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.