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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. 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