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?”