you ought to care <i>yourself</i>. It is -very certain, if you <i>don’t</i> care yourself, that nobody -can do much for you. Well, George Stephenson -was the son of a poor collier, in England. He -was the second of six children, for whom their -father and mother worked hard to find bread -and butter. Little George lived like other working -people’s children: played about the doors, -went bird’s nesting now and then, or of errands -to the village; and as he grew bigger, carried his -father’s dinner to him when at work; or helped -nurse his brothers and sisters at home; for in a -poor man’s house, you know, every little hand and -foot must do something in the way of helping. -As to school, none of them thought of such a -thing; it was as much as they could do to keep -a roof over their heads, and something to eat and -drink. Dewley Burn was the name of the place -where the one-roomed cottage stood, in which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>George was born; and near which his father was -employed, to tend the engine-fire near the coalpit. -Robert Stephenson, George’s father, was a -kind-hearted, pleasant man. You may know -that, because all the young people of an evening -used to go and sit round his engine-fire while he -told stories to them; sometimes about Sinbad -the Sailor; sometimes about Robinson Crusoe, -and often something which he himself “made up” -to please them. Of course “Bob’s engine-fire” was -a great place. No stoop of a village tavern on -“muster day” was ever more glorious to happy -urchins. You can almost see the picture; the -bright fire blazing, and rows of bright eyes -glistening in its light, some black, some blue, -some gray; curly locks and straight locks, slender -lads, and fat lads; some with chins on their palms, -and elbows on their knees, some flat on their backs -or sides, on the ground; and all believing every -word of Bob’s, as you now do storybooks, which -they would have given their ears to get hold of, -though I have my doubts, if they are better, after -all, than were “Bob’s stories.” Now you are not to -think because George’s father worked as a collier, -that he had no love for beautiful things. On the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>contrary, he used to take nice long, breezy summer -walks, whenever he got a chance, with his little -son. And when George had grown up to be a -man, and long after his good father’s white head -was under the sod, George used to speak often of -his lifting him up to look into a black-bird’s nest, -and of the delight and wonder with which he gazed -at the little peeping creatures for the first time. -I dare say your father and mother can tell you -some such little thing which <i>they</i> remember -about their childhood’s home, which stands out -in their memory now, from the mist of years, -like a lovely picture, sunny and glowing and untouched -by time.</p> - -<p class='c009'>These are blessed memories to keep the heart -green. They are like the little swaying wild -flower that the dusty traveler sometimes finds -in a rock crevice, breathing out its sweetness all -the same as if it were not hemmed in by flinty -walls and bars; more beautiful than the most -gorgeous garden flowers, which every passer by -has gazed at, and handled, because to God and -ourselves it is sacred. These childish memories! -they are the first round of the ladder by which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>our world-weary feet shall climb to heaven, after -those who have rocked our cradles.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Near Dewley Burn lived a widow, named -Grace Ainslie, who kept a number of cows that -used to nibble the grass along the woods. A -boy was needed to watch them, and keep them -from being run over by the coal wagons, or -straying into the neighboring fields. To this boy’s -duty was added that of barring the gates at -night, after the coal wagons had passed through. -George applied for this place, and to his great -joy he got it, at two pence a day. It was -easy work to loll about on the fresh green -grass, and watch the lazy cows as they nibbled, -or stretched themselves under the trees, chewing -and winking, hour after hour. George had -plenty of time to look for birds’ nests and make -whistles out of sticks and straws, and build little -mills in the water streams. But if you watched -the boy, you would see that, best of all, when he -and his friend Tom got together, he liked to -build clay engines. The clay they found in the -bogs, and of the hemlock which grew about, they -made their steam pipes. I dare say some solemn -wise head might have passed that way, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>sighed that these boys were “wasting their -time” playing in the mud; not remembering that -children in their “foolish play,” by their little -failures and successes in experimenting, sometimes -educate themselves better than any book-read -man in the land could do it; at least, at <i>that</i> -age. Then it was a blessed thing that the child’s -work lay <i>out of doors</i>, and not in a stifling close -factory, or shop. That his limbs got strong and -his cheek brown and sunburnt, and his eye bright -as a young eagle’s. Every day now added to his -growth, and of course to his employment; though -scarcely big enough to stride, he led the horses -when plowing, and when he was able to hoe -turnips and do such farm work, he was very much -delighted at his increased wages of fourpence a -day. When he was thirteen, he made a sun-dial -for his father’s cottage. You may be sure his -father was very proud of that. His little head -had been busy, you see, when he lay on the grass -watching the cows. By and by George got -eighteen pence a day, and at last the wish of his -heart, in being taken as an assistant to his father -in feeding the engine fire. George was very -much afraid, he was such a little fellow, that he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>should be thought too young for the work, and -when the overseer of the colliery went the -rounds, to see if everything was done right, -George used to hide himself, for fear he would -think him too small a boy to earn his wages. -Some lads as fond as he was of bird’s-nesting, and -such amusements, would not have been in such a -hurry to make themselves useful; but George’s -parents worked hard, and he loved them; he -knew that white hairs were creeping among those -brown locks of his mother’s, and that his good, -merry father would not always be able to tend -the engine fire; and so though his tame black-bird, -who made the cottage her home in winter, -flying in and out, and roosting on the head of his -bed, and disappearing in the spring and summer, in -the woods, to pair and to rear its young, and then -coming back again in winter to live with George; -although his bird was a very pretty pet, and his -tame rabbits were a great pleasure, too, yet little -as he was, he was anxious to shoulder his share of -the burden that was pressing so heavily on his -parents. Ever since, too, that he had modeled -that little clay engine in the bog, he had determined -to be an engineer, and the first step to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>this was to be an assistant fireman. Imagine, -then, his delight when, at fourteen years, he got -the post at the wages of a shilling a day.</p> - -<p class='c009'>George’s home was one small room, crowded -with three low-posted beds, in which father and -mother, four sons, and two daughters slept. This -one room was, of course, parlor, kitchen and -sleeping-room, all in one. This cottage was furnished -by the Duke who employed these people; -he being also their landlord. Now I would be -willing if I ever made bets, to bet you something -handsome, that this Duke had a liveried servant -behind his chair at home, and a table loaded with -dainties, and silver and cut glass, and more wines -in his castle than he knew how to use; and -horses and hounds, and carriages and pictures, -and statues, and conservatories and hot houses, -and all that; and yet, that he was not one half as -happy as the Stephensons in that little cottage -with one room. Aching heads are apt to go with -dainty food, and weak limbs with soft beds. -When a poor man has a friend, he generally -knows that he is loved for <i>himself</i>; when a rich -man has one, he is never sure how much his riches -have to do with his friendship. Many a rich man -<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>has sighed for the days when he used to run -barefoot; and many a jeweled lady for the day -when the little brook was her looking-glass. -Things are more equal in this life, after all, than -grumblers are apt to imagine. Well, to go back -to George, all the time he was feeding that fire, -he had his eyes open, watching everything about -the engine; nothing escaped his notice; I have -no doubt his father watched him, with an honest -pride shining out of his eyes. It must have been -very pleasant for the two to work together, and -help each other; for George was growing strong -and big, and used to try to make himself stronger -by lifting heavy weights. When he was seventeen, -he was made a “flagman.” That was a -station as watchman above his father, as the flagman -holds a higher rank than the fireman, and -receives higher wages. No doubt good old -Robert was as delighted as George could be at -this promotion. We can imagine, too, how his -mother and sisters, as they worked industriously -to keep the little one room cottage tidy and -comfortable, sang cheerfully as they worked, -when they thought of their good strong brother. -It is a flagman’s duty, when the engine is out of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>order, to call on the chief engineer to set it right. -George had rarely need to do this. The engine -was a perfect pet with him. He understood every -part of it; he took it to pieces and cleaned it -himself, and learned so well how it worked, and -what it needed, that nobody could instruct him -anything about it. It is said that all the important -improvements of steam-engines have been -made, not by learned literary men, but by -plain laborers.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Everything that George undertook, howsoever -small the matter might be, he determined to -understand perfectly, and to do well and -thoroughly. When George <i>said</i> that he knew he -could do a thing, all his friends knew it was no -idle boast. So you will not be astonished when -I tell you that he went on studying and improving -till he became a famous man; so famous that he -received calls from abroad, asking his advice as -“a constructing engineer” about building bridges -and railways, and all such things. I guess he -never thought of <i>that</i>, when he was building -bridges of mud with his play-fellows. Little -children, you see, are not <i>always</i> “wasting their -time” when they are playing quietly by themselves. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>No, indeed. I guess he didn’t think then -that he should build a two-mile bridge across -the St. Lawrence in connection with the Grand -Trunk Canadian Railway, which should be so -much admired and praised for its <i>taste</i> as well as -skill; or, when he slept in the little cottage with -only one room in it, that he should one day become -“a Member of Parliament;” or that when -he died, he should be buried in state at Westminster -Abbey, where all the famous, great men -were buried, and that immense crowds of people -should go to his funeral, and be so sorry that a man -who was so useful to his country should die, when -he was only fifty-six years old. But so it was. -I think George made good use of those fifty-six -years; don’t you?</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span> - <h2 class='c005'>TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>I want to say a few words to the <i>little children</i> -who write me such nice letters.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Some of you live in and about New York, -some at a great distance from it. I should be -very glad, had I time, to write each of you a long -letter—indeed, many long letters; but how is this -possible, if I “make some more books for you,” as -you all request me to do? One cannot write a book -as fast as one can read it through; perhaps you do -not think of that. Besides, I write every week for -the New York <i>Ledger</i>. Then I have a great many -other calls upon my time, of which you know -nothing. Like your own mamma, I have children. -They sometimes say, “Oh, do throw away that -tiresome pen, and talk to us.” And then I say, -“Yes, presently.” But still I have to keep on -writing. Then, you know, if I only used my -<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>head, and never my feet, my head would not last -long. I must exercise a great deal every day, -else I should fly up the chimney, or through the -roof, like a witch. But for all that I don’t forget -one little girl or boy who ever wrote to me; and -although I cannot answer, it always pleases me -to hear from you. I want you all to believe this, -and write me whenever you feel like it.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span> - <h2 class='c005'>BABY EFFIE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c008'>Do you see this little baby? Her name is Effie, -and her young mother is dead. Well, partly -on that account, and partly because she is just the -loveliest, and brightest, and sweetest baby that -ever was born, she rules every one in the house. -How? why, by one smile or cunning little trick, -she can make them all go and come, fetch and -carry, rise and sit down, all the same as if they -had no will but hers. For instance, you may say, -now at such a time I will go to such a place; but -if that baby catches sight of you going out, and -makes up a little grieved mouth because you are -going, unless you could coax her to forget it, -with a piece of the moon, or some such wonderful -thing, you would very likely stay at home with -her. If you say your side aches, and really, Effie -grows so fat on her good sweet milk, that you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>must let nurse carry her more, even if she <i>does</i> -whimper a little; and you may really <i>mean</i> to do -it; but oh, why has she such a dear little red -mouth, and such a distracting way of fixing her -lips, and such a pleading look in her soft eyes, -and such a musical little coax to make believe -talk, unless it be that her dimpled feet shall -always be on your obedient neck? You can’t -look at her as if she were only a rag baby. And -very likely you’d get thinking, too, that nobody -could tie her bonnet, or cloak, save yourself, -or button her little red boots right; so that -no fold of her mite of a stocking should double -under her ridiculous little toes.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Perhaps you think it is a very simple thing -to wash and dress little Effie. That shows how -little you know. Now listen. That baby has -four distinct little chins that you must watch your -chance to wash between her frantic little crying-spells; -then she has as many little rolls of fat on -the back of the neck, that have to be searched out, -and bathed; and all the time you are doing this -you have to be talking little baby talk to her, to -make her believe you are only playing, instead of -washing her. Then baby won’t have her ears or -<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>nose meddled with; and if you interfere with her -toes, she won’t put up with it a minute; and it -takes two people to open her chubby little fists -when it is time to wash them. Then you haven’t -the least idea of the job it is to get one of her -stiff little vexed arms out of her cambric -sleeve; or how many times she kicks while you -are tying on her tiny red shoe. Then she is -just as mad as can be when you lay her over on -her stomach to tie the strings of her frock; and -she is still more mad if you lay her on her back. -And besides, she can stiffen herself out, when she -likes, so that “all the king’s men” couldn’t make -her sit down, and at another time she will curl -herself up in a circle, so that neither they nor -anybody else could straighten her out; then -you had better just count the garments that -have to be got off and on before this washing and -dressing business is done; and then every now -and then you have to stop to see that she is not -choking or strangling; or that you have not put -any of her funny little legs or arms out of joint, -or hurt her bobbing little head. Now, I hope -you understand what a delicate job it is. But -when the last string is tied, and little Effie comes -<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>out of this daily misery into scarlet-lipped, diamond-eyed -peace, looking fresh and sweet as a -rosebud, and dropping off to sleep in your arms, -with quivering white eyelids and pretty murmurings -of the little half-smiling lips, while the perfect -little fat waxen hands lie idly by her side, -ah—then you should see her!</p> - -<p class='c009'>You would understand then, how hard it is to -keep from spoiling her; not by loving her too -much; <i>that</i> never hurt anybody; but by giving -her everything she wants, whether it is best for her -or not, just because it is so heart-breaking to see -the tears on her cheeks. <i>That</i> would never do, -you know, not even for little motherless Effie; -for how is she ever to become good, if she can -get everything she wants by crying for it? She -can’t understand that now, but by and by she -will; and then those who have care of her <i>must</i> -learn to say <i>no</i>, no matter how pretty and coaxing -she is, if she should want a hammer and a watch -to play with; yes, even though she should cry -about it.</p> - -<p class='c009'>Nobody can tell whether Effie is loveliest sleeping -or waking. Poor little dear; when she is -asleep she often makes the motion of nursing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>with her lips, just as if her mother were living, -instead of dead, and she were lying on her warm -breast. And then, too, she often smiles till little -dimples come in her cheeks, and her lips part, -and show her four little white teeth, which have -troubled her so much in coming, and which look -so like little pearls. And sometimes in her sleep -she kicks her little fat leg, with its pretty white -foot, and pink toes, out on the coverlet, just as if -she were fixing herself for a pretty picture that -some artist might paint her. And when she -wakes, she puts her little cheek up against yours -to be loved and kissed, and—but dear me, you -will think I am quite a fool, if I go on this way; -and I shouldn’t wonder; for it really <i>is</i> true that -I am never tired of telling dear little Effie’s perfections -all the same as if she were the only -lovely baby that was ever born; although every -house holds half a dozen, more or less; still perhaps -you might as well not say to <i>me</i> that any -of them can begin to compare with little Effie.</p> - -<p class='c009'>But really, after all, I can’t stop till I tell you -how much that child knows. I am not certain -that it would do to tell state secrets before her; -for though she can’t talk, and though she sits on -<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>the floor, playing with her toys, I sometimes feel, -when she drops them, and looks up with her -sweet, earnest little face, as if she had lived another -life somewhere, and her grown-up-soul -had come back and crept into that little baby’s -body. Sometimes, when I look at her, I wish, oh! -so much, that I could always keep all sorrow, and -all suffering from her, and make her whole life -happy; but this cannot be. Besides, I know, -that He who tempers the wind to the shorn -lamb, will surely care for little motherless -Effie.</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> -<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'> - -<div class='chapter ph2'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - - <ol class='ol_1 c002'> - <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. - - </li> - <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - </li> - </ol> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NEW STORY BOOK FOR CHILDREN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> -<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most - other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions - whatsoever. 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state -visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. -</div> - -</div> - </body> - <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57c on 2021-11-02 21:52:53 GMT --> -</html> diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index bdb342b..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/frontispiece.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/frontispiece.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7c0626c..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/frontispiece.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/i_026.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/i_026.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 973cafc..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/i_026.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/i_033.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/i_033.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 100c26f..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/i_033.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/i_083.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/i_083.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index e400fca..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/i_083.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/i_164.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/i_164.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index beb0b70..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/i_164.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/i_207.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/i_207.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2e1e95e..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/i_207.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/66655-h/images/i_248.jpg b/old/66655-h/images/i_248.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 184fa18..0000000 --- a/old/66655-h/images/i_248.jpg +++ /dev/null |
