“Emma Edwards! it is a quarter of a mile from the Eastman line, I am
certain.”
“I don’t think Ashman Square is on this side at all; I think you are
all confused.”
“Yes, it is; I pass it every day, but I don’t remember on which side
of the avenue it is. I go down one way and come up another, and so get
things mixed.”
“I don’t think any of you know much about it,” said Uncle Edward, and
this time he laughed. Several voices began again in eager disclaimer,
but Father Edwards silenced them: “See here, children, we must have
prayers at once; I have an important engagement at seven. Afterwards,
one of you can find a map and settle your discussion.”
Lora struck the chord and the entire family joined in:
“While Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled.”
In the momentary lull which there was as they rose from their knees,
Howard spoke, for the first time that evening.
“Uncle Edward.”
“Yes.”
“About Ashman Square—do you know where the Station D post-office is?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, Ashman Square begins two blocks east of that.”
“So it does!” declared Lora; “why in the world didn’t some of us think
of the post-office? that would have located it.”
“I never noticed how near it was to the post-office,” said Emma. “What
I would like to know is, why Howard did not speak before, and save us
all this talk.”
“Sure enough!” said Dickie. “Did you find the answer to that conundrum
in your Latin dictionary? Why didn’t you look up, old fellow, and join
the colloquy?”
“Couldn’t get a chance,” said Howard, with a good-natured smile; “you
all had a great deal to say, and were bent on saying it, all at once;
I thought I would keep still until the shower was over, and in the
meantime a grain of fact might be evolved out of it; but there wasn’t.”
“Howard always waits until there is clear sailing,” said Lora. “I’ve
noticed that he is the only one in our family who isn’t apparently
burning to speak at the same moment when some one else is.”
“And when he does speak it is to the point,” said Uncle Edward. “Much
obliged, my boy; you have saved me a bewildering tramp in the effort to
follow the directions of these voluble young ladies.”
MYRA SPAFFORD.
ABOUT BOSTON.
BY THE PANSIES.
MAMMA told me why it was named Boston. There was once in old England
a man so good and kind to sailors, and to people in distress on the
water, that he was named St. Botolph, because the word “Botolph” is
made from two words, which mean boat help. After a while the word
“Boston” grew out of the name, and the place where this man had lived
and died was called so. And Boston in New England was named for it.
LUCY STEVENSON.
* * * * *
I SAW a picture of the first house that was ever built in Boston. It is
very homely. There are only a few windows, and one door, I think; and
it looks like some of the log cabins of the West. A man named William
Blackstone lived in this house all alone. It was built on a hill, and
the place where it stood is now part of a handsome street in Boston.
But the town was not called Boston when William Blackstone lived there;
it was Shawmut.
WILLIAM BLAKE.
* * * * *
THEY used to have very strict laws in Boston about the Sabbath. From
Saturday at midnight until six o’clock on Sunday evening no hired
carriage could leave or enter the city, and during the hours of public
service no wagon of any sort was allowed to move through the streets
faster than a walk. Soon after the laws against using the bath-houses
on Sunday were made, a person who thought himself witty had printed in
the paper the following rhyme:
“In superstition’s day, ’tis said,
Hens laid two eggs on Monday;
Because a hen would lose her head
Who laid an egg on Sunday.
Now our wise rulers and the law
Say none shall wash on Sunday,
So Boston folks must dirty go,
And wash them twice on Monday!”
REUBEN S. BENTON.
* * * * *
I READ about a town meeting which was held in Boston in 1789, in which
they voted that there should be “One writing school at the south part
of the town, one at the center, and one at the north part; and that in
these schools the children of both sexes shall be taught writing, and
also arithmetic in its various branches, including vulgar and decimal
fractions.”
Another law passed at the same meeting was, that there should be “A
reading school in the north part of the town and one in the south
part, and that the children of both sexes should be taught to spell,
accent and read, both prose and verse.” Girls were allowed to attend
these schools only half the year—from April to October—but boys could
go in winter. This latter rule was changed in 1828, and the girls were
allowed to attend through the year until they were sixteen; boys could
attend only until they were fourteen. The Bible was the only reader
then in use.
HELEN WESTOVER.
* * * * *
I WENT to Boston once to visit my grandfather, and he took me to lots
of places, and showed me the picture of Ann Pollard; she lived to be a
hundred and five years old, and she was the first to jump from the boat
when the colonists came over from Charlestown; she was only ten years
old then, and she gave a spring from the boat just as it was touching
the shore, and landed. Grandfather showed her to me, and told me about
her, because my name is Annie Pollard, and he said I had a little of
the spunk of my old ancestor.
ANNIE POLLARD.
* * * * *
WE have been studying in school about John Hancock and his times, and
our teacher told us about his wife’s breakfast party at the old Hancock
House. It was in 1778, and a French fleet came into Boston harbor.
Governor Hancock proposed that the officers be invited to breakfast;
so his wife had her table set for thirty officers, and instead all
the under officers of the fleet came also—a hundred and twenty more
than were expected! Mrs. Hancock must have been in a panic for a few
minutes, but she got out of her difficulties. First, she ordered all
the cows on the Common milked, and the milk brought to her; then she
sent among her friends and borrowed cakes and other things to help out,
and gave them all a very nice breakfast.
[Illustration: THE HANCOCK HOUSE.]
The French count who commanded the fleet was very much pleased, and
invited the governor and his wife to visit his fleet and bring their
friends. This was Mrs. Hancock’s chance to be politely revenged upon
him for bringing so many people to breakfast; she invited five hundred
friends to go with her to the fleet! But they were politely received
and entertained elegantly.
FANNIE BROOKS.
* * * * *
WE have a picture in our library of the old Hancock House. It isn’t
much of a house as those things go nowadays, but when Governor Hancock
lived there I suppose it looked fine. I like old John Hancock; it is
great fun to read about him. Of course it was all nonsense for him
to think that Washington ought to call on him first, that time when
Washington went to Boston to visit in 1789, but for all that I think
it was awfully cute, the way in which Hancock finally backed down. He
had the gout, you know, so he did himself up in flannel and had his men
carry him on their shoulders to call on Washington. If he had got to
make the first call he meant to do it in state, and he did.
JOHN STUART WINTHROP.
* * * * *
WHEN I was just eight years old, my father spent a week in Boston with
me, and showed me the Museum, the Navy Yard, the School for the Blind
(I remember Laura Bridgman), the Idiot School, etc. He took me to the
top of Bunker Hill Monument; I remember I counted the two hundred and
ninety-seven steps. Not every father thinks that a child of eight
could appreciate such things. Many and many a time since then, have
I thanked my father for helping me to enjoy the remembrance of things
which I never expect to see again. During that visit to Boston a boy
ten years old took from my grandfather’s library a copy of one of
the “Jonas” books which he coveted. The book was never missed, but
twenty years afterwards the boy returned it with compound interest and
apologies; his heart had never been at rest about it.
MRS. OLIVIA C. WARNE.
* * * * *
MY father was in Boston when the statue of John Winthrop was unveiled;
he walked in that great procession, and heard the speech made in the
Old South Church. I have been to Boston myself, and walked around that
very statue. It is in Scollay Square. Governor Winthrop is dressed just
as they used to dress in his time; he has a Bible in one hand, and a
copy of the king’s charter in the other. There is a carved rope wound
around a carved tree which stands for the ship that brought him over. I
went to the beautiful State House, too. It is the one which was begun
in Governor Hancock’s pasture! But it does not look much like a pasture
where it stands now.
HARRY WESTFIELD.
[Illustration: THE STATUE OF WINTHROP.]
* * * * *
ONCE I went to the old North Church in Boston. I went up the tower to
the steeple, where General Gage stood and watched Charlestown burn.
On the steeple is the date “1723.” The chime of bells on this church
are just lovely! I heard them play. One of them has on it these words:
“We are the first ring of bells cast for the British Empire in North
America.” Another bell says: “Since generosity has opened our mouths,
our tongues shall ring aloud its praise.” Inside the church are some
queer wooden angels. The pews are very old-fashioned. The Bible in
the desk was the one that George the Second gave to the church. After
making this visit I learned “Paul Revere” and recited it at school; you
know the signal lights which warned him shone from the steeple of the
Old North.
MARY WINTHROP SMITH.
[Illustration: THE OLD NORTH CHURCH.]
[For want of space, we must bring this very interesting
bit of history about old Boston to a close. It is
certainly not for want of material that we do so, and
our hearty thanks are due the Pansies and their friends
for the letters full of interesting items which have
come to us. It is noticeable that the young people of
to-day are interested in Boston’s past, which is a wise
thing, for its history is full of suggestion for the
future.
We earnestly hope that the city which we take up next,
viz.: Washington, D. C., may call out as many items of
interest from the young people.—EDITORS THE PANSY.]
MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
IF Bose and Fido and Sport and the rest will keep still long enough,
I will tell you some things about myself which I should like you to
remember.
I am growing old pretty fast, and if I had not the kindest master in
the world I would stand a slim chance.
My smelling is good yet, and things taste nice enough, but my teeth
are nearly gone. Bones which once would have been a luxury, now do me
little good. The best I can do is to lap off a little of the meat and
grease.
Yes, I can bark loud enough yet, but it vexes me terribly when I see
the cattle in the field where they do not belong, or some wicked boys
in the orchard stealing apples, to know that about all I can do is to
bark.
I do not pretend that I have been a perfect dog, but I have had a great
deal of experience in my day, and am not without the hope that you,
my young friends, may profit by what I have seen and heard and felt
myself, and known in the lives of others.
No, I shall not try to tell it all to-day; I have no wish to bore you
with “long yarns,” as the sailors say. Besides, there would not be time
before Fido might be wanted to go with his mistress across the pasture
when she takes that beef tea to Willie Jones. She never seems afraid
with her pet along. Bose, too, will be wanted to drive home the cows;
so I will tell you only a little to-day, and more another time.
Where I was born I really do not know, but I am inclined to think it
was a great way from here, perhaps in another country; we will never
know, I suppose, though it seems to me it must be nice to know where
one came into the world, and what kind of father and mother he had.
But, dear me, I have seen some dogs, and folks too, who would have been
happier if they had never known their parents!
I can just remember seeing my mother once. I think she must have been
beautiful. The man who took me away from her often said in my hearing
that I had her hair and eyes.
I can remember how mother cried when they carried me away. I had never
seen her cry before, and though I was awfully frightened, yet I felt
sorry for her.
I was petted enough, and had plenty to eat, but the journey was long,
and shut up in that little box I was dreadfully lonesome.
But finally we reached home; then I had a warm bed, and a nice place;
but some nights I was terribly scared there in the dark all alone. The
boys had a pet donkey, and the first night I was there that fellow made
his horrid bray. My! I thought I should die with fright. Well, when I
had got a little used to the donkey, what should I hear in the tree
over my head but a horrid “To hoo! to who?”
Yes, Sport, you may wag your tail and laugh; you know “who,” for you
are a full-grown dog, and know all about the great staring owl, but
with me it was a different matter.
As I remarked before, I think, my master was kind, and so was mistress,
and they had no very small children to torment a little pup. Their
little girl was so sweet and kind, it was always a pleasure to kiss her
soft cheek; I do not believe she ever had any nice thing to eat that
she did not wish to share with me.
Her brother was a noble fellow, too. Not always so thoughtful as his
sister, and sometimes pretty rough; but so long as he did not mean to
be ugly and hurt me, I could bear it.
The worst, I remember, was when their cousins and some of the
neighbors’ children would come for the afternoon on a visit.
At first I was glad to see so many little children, but I soon found
that all children had not such sweet dispositions as my master’s, or
else their parents had not taught them so carefully.
We all ran and romped, and for a time it was jolly enough; but when my
young master and mistress were out of sight, one of those rough boys
would do something to torment me. He pulled my ears and my tail; once
he boxed my ears so hard that I cried right out.
Then they put me on that donkey’s back, and while I was held there, the
creature made one of those dreadful noises! Then I cried so loud my
little mistress came and took me away.
Once I was so frightened by those rude children that I hid under the
barn. I could hear them call my name and whistle for me, but I did not
mean to come out till the children had gone.
It seemed a long time, but they finally went—I mean the visitors—and
then I was only too ready to get out, for it was growing pretty dark
where I was.
We were all very much frightened, but when master came home he took a
big iron bar and pried a stone out, and made a hole big enough for me
to crawl through as easy as need be.
I cannot make myself believe that those children remembered with
pleasure what they had done to me that day. They never looked sweet and
happy like little Lucy and her brother.
I long ago came to the conclusion that if one would be happy he must
try to make others so; and I do not believe it makes much difference
whether he walks upon two legs or four.
Another thing, I believe one’s usefulness depends very much upon
whether he keeps his eyes open or not. Why, one does not need to be
a full-grown dog to be able to make himself useful, and so thought a
great deal of.
Take my case, for example: As I was saying, even when I was quite small
the hired man used to take me when he went after the cows at night.
I suppose this was to give me the pleasure of a run in the pasture;
they took old Sport along to do the work of driving. He, poor fellow,
was getting pretty old, and could not run fast; but he was a good dog,
and was well educated.
I did not at first understand how he could know so much—how he could
tell the oxen from the cows, and the cows from the steers; and when
there were other cattle mixed up with our master’s, on the road or
anywhere, how he could know which ones to drive in, and which to leave
or drive away.
One day as we were waiting for the hired man to fix a little place in
the fence, Sport said something that astonished me greatly.
I think I had been saying how I wished I knew as much as he, and could
do what he did. Then he gave me this hint. Said he, “I think our good
master is planning to have you take my place in a few months. Soon I
shall not be able to do the work, and if you watch out you will be able
to do all that I have done. Even now,” said he, “you are beginning to
save me a great many steps by starting up the cattle which are lagging
behind, or that get out of the way.”
I shall never forget how pleased I was. I almost felt like another
dog, and was so glad to think that I could do anything worth any one’s
notice. I feel sure it was a great help to me to have him speak like
that, and cannot but think that a great many others might be encouraged
in the same way.
Proud little puppy that I was, I almost split my throat barking at the
cattle that afternoon, and was much pleased to see that I could help.
[Illustration: OLD MAJOR.]
Well, it was not many weeks after that, when one day the hired man went
off fishing, and the master was all alone at home. It was late in the
afternoon, and he was resting upon the front steps, looking very tired,
for he was not well. I remember I had been wishing for the time to come
when I could do something, and would be big enough to watch things. You
see the fishing party had taken Sport with them to watch the wagon. I
was thought too young to be taken off so far.
I had felt pretty sober all the morning, but the master had spoken very
kindly to me several times, and while sitting there had called me to
him and patted my head, and called me a nice little fellow. Finally he
looked up from the paper he had been reading and said, “Well, Major, it
is about time to go for the cows.”
“Now is your chance,” I said to myself, and off over the big stone wall
I went. About the only thing I feared was that he would call me back,
but he seemed too much surprised for that; so I ran away as fast as my
four feet could carry me.
I did not know so well then where to look for the cows, but scampered
around so fast that I soon caught sight of them and quickly had the
whole lot on their way to the yard.
My only mistake was in doing my job too well, for I drove up the oxen
and steers and yearlings as well as the cows.
When I had them all near the gate then I barked as hard as I could, and
the master came and let down the bars, and drove in the cows and let
the others go back.
Then I remembered how it was generally done, and felt much ashamed of
my blunder. But master called me to him and petted me, and told me I
had been a good fellow. Then late in the evening, when the others came
home, he told them how I had surprised him by driving up the cows, and
never said a word about my mistake in driving up the other cattle. I
think that was so kind of him! I know a great many who would have been
either so thoughtless or unkind as to have made fun of a youngster’s
little blunder when trying to do his best. But he was not that kind of
a man. You may be sure I never made that mistake again.
Then old Sport came over to my kennel, and congratulated me heartily
on driving up the cows. All I could do was to thank him, and tell him
it was because of the way he had encouraged me, helping me to think I
might do something.
There have been many changes in farming since I can remember, but the
cows have to be got and milked just as ever, only there seem to be more
of them, and so I must not keep you any longer this time.
R.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR GRANDPARENTS AT SCHOOL.]
[Illustration: MAKING THE DUST FLY.]
BABY’S CORNER.
A HAPPY LITTLE GIRL.
BESSIE has good times. She lives in the country where the hills are
white with snow.
Every morning after breakfast she puts on her long cloak and her warm
hood and mittens, and goes to school with her brothers. The schoolhouse
is half a mile away, but she loves to go.
[Illustration: BESSIE GIVES CARLO A RIDE.]
Sometimes she runs and draws her sled. It is a new one, painted red,
and is one of her Christmas presents.
Sometimes she sits on the sled, and her brothers give her a nice ride.
They play they are ponies, and run very fast. Then Bessie shouts and
laughs, and is happy.
Their home is in that little house beyond the hill. You can see the
roof, and the smoke curling up from the chimney.
They are on their way home from school now.
Just as they got to the top of the hill Carlo came to meet them. He
wagged his tail and licked Bessie’s hand, he was so glad to see her,
for Carlo gets lonely without playmates all day.
The boys saw a rabbit run through the fence, and they went up to watch
for it.
“Carlo shall have a ride,” said Bessie. So she took him in her arms and
got upon the sled at the top of the hill.
She gave it a little push, and away they went, whiz! down the long hill
so swiftly and smoothly. Oh! it was good fun.
Two more rides they took, then Charlie picked up the bag and said,
“Come, Bess.”
When they get home mamma will have a nice warm supper ready for them.
After that they will go out and ride down hill until dark.
MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.
THE SAND MAN.
EACH night a man goes round our town,
And into eyes of blue and brown,
He sprinkles, with a careful hand,
The finest, softest grains of sand.
Then as sweet blossoms close at night,
O’er shining eyes fall curtains white;
For all these precious grains of sand
Are gathered up in Slumber Land.
’Tis there the peaceful river gleams
Where children sail in happy dreams;
The Sand Man takes them in his boat,
So off my little pet must float.
MYRA GOODWIN PLANTZ.
[Illustration: TEDDY AND MARGARET CLIMBED INTO THE STRANGE WAGON.]
“IF I ONLY HADN’T!”
NOBODY could have started out with better intentions than did Teddy
Brockway that bright spring morning. It is true it was only March, but
Teddy lived so far South that the month of March meant spring; he was
dressed in a neat spring suit, had his little sister Margaret by the
hand, and Sally Amelia, her dollie, under his special care, and was
started for a trip all by themselves to old Auntie Blaikslee’s, almost
a half-mile away!
“Aren’t you afraid to let those two babies go off alone?” Grandmamma
asked, looking up from her knitting with a somewhat troubled face.
Mrs. Brockway smiled as she answered: “O, no! what could harm them?
Teddy knows every foot of the way as well as I do, and every neighbor
along the road; and everybody knows him. Besides, he is seven years
old, and I must begin to trust him.” However, she went to the door and
called after them: “Remember, Teddy, I trust Margaret to you. It isn’t
every little boy of your age who can be depended upon to take care of
his sister. And, Teddy, remember you are not to ride with any strange
person who may ask you.”
“Course not!” said Teddy, with dignity; “not unless he is Uncle Ben or
Deacon West. I can ride with Deacon West—can’t we, muvver?”
“O, yes!” said Mrs. Brockway, smiling. “He is not much more likely to
meet Deacon West on this road than he is to meet the man in the moon,”
she said laughingly to grandma, “but he has to provide for all the
possibilities.”
Two hours afterwards Teddy and Margaret, with Sally Amelia somewhat
the worse for being handled by all the grandchildren of old Auntie
Blaikslee, were trudging back in triumph. The errand entrusted to them
had been carefully done, and Teddy had said over the message he was to
give his mother until he knew it by heart, and had bravely resisted
two invitations from good-natured teamsters to have a ride. He was
almost within sight of the corner where they turned into their own
grounds, and Margaret had been good and minded beautifully. Truth to
tell, Teddy’s heart was swelling with importance; he had never before
been sent on so long a trip with only Margaret for company. He felt at
least ten years old. At the top of the hill he came to a halt. There,
just in front of them, jogging comfortably along, was Jake Winchell,
Judge Aker’s hired man. Everybody knew Jake and his old horse and cart,
but nobody, or at least Teddy, had ever happened to meet him in that
direction before; his road always lay the other way.
“Halloo!” he said, getting out to fix something about the harness, and
spying the children as he did so, “here’s luck; an almost empty cart
and two nice passengers to have a ride in it down the hill. Don’t you
want to jump in?”
Teddy never wanted anything worse. For a small minute he hesitated.
What was that “muvver” had said? “You are not to ride with any strange
person who may ask you.” “Course not!” said Teddy again, indignant with
himself; “just as though Jake was a strange person.” But even while his
heart said the words, a voice away down deep contradicted it: “Teddy
Brockway, don’t you know she meant anybody you are not used to riding
with? And you never had a ride with Jake.”
“What of that?” said Teddy’s other thought, still impatiently; “that’s
because he never comes the way we live; but I’ve talked with him, and
muvver said she thought he was kind to boys, and patient with them,
and everything. Just as if she would care for Margaret and me to ride
down hill to the gate! We’re most there; and it is a bad hard hill for
Margaret; and she has had a long walk.”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” he said aloud to Jake, smiling and bowing like
a gentleman. “I should like to ride ever so much, for Margaret’s sake;
she is tired.”
“All right,” said Jake, with a good-natured chuckle; “climb in and I’ll
tuck her in after you, and take you a few miles on your road as well as
not.”
Little Margaret, who paid small attention to cautions, and who
expected that everybody in the world was bound to be kind to her and
help take care of her, took this ride as a matter of course, and was
soon seated beside Teddy, with Sally Amelia tucked safely under her
arm. Jake decided to walk down the hill. “It’s a pretty steep pitch for
this part of the world,” he explained, “and the harness ain’t none of
the safest; I guess I better walk.”
Teddy looked at the harness and trembled. What would his mother say if
she could hear that? Even now it was not too late to ask Jake to set
them back again on the dusty road, but how he would laugh and call him
a coward! Teddy couldn’t, and the down-hill ride began.
What made that poor old half-blind horse stumble on a hidden root that
particular morning and pitch the crazy old cart forward with such a
sudden lunge as to send Teddy rolling down the hill faster than the
horse could have traveled? Above all, how did it happen that Margaret
did not fall out, but lay flat in the bottom of the cart and screamed?
Nobody knows how any of it happened. They only know that when the
almost distracted Jake had succeeded in getting the horse on his feet,
and lifting Margaret in his arms, and trying his best to hush her had
stumbled with all speed to the spot where Teddy had stopped rolling,
the poor little fellow had fainted, and had to be carried by Jake to
the very door of his mother’s house, Margaret trudging solemnly along
by his side, occasionally asking pitifully why Teddy went to “s’eep,”
and why he didn’t wake up.
Poor Teddy “waked up” almost too soon for his comfort. It had been a
terrible pain, when he tried to pick himself up from the road, which
had made him faint.
Days afterwards, as he lay in his white bed with his leg done in
“splints,” whatever they were, and watched the long, bright spring days
full of Southern sunshine and sweet smells, and thought how long it
would be before he could run about again, he would sigh out wearily,
“O, muvver! if I only hadn’t!” Of course his mother tried to comfort
him. Once she said: “But, Teddy dear, you did not mean to do wrong.
You supposed of course that because Jake was considered an honest,
clean-souled man, mother would be willing to have you ride with him.
It was what we call an error in judgment. If I were you I would be glad
that you escaped with only a broken leg, and that dear little Margaret
was not hurt at all, and then try to forget about it.”
Teddy considered this for some minutes with a grave face, and in his
eyes an earnest longing to take the comfort to his heart. But at last
he spoke, in the slow, old-fashioned way he sometimes had: “No, muvver,
it was an error in want-to! I knew ‘not to ride with any strange
person’ meant with any person that you had not let me ride with before;
and I knew I wasn’t doing real heart right; so if Margaret had been
hurt it would have been my fault. O, muvver! if I only hadn’t!”
PANSY.
ABOUT WASHINGTON.
BY THE PANSIES.
I READ a letter written by Mrs. President Adams in 1796. In it she
complains that there are not nearly lamps enough to light the White
House decently, and that the making of the daily fires in all the
rooms, “to keep off the ague,” occupies the entire time of one or
two servants. She says there are no looking-glasses in the house but
“dwarfs.” I think Mrs. President Harrison must have found a very
different state of things. It is just like women to complain about
there not being looking-glasses!
JOHN WEST.
* * * * *
MY great-grandfather used to be in Washington in Congress, when Daniel
Webster was there. My father has told me all about it; they had great
speeches. Grandfather heard Henry Clay when he made his wonderful
speech. I’d like to have been with him! Father read to us last night
about the speech, and in the book it said there were at that time two
little boys, one eight years old and the other ten, whom nobody knew
anything about until afterwards. One of them went to a primary school
in Boston and studied a primer, and the other didn’t go to school at
all, but had to work hard. The primer boy was named Sumner, and the
other boy was Abraham Lincoln. I guess if the people in Washington had
known what those two boys were going to do a little later, they would
have been astonished.
LINCOLN STEVENSON.
[Illustration: The Washington Monument 505 feet]
* * * * *
MY father and mother lived in Washington in 1860. Father says it wasn’t
much like a city then; there were no street cars, and they did not
light the streets, only Pennsylvania Avenue, and they got their water
from pumps or springs. There were no sewers, and the streets were not
paved, and the parks were all full of weeds. He told me about it one
day last spring when we were in Washington, and sat under the trees
in beautiful Stanton Square. I could hardly believe that the lovely
city ever looked as he described it. And to think that that was only a
little over thirty years ago! Father says the changes seem like a dream
to him.
LILIAN PRESCOTT.
* * * * *
IN 1808 there were only about five thousand people in Washington,
and lots of fun was made of the city. A great many people wanted the
Capitol moved farther North, and the papers were filled with jokes
about the “City in the mud,” “City of streets without houses,” “Capitol
of huts,” and all that sort of thing. I wish some of those simpletons
who wrote that way could ride down Pennsylvania Avenue now! But they
can’t, because they are all dead.
ARTHUR BURKHARDT.
* * * * *
MY mother used to be in Washington when the Northwest, where so many
elegant houses are, was just a great swamp! When we were there a year
ago she took me to walk on Connecticut Avenue, and showed me where
she and Aunt Nannie used to play hide-and-seek. The elegant building
belonging to the British Legation stands there now, and in every
direction the houses and lawns are lovely! I asked mamma how they came
to be allowed to play on such an elegant street, and she laughed, and
said nobody in those days thought of such a thing as its ever being
elegant around there. It seems queer to think what changes there must
have been in a few years. My Auntie lives on Connecticut Avenue now,
and I think it is one of the prettiest streets in Washington.
ALICE BARNES.
* * * * *
MY brother Robert liked the great dome best, but I was very fond of
the bronze door at the main entrance of the Capitol. I had just been
studying all about Columbus when I went to Washington, and it was so
interesting to see his history carved on the door. Then I staid in the
rotunda a long time. I like round rooms when they are very large. The
paintings are beautiful. There was one of Columbus landing, and one
which showed the Pilgrims just starting, and one of Pocahontas being
baptized. I like to look at pictures of things that I know about. Of
course I went up the round-and-round iron stairway which leads to the
dome. I stood under the statue of Freedom and looked down at the city.
It was beautiful.
CARRIE FOSTER.
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE CAPITOL.]
* * * * *
WE went, last winter, to the Library of Congress. My uncle went almost
every day, and I had to go with him, because I had nowhere else to
go while he was there; but I had a nice book to read, and I liked
it. The room is made of iron—I mean the shelves and rafters and all
those things are—and the roof is of copper. It is said to be the only
library in the world that is entirely fire proof. There are more than
six hundred thousand books, and thousands and thousands of pamphlets
in this library. Every book which has been copyrighted has to send two
copies to the library. It is about ninety years since books were first
gathered there. It was in 1800 that Congress voted to use five thousand
dollars toward buying books for a library. I suppose they thought
that would get books enough to last for a century, but hundreds of
thousands of dollars have been spent for them since. I saw the new
library building going up. It is to cost nearly five millions. When it
is finished they will have room for four million books! It is to have a
gallery three hundred and fifty feet long, for pictures and beautiful
things.
My uncle says this letter is too long; but I do not know what to leave
out, so I will send it.
MARGARET WINTERS.
* * * * *
I WENT to Congress two or three times last winter. They behave better
in the Senate than they do in the House. In fact, I don’t think the
people in the House were gentlemanly. They smoked, and they quarreled,
and three or four tried to talk at once!
ANNA BROOKS.
[This by no means exhausts the items of interest
about Washington, but the article grows so long that
we must omit the others, sorry as we are to do so.
It is certainly a great pleasure to find our Pansies
so wide awake, and so successful in selecting items
which cannot fail to interest others. Remember the
next city, and be in time for us to make careful
selections.—EDITORS.]
MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
II.
ALTHOUGH I am a dog myself I do wonder how some of my race can afford
to waste so much love upon masters who have so little love for them,
or, it would seem, for any one else.
Now, for instance, there is Mr. Billings who lives on the hill; just
think how he ill-treats and almost starves his dog, cuffing, scolding,
licking him; and yet that poor fellow is just as glad to see him the
next time as though he had been petted, and is ready to hunt, drive
cows or sheep, or watch all night.
I have known that dog ever since he came into the neighborhood, and I
knew old man Billings long before.
Being up that way I had a few words with friend Dash the day he
arrived. I found him to be friendly—a dog that any man might love and
be proud of. I was awfully sorry for him then, and have been ever
since, for I did not think much of his master.
Sometimes, when I see the poor fellow coming, looking so lean and
hungry, I run out into the road with the best bone I have on hand, for
a bit of a lunch, and leave it where I know Dash will find it. My! it
does me good to see him take it down.
I often think of him trotting for fifteen or twenty miles after that
team, and as likely as not without a mouthful of breakfast before
starting.
This is not mere surmise; he told me so one day—said he had been all
day with nothing to eat but a scrap or two which he happened to find
on the way; for he had not time to hunt for anything while in town,
because he had to stay and watch the things in the wagon. It’s too bad,
too bad!
Just think what Dash has done for that man!
You never heard about it?
Well, I will tell you. It was in the spring of last year—the time for
washing sheep. When Mr. Billings went for his sheep, all his children
who were big enough to help drive went along.
As he never pets anything that he has, so he never petted his sheep,
therefore as soon as they heard him call they were much more afraid of
him than they would have been of our master, I really believe, so away
they went as fast as their legs could carry them.
If it had not been for Dash, Mr. Billings and all his boys could never
have penned those creatures. But he seemed to know just what to do, and
it was not long before they seemed to feel as though they had found a
friend instead of an enemy in this dog; he worked like a good fellow,
as he is.
After much skillful maneuvering, hard running and gentle barking, the
sheep were all finally gotten into the pen, where Billings and his boys
could take them one by one and wash them with the water which fell over
the dam.
After the father and older boys were gone, little Bennie Billings, who
is only a few months more than three years old, crawled through the
garden fence and started after the others.
His mother did not miss him, thinking he had gone with his brothers. As
it was, Bennie came trotting along while the rest were absorbed in the
work of washing sheep, and so was not noticed by any one of them.
But faithful Dash had his eye upon him all the while, and felt that it
was more important that he should look after the boy than the lambs.
He tried hard to keep between Bennie and the water, but this he was not
long able to do.
Sliding down the bank the boy crawled out upon a slippery rock, and
from that fell into the water.
It was deep, and Dash had all he could do to drag the little fellow
to the land. He could not pull him out; but holding on as well as he
could, he growled very loud.
Dash was getting pretty tired, and the case was growing desperate, when
a neighbor hearing the growl, came to the rescue.
Poor Bennie was almost gone; he would not have lived much longer; but
if help had not come, Dash would have died with the little chap he was
trying to save.
Think of that father kicking Dash after that, or ever forgetting to
give him all he needed to eat! You would think the boy’s mother would
look after her child’s rescuer; but it is said she has little to do
with.
It would not seem so strange if the faithful fellow were not all the
time doing things worthy of being remembered.
It was only last fall, when the corn was well grown, that this hard
master came home one rainy night and forgot to fasten the gate after
him. There were a great many cattle upon the road, and Dash told me he
could hear the bell upon one old cow dingling away as plain as day all
the time the master was unharnessing the horses. He said he ran out by
the gate and barked as loud as he could when Mr. Billings was going
into the house; but it did no good. So there was nothing for him to do
but go and stay there all night in the hard rain.
Telling me about it he said: “I wouldn’t have minded it, though it was
so cold and wet, if master had noticed it; if he had just said, ‘Good
faithful fellow, you saved our garden and cornfield!’ but he never
noticed me except to scold me for getting in the way when I came into
the kitchen to warm myself a little, though he knew there were more
than twenty head of cattle which would have been in that garden and
cornfield if I had not kept them out.”
But for all that he would do the same things over again, or anything
else that he can do for the comfort and help of his hard master.
I suspect Dash misses these little kindnesses more for the reason that
he has not always been used to such treatment.
You see he once had a good master; but the man was taken ill and had to
go away, and for some reason could not take Dash with him.
One day when we met down town near the post-office he told me this
story.
By some mishap the house of his former master took fire. How it
happened he did not seem to know. The mistress had gone into a
neighbor’s house for a few moments, and had left her baby asleep in the
cradle, in charge of a little girl, while Dash watched at the front
gate to see that no tramp came in.
Said he, “I smelt something, and looked around just in time to see that
little girl as she ran out of the front door crying ‘Fire!’
“In a moment I thought of Baby, and saw that the girl had left it in
the house; so I dashed through the door and into the thick smoke, and
finding the cradle I caught the child by his frock, and pulling with
all my might I got him out on the floor and dragged him to the door.
Just as I got him to the first step, where we could breathe again, the
mother arrived.
“But she came too late to have saved her baby if it had been in the
cradle then, for that was already in full blaze. As it was, the poor
thing was almost smothered with the smoke.
“How that mother hugged and kissed me! She made so much ado about it
that I felt almost ashamed. Yet I must confess it was gratifying to
know that the mother appreciated what I had done.
“Well, after that there was nothing in the house too good for me to
eat, no place where I was not welcome, no kennel too nice for me to
sleep in, nor was there any lack of petting.”
Just imagine what a change from a home such as that, to the miserable
one he now has to endure.
I do feel so sorry for him!
Sometimes I feel as though I should not be as faithful as Dash is if I
were in his place; yet I must not forget that duty is duty, and that
one must not do wrong because he has not been treated as he should be.
If this poor fellow’s case were a solitary one, it would not seem so
bad; but I am sorry to say that all over our land there are as faithful
fellows as Dash treated no better than he.
Think of those dogs with drunken masters! Think how much they have to
endure of hunger and cold and abuse, though they are as faithful as
life. I can hardly keep from growling when I think of it!
But I must not talk in this way any longer to-day. I have spent the
hour speaking of another, so we must wait till some other time before I
can tell you anything more of my own experience.
Indeed I was not intending to talk all the time about myself; I would
like to set before you a little of the lives of the best of our race,
such as will afford you excellent examples for imitation, that your
lives may be good and true.
R.
[Illustration: BENNIE’S FRIEND.]
[Illustration: SILENT PARTNERS.]
VESUVIUS.
NEARLY two thousand years ago there was a mountain, and its name was
Vesuvius. From the foot of it to the very top it was almost like a
garden.
At the bottom were two great cities, called Herculaneum and Pompeii.
The mountain is there now, and near it is the city of Naples in Italy.
[Illustration: ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS, 1880.]
One day, when everything was going on in those great cities just as
usual, an awful sound was heard like the firing of ten thousand of the
biggest cannon; the earth shook as if it was going to pieces, then
it grew dark like night. The sky was filled with flying cinders, or
something like ashes; the air had a sulphurous smell. All the people
wondered. Some ran into the street, some took to the boats and rowed
away as fast as possible, some screamed. Children clung to their
mothers, hiding their faces in their dresses. Animals broke away and
ran furiously, dashing themselves against the rocks or plunging into
the sea; the very birds sighed as they swept through the sky.
The mountain—this Vesuvius—was on fire; the fire was spouting from its
top in terrific forms. Smoke, such as you have never seen it, leaped as
the darkest thunder clouds upward, while melted earth and rock ran down
the sides of Vesuvius like a devouring flood. Before it, the gardens
fled away. On it came, rushing, foaming, burning. It leaped upon the
houses and buried them, whole streets at once. So suddenly it came that
few of the people escaped. What a time was that!
Think of a whole city, like Philadelphia, buried ten or twenty feet
deep, so that in the place of the grand palaces, stores and temples,
nothing was seen but a smoking furnace—red-hot lava!
Not a great while since people began to dig. They dug and dug, and
after years of digging there were the streets again and buildings, the
merchant selling his goods, babies sleeping in their mamma’s arms, a
bride and groom standing up to be married, a funeral procession coming
from a house, a miser counting his money, a cruel father beating his
child, a loving mother kissing her son, a marriage feast in this
house, a dying parent in that. Just as the fierce, quick flood of lava
found them, so it buried them, and so they were found after nearly two
thousand years!
Since that awful day the volcano, Vesuvius, has been on fire again and
again.
L.
AURORA LEIGH.
(_English Literature Papers._)
HOW many of my Pansies are acquainted with her? She is “a woman in a
book,” and the book was written by a woman of whom you have surely
heard—Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I want you to know something about
this story book and its author. There are those who think the story is
too “grown-up” to interest children; but that is because they do not
understand certain kinds of children very well. When I was a little
girl of ten, I was very fond of narrative poems, and read some which
were judged far above my understanding.
Would you like a picture of Aurora’s room, as she describes it? Listen:
“I had a little chamber in the house
As green as any privet hedge a bird
Might choose to build in. . . .
The walls were green, the carpet was pure green,
The straight small bed was curtained greenly,
And the folds hung green about the window,
Which let in the out-door world with all its greenery.
You could not push your head out and escape
A dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle.”
Poor Aurora lost her mother when she was four years old, and her dear,
dear father when she was just a little girl. Then she sailed across the
ocean from her home in Italy to her father’s old home in England. When
she first saw English soil, this is the way she felt:
. . . “oh, the frosty cliffs looked cold upon me!
Could I find a home among those mean red houses,
Through the fog?. . . Was this my father’s England?
. . . . . .
I think I see my father’s sister stand
Upon the hall-step of her country house
To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,
Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight
As if for taming accidental thoughts
From possible quick pulses. Brown hair
Pricked with gray by frigid use of life.
A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines;
A close mild mouth . . . eyes of no color;
Once they might have smiled, but never, never
Have forgot themselves in smiling.”
You cannot imagine, I think, any life more unlike what Aurora had been
used to in her home in Florence, than the one to which she came in
England. She describes her aunt’s life as—
“A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage,
Accounting that to leap from perch to perch
Was act and joy enough for any bird.
Dear Heaven, how silly are the things
That live in thickets, and eat berries!
I, alas, a wild bird scarcely fledged,
Was brought to her cage, and she was there to meet me.
Very kind! ‘Bring the clean water; give out the fresh seed!’”
You wonder what sort of a little girl she was? She tells us:
“I was a good child on the whole,
A meek and manageable child. Why not?
I did not live to have the faults of life.
There seemed more true life in my father’s grave
Than in all England. . . . . .
At first I felt no life which was not patience;
Did the thing she bade me, without heed
To a thing beyond it; sat in just the chair she placed
With back against the window, to exclude
The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn,
Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods
To bring the house a message.”
So quiet was she, and pale, and sad, that her aunt’s friends visiting
there, whispered about her that “the child from Florence looked ill,
and would not live long.” This made her glad, for she was homesick for
her father’s grave. But her cousin, Romney Leigh, a boy somewhat older
than herself, took her to task for this. He said to her:
“You’re wicked now. You wish to die,
And leave the world a-dusk for others,
With your naughty light blown out.”
Well, she did not die, but lived to be a sweet, proud, brave, foolish,
sorrowful, glad, happy woman! You think my words contradict one
another? No; they may belong to one life, and often do.
I do not mean that you will be interested in all her story—hers and
“Cousin Romney’s”—not yet awhile. Some day you will read it, study it,
I hope, for the beauty of the language, and for the moral power there
is in it. Just now, my main object is to introduce you, so that when
you hear the name “Aurora Leigh,” you may be able to say: “I know her;
she is one of Mrs. Browning’s characters—a little girl from Florence,
who lived with an aunt in England.” Or when you hear Mrs. Browning’s
name, you will say, or think: “She wrote a long poem once, named Aurora
Leigh.”
Why should you care to know that? Because, my dear, it is a little
crumb of knowledge about English Literature, a study which I am hoping
you are going to greatly enjoy by and by.
Oh! Mrs. Browning wrote many other poems, though the one about which we
have been talking is perhaps considered her greatest. There are some
which I think you must know and love. For instance:
“Little Ellie sits alone
’Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass;
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
“She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water’s flow;
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
“Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses
Fills the silence like a speech;
While she thinks what shall be done—
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.”
There are seventeen verses; of course I have not room for them, but you
will like to find the poem and read for yourselves. It is entitled “The
Romance of the Swan’s Nest.”
Then there is that wonderful poem of hers called “The Cry of the
Children.” Surely you ought to know of that. It was suggested to her
by reading the report which told about children being employed in the
mines and manufactories of England. It is said that Mrs. Browning’s
poem was the means of pushing an act of Parliament which forbade the
employment of young children in this way. The poem has thirteen long
verses, every one of which you should carefully read. Let me give you
just a taste:
“Do you hear the children weeping, O, my brothers!
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears!
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west;
But the young, young children, O, my brothers!
They are weeping bitterly.
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
. . . . . .
“‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happen
That we die before our time;
Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen
Like a snowball in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her;
There’s no room for any work in the coarse clay;
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’
If you listen by that grave in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries.
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes.
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled
In the shroud by the kirk-chime.
‘It is good, when it happens,’ say the children,
‘That we die before our time.’”
It will never do to take more room with this paper, and I have told you
almost nothing about the dear lady who voiced the children’s cry so
wonderfully, and to such purpose! Suppose you let me take her story,
little bits of it, for the next PANSY. Besides, I want to introduce you
to her dear “Flush.”
PANSY.
[Illustration: MRS. BROWNING’S AURORA LEIGH.]
BABY’S CORNER.
A GOOD TIME.
THIS is Trudy. She is all ready to go with papa.
They are going up in the woods to the “sugar bush.”
It is April—a bright, sunshiny day, but the wind is cold, so she has to
wear her warm coat and hood.
[Illustration: JOHN BROUGHT THE PAILS OF SAP.]
As Trudy ran along through the woods she saw a little bluebird singing
on a branch, and she found yellow violets and tiny blue flowers with a
long name. They had just poked up their heads through the snow. Brave
little blossoms they were!
Wooden pails hung on all the maple-trees. The sap was running into
them. When the pails were full of sap John, the hired man, brought it
into the little sugar house and boiled it, and made nice cakes of maple
sugar.
The house had a great fireplace. A bright fire was crackling there.
Trudy sat down on a stool and warmed her toes.
[Illustration: TRUDY.]
There was a big black kettle over the fire; it was almost full of sap.
It bubbled and boiled and made a good smell.
John stirred it with a long wooden spoon. He stirred and stirred a long
time, and the fire snapped and the sap boiled, and Trudy watched, and
by and by it was done!
Then papa got a pan of snow, and John dropped little bits from the
spoon all over the snow.
When it was cool Trudy put in her thumb and finger, and plump! went one
of the little brown balls into her mouth. Oh! but it was good. Trudy
thought maple candy was ever so much better than the pink and white
stuff she bought at the stores.
She ate and ate, till papa said, “No more, dearie.” So she carried the
rest of it to little brother.
They rode home on the wood sled, drawn by two big oxen. Trudy said it
was just the “beautifulest time” she ever had in her life.
She whispered to papa that she thought God was very good to make so
many big trees full of candy just to please little girls and boys.
MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.
[Illustration: The Little Queen]
THERE you have a fine Holland house, a palace rather. Come, let us go
in. Just think, you have a royal invitation. Well, here we are. In
this elegant room is a kingly throne. In that beautiful chair sits the
little Queen of Holland.
Doesn’t this Miss look like a wise sovereign, able to command armies
and navies and make laws?
Now you laugh. But come out into her big back yard, and you shall see
our little maid rule her subjects. See how obedient they are, running
to her or fleeing from her as fast as their legs can carry them—and
their wings too—
“Wings!”
Why, bless you, yes. This little Queen has one hundred and fifty cooing
doves. She is their beloved mistress, feeding and fondling them,
calling them by name, they laughing, singing, talking for her, after
the dear dove fashion.
But look! there comes the Shetland pony, and quick as a cat she is
on his back, and away they go down the road, gallopty, gallop, she
tossing back a kiss to her mamma, the Queen Regent, who looks from
the palace window. There she comes back, her face full of roses and
laughter.
Twenty minutes more, and she is a student like any of you, with
spelling-book, pen or geography, or thumbing the piano or reading aloud
to her mother. She is her mother’s constant companion. She is up at 7
A. M., and kneeling at her mother’s knee, says her morning prayers.
She is often dressed completely in white, even to gloves and stockings.
Watch and see what she will be in coming years.
L.
A WONDERFUL STONE.
A MR. MENINGER of New Orleans, while visiting in the town of
Chilpanzingo, Mex., saw a rock there which he—and others—says foretells
rain twenty-four hours in advance!
In fair weather it is grayish, very smooth and cold, but when it is
going to rain it becomes a dingy red at the base, pink at the top, and
it becomes warmer and warmer till the rain falls. If there is much
lightning, the stone becomes charged (filled) like an electrical jar,
so that you cannot safely approach it.
After the rain it goes back to its first state of color and coldness.
L.
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS.
WHY so soon with flocks returning?
O, dear father, tell us why:
Scarce the night lamps ceased their burning,
Scarce the stars dimmed in the sky
When we heard the distant bleating
Of the flock come o’er the lea;
While the stars were still retreating
Thou wert coming o’er the lea;
Home so early in the morning!
Sheep and lambs so fast you’re leading
To the fold at early dawning,
At the time of sweetest feeding!
Ill, dear father, art thou? Surely
Suffering art thou? Tell us true!
Has some lambie been unruly—
Wandered far away from view?
Must thou go across the mountain,
Starting in the morning gray,
Search by vale, and rock, and fountain
For the lost one, gone astray?
But thy face is bright and beaming,
And thy step is free and glad,
And thy eyes with joy are gleaming
Surely nothing makes thee sad!
Thus she chattered to her father,
Shepherd of Judean plain;
Eager for some reason given
Which might satisfy her brain;
But the father, heart o’erflowing
With the story he could tell,
Felt the spirit in him burning—
Felt his soul within him swell—
And, with tender touch, down bending
Gently drew her to his breast;
His life-calling sweetly lending
Skill for what he loved the best.
Then his home flock, like the other,
In the home fold where they dwelt—
Father, children, precious mother—
All before Jehovah knelt;
Knelt to thank the covenant-keeping
God of Jacob, who alone
In their waking and their sleeping,
Safely shelters all his own.
This—and then began the story
Of the night before that morn,
When the angels came from glory,
Telling that the Christ was born.
(_The story._)
On the hillside near our flocks were sleeping,
While we, reclining by, our watch were keeping;
The sun had set in a glow of splendor,
And the stars looked down so pure and tender
That we felt a hush pervading
Every breast; for the fading
Of the day had been so slow,
And the twilight’s gentle glow
Had left the earth so still
That over plain and hill
A gentle sleep seemed holding all
As quiet as beneath a pall
Of death. When every heart
Was hushed, and sure to start
At slightest move or sound,
From sky or earth or ground,
We would not break with song
The silence, which so strong
Had reigned supreme the while,
But sought we to beguile
With word of prophecy the hour,
Talking of Him whose conquering power
Our fallen Israel should restore,
And make her glory as of yore.
The Lord seemed wondrous near us then;
As when our father Jacob dreamed, or when
The great law-giver stood on hallowed ground
And heard Jehovah speak in words profound;
When, suddenly, burst on the ravished ear
A voice like music, or like trumpet clear,
And words most wonderful did there proclaim:
Tidings, glad tidings of the glorious Name!
He bade us haste to Bethlehem away
To find the Babe there born to us this day;
And then, when Paradise I see complete,
May it such strains to these glad ears repeat!
Then as from cloud the pealing thunder breaks
Till ’neath its voice the very mountain shakes,
So burst in chorus the celestial choir,
Each tongue aflame with heaven’s own altar fire,
To celebrate, as by Jehovah sent,
The long foretold and now fulfilled event—
Our own Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem town!
The Christ of God from heaven to earth come down!
The singing ceased, and all was still again
Save the sweet echo of “Good-will to men”;
The choir had flown; our flocks were all at rest,
And could we, after such a vision blest,
Await the dawning to behold the Stranger
Which cradled lay in Bethlehem’s lowly manger?
If we forgot our flocks, in haste to see the sight
Revealed to us by angel hosts last night,
Was it so strange, when honored thus were we
To be the first of all our race to see,
Worship and welcome to this world the King
Of whom the Prophets old did write and sing?
And so we hastened, sped, and tarried not
Until we found, O, joy! the very spot
Where lay this lily from sweet Paradise,
Angelic beauty there, before our eyes!
We bent, we worshiped, kissed the Babe so fair,
Then hastened back through all the perfumed air
To find our flocks by angel guards attended,
Better by them than by our skill defended.
Then each with gladness homeward sped away
To tell the tidings of this wondrous day.
The questions asked as round the father’s knee
The children pressed in eager ecstasy,
I will not try to tell. I cease
My story of the “Prince of Peace,”
This only adding—though the talk was long—
There followed it this burst of sacred song:
(_The song._)
O, thou Infant holy!
In thy cradle lowly,
Feeble stranger seeming,
Though almighty. Deeming
It thy pleasure,
Even in this measure,
In this casket fair
Human woe to share.
We thy praises sing;
To thy cradle bring
Love, and thanks and treasure,
Offerings without measure;
Just now come from glory,
We have heard thy story
Sung by angel chorus,
While God’s light shone o’er us.
O, thou Baby stranger!
Hiding in a manger,
By crowded inn rejected,
By pilgrims all neglected,
For thee our hearts are burning
With a holy yearning.
Be thou our guest;
Our arms would now enfold thee,
Our hearts would gladly hold thee;
We love thee best.
G. R. ALDEN.
THE SPOOL-COTTON GIRL.